Forty Guns West (12 page)

“Sorry white-trash,” he muttered.

But he couldn't find Eddie. He didn't want to fire a shot and bring Bones and his people back, so he rode amongst the dead, using a Ute lance to knock the buzzards away. He really didn't have anything against the carrion-eatin' critters; they were just doing what God had put them on the earth to do, but damned if they were gonna do it in front of him. Least not with people he had known and liked.

Preacher rode around the circle of death twice, looking for the boy. He had steeled himself for the worst. But it was worse than even he had thought.

He found Eddie and almost lost his breakfast.

12

The boy had been dragged to death.

The boy's new buckskins were bloody and torn. Preacher just could not bear to look at him any longer. He dismounted and gently laid a blanket over what was left of Eddie. Preacher squatted down for a moment and tried to piece together what had happened.

He figured that Wind Chaser and his small band had been spotted by scouts from Bones's camp. John Pray had told him that the foreigners had expressed a desire to kill some Indians. Bones and his party had waited until the Ute camp had settled down and then had slipped up on them under cover of darkness. This was Ute country and Wind Chaser had felt no great need for a lot of security. How Bones and his men had managed to pull this off was a mystery to Preacher, and probably always would be. The important thing was that they had done it. And Eddie was dead.

With a sigh, Preacher stood up and began the task of burying the dead. And he had to do this right, for more than one reason. If Wind Chaser's scouts returned and found this massacre, the entire