Forty Guns West (11 page)

11

“Eight guards,” Preacher muttered under his breath. “I got them scared, for a fact.”

He had slowly circled the camp, then made himself comfortable and waited for the guards to change. Every two hours, he noted. These folks are learnin'. Man stays on guard more'un two hours, he tends to get careless.

Preacher waited until the shift changed at midnight, and then waited for another thirty minutes or so before he made his move. With all the supplies he'd taken from Bones's men, Preacher had gunpowder to burn ... in a manner of speaking. Preacher slipped around to where the horses were picketed and went to work for a few minutes. Then, having to really struggle to keep from giggling, he took aim and chucked a bag of powder into what was left of a dying campfire. Coals aplenty to do the job. Preacher had already found a good spot to watch the show, and he almost made it. He had tossed a second bag of powder into another fire but he thought he'd missed the dying coals. Obviously he hadn't. The big bag of powder blew and the quiet camp turned into a scene of mass confusion.

The horses pulled their pins and jerked free of the picket line and stampeded right through the camp. Ever seen what fifty or so wild-eyed horses and twenty odd big runnin' mules can do to a camp? Preacher jumped behind a rock when the action started and the outcome went way beyond his wildest expectations. The explosions blew hot coals all over the place and set a dozen or so blankets on fire and that only added to the chaos. The horses ran right over the fancy tents of the gentry and Preacher had never seen such a sight as that. In the light from the fires, the gentlemen were exposed in their nightshirts. Several of them had what looked to Preacher like little bitty fish nets tied around their heads. Damnest sight he'd ever seen, for sure.

Sir Elmore Jerrold-Taylor got in the way of a big Missouri and that mule knocked him about twenty feet from point of impact. Sir Elmore landed right smack dab on his butt on that rocky ground and commenced to squallin'.

Bones got himself run down by a spooked horse and before the dust and smoke got so bad that Preacher couldn't see, Bones was on all fours, scurryin' away like a big ugly bug. Van Eaton had climbed a tree, so Preacher just hauled out one of his pistols and let 'er bang.

But the smoke and dust threw his aim off and the ball took a chunk of meat out of Van Eaton's butt. Van Eaton started screamin' and turned loose of the branch he was holding onto and fell about fifteen feet, landin' hard on the ground.

Preacher took aim at a running man and squeezed off another shot; the fall flew true and the man stumbled and fell, pitching face-first onto the ground.

Preacher changed locations, flitting soundlessly through the timber, staying low, working his way around the scene of wild confusion. The only one in the camp he was really worried about was Dark Hand, but his worry was needless. Dark Hand had left his blankets before the echo of the first explosion had faded and jumped into the narrow space between two boulders. And there he sat. Dark Hand would choose his own time and place to confront Ghost Walker. And this night definitely was not the time nor the place. All the advantage was Preacher's.

Mack Cornay jumped onto the back of a galloping horse and grabbed a double handful of mane, trying to halt the frightened animal. But the animal was not to be stopped. The horse raced into the timber and Mack was knocked from the horse when his face impacted with a low limb. Mack hit the ground, his nose busted and his front teeth missing.

A man-hunter known only as Spanish made the mistake of taking to the timber after Preacher. Not a wise thing to do. Preacher noticed the movement behind him and to his left and waited, crouched in the brush. When Spanish drew up even with Preacher, he caught the butt of Preacher's rifle in his gut and doubled over, all his breath gone. Spanish lay on the cold ground, gasping for breath and unable to move. Just to be on the safe side, Preacher quickly tied the man's hands behind his back with a length of rawhide. Preacher tossed the man's weapons into the night and took off.

Preacher continued his circling of the camp, which by now was beginning to settle down somewhat. But the dust and smoke were still thick.

“He shot me in the butt!” Van Eaton hollered. “Feels like it's on fire!”

“My buttocks are on fire!” Willy Steinwinder yelled, frantically slapping at his rear end. A running horse had knocked him into some burning blankets and ignited his nightgown. Prince Rudi Kuhlmann tossed a bucket of water on him.

Preacher underwent a mental wrestling match for a moment, and better judgment won. He left the camp and headed for his hidey hole and safety. He needed a few hours sleep. He figured the bounty-hunters would spend the rest of the night trying to round up their horses and mules, picking up their scattered supplies, and seeing to the needs of the wounded. They'd be after him with vengeance come daylight, but by then, Preacher would have once more shifted locations.

* * *

At daylight, the man-hunters began assessing the damage done to their camp, and it was extensive. The tents of the royalty had been burned beyond repair. A lot of their supplies were either missing or destroyed. Two men were wounded and a half a dozen more were injured.

“Indians watched this,” Dark Hand announced, returning from a scouting of the timber around the camp. “I don't know what tribe, but several were in the woods. They left heading north. That might mean nothing, or it might mean they were Arapaho.”

“Preacher?” Bones asked.

“I lost his trail. He was heading east when I could no longer track him. He took to the rocks.”

Dark Hand went to the fire for coffee, leaving Bones again doing some fancy cussing.

Van Eaton and Willy Steinwinder were laying on their bellies, Van Eaton due to the bullet from Preacher's pistol, Willy because of burned buttocks. Van Eaton's rear end was bandaged and Willy's spread all over with lard. Neither man was terribly pleased with their present situation but Willy did express his discomfort much more eloquently than Van Eaton.

Preacher was up at dawn and took a quick wash in a little creek ... a very quick wash, for the water was ice cold. He boiled coffee, ate some berries for breakfast, and then packed up and moved out.

About a mile from his old camp, Preacher ran into some Arapaho. They grinned at him and the leader said, “You gave us much enjoyment last night, White Wolf. The behavior of the white men was funny. We will have a fine time retelling the story. We thank you. Go in peace.”

The Arapaho rode off without another word.

“I ought to start chargin' admission,” Preacher muttered, then shouldered his pack and moved on.

* * *

“How far back to Bent's Fort?” Bones asked wearily, his eyes sweeping the devastated camp.

“As the crow flies, 'bout two hundred or so miles, I figure,” Andy Price said.

“Soon as we get the mules rounded up, take ten men and head there. We got to have supplies. His Lordship, Sir Jerrold-Taylor done made up a list and he'll give you the money. You ought to be safe with that many men. You 'member that valley we rode through southeast of here? We'll be there. We'll do nothin' 'til you boys get back. Last night's affair done scattered and ruint near'bouts ever'thing we got. Head on out.”

“You want me to see about pickin' up some more men?”

“Yeah. If you can. But don't tell nobody who it is we're chasin'. Preacher is bound to have friends there.” Bones gave the man some gold coins. 'Just tell them we're after a murderer and they's big money in it. This here gold ought to get their attention.”

The men were gone by midday. It was to be a long, hard trip, and no one in the camp expected their return in under a month. Three weeks at best.

“Pack it up,” Bones ordered. “This time, by God, we'll secure our camp and do it right.”

Preacher watched the men through his spy glass. He knew immediately they'd sent a party back for supplies. And he saw right off he'd have little chance of slipping into this new camp. The men were working steadily, clearing away brush, cutting down and hauling in logs, and laying out fields of fire. This was going to be a regular little fort.

“Somebody down yonder's had some military experience,” Preacher said, collapsing his spy glass and standing up. “They're buildin' a stockade. This is a good time for me to check on Eddie.”

Eddie was all decked out in a brand new set of fancy buckskins. He grinned when Preacher walked into the village. But the boy was not well, and there was sadness in Wind Chaser's eyes.

“He dies slowly before our eyes,” the Ute said. “And there is nothing that anyone can do.”

“Except make him happy,” Preacher spoke in low tones.

“That we are doing. My woman, and the whole village. Come, Ghost Walker. Sit, eat. Let us talk about ridding ourselves of these silly white men who hunt you . . .” He smiled. “Or try to hunt you.”

Over a thick, rich stew, Preacher said, “It's time for you and your people to be moving to the hunt, Wind Chaser. Past time, actually.”

Wind Chaser smiled. “You are wrong if you think we stay because of Ed-de. We stay because the buffalo are late in coming this year. We are leaving soon, though. Ed-de wants to go with us.”

Preacher nodded his head. “It'll be an adventure for him. Prob'ly his last one.”

Wind Chaser's face tightened at that, but he said nothing. Privately, he agreed with Preacher's assessment. Neither man had any idea that it would be the last adventure for most of Wind Chaser's band.

The sounds of a horse ridden hard reached the men and they stood up. The young brave jumped off at Wind Chaser's lodge. “Crooked Arm says the buffalo are moving.”

Wind Chaser gripped Preacher's shoulder. “You should come with us, Ghost Walker. The hunt will be fun and we shall all feast until our bellies swell.”

“I got business to tend to, Wind Chaser. I'll speak to the boy and then be gone. I know you got packin' up to do.”

Preacher kept his goodbye brief. He didn't want to get all emotional, besides, Eddie was all flustered with excitement and rarin' to get gone huntin' buffalo. The boy was trembling with anticipation. Preacher suddenly had a bad feeling about this trip. But seeing that the boy was all set up to go, Preacher kept his feelings to himself.

“You mind your manners, now, boy,” Preacher said, placing a hand on Eddie's frail shoulder.

“Yes, sir, Preacher. I will.”

“I know you will, Eddie. You're a good boy. Might be a while 'til you and me hook up again. But we will. That's a promise. So you take 'er easy, you hear? You mind what Wind Chaser says, too. You hear?”

Eddie laughed. “I hear. I'll see you, Preacher.”

Wind Chaser's band was not a large one to begin with, and many of the men had gone on ahead to scout for the buffalo. What was left was mainly women and kids and a few warriors. Preacher stood and watched them break camp and head out. He waved his farewells and then saddled up and rode out, in the opposite direction.

He made camp early that afternoon, high up and protected by huge boulders. That night, he woke up with a stir and listened. Seemed to him like he could hear the faint sounds of gunshots. But they faded away or were lost in the sighing winds and Preacher snuggled warm into his blankets and drifted back off to sleep.

Over bacon and pan bread and coffee, something in the far distance caught Preacher's eyes. He dug out his spy glass and extended it. He could just make out the circling of buzzards. A lot of buzzards, and they were already making their slow glide down to the ground to feast on the dead ... whatever it might be, human or animal, and Preacher had a hunch it was human.

Preacher suddenly lost his appetite as a feeling of terrible dread settled over him, hanging on his shoulders like a stinking shroud. He knew that many buzzards didn't congregate over a lone dead animal. It would have to be a whole herd dead, and that just wasn't likely.

With an effort, Preacher forced himself to eat what he had cooked, 'cause in the wilderness, it was good practice to eat when you can, drink when you can, and rest when you can, 'cause you never knew when the chance might come again.

He drank his pot of coffee and then rinsed the pot and scrubbed out his frying pan and cached it with the bulk of his supplies. He made sure his stock had plenty of grass and water, and then slowly saddled Thunder.

“I know what's down there, Thunder. I know in my heart and it makes me sick to think about it. I don't wanna go down yonder, but I gotta. I gotta,” he repeated, and then swung into the saddle and started for the valley far below and to the north.

He could smell the scene long before he reached it. The buzzards had torn open the bodies, exposing the innards to the air.

The first thing he came up on was Eddie's little paint pony, lyin' dead. The sorry man-hunting trash had cut its throat and let it bleed to death. Preacher looked at the pony for a moment.

“You was a good horse to a good boy when he needed some good in his life, pony. I won't let the buzzards have you.”

He rode on, reading the signs as he went. They were easy. Wind Chaser and his band had made camp along the banks of a stream. That night, when they were settled in, Bones and his bunch had hit them, and hit them hard. He knew it was Bones's bunch 'cause the lone white man he found dead he'd seen several times before.

“I'll not bury you, you sorry son!” Preacher said, considerable heat in his voice.

He found Wind Chaser beside his woman. The chief had died protecting his woman and their children. It didn't take an experienced eye to see that the women had been raped, and used badly. Preacher felt a chill run over him when he saw that Bones and his men had even raped the little girls.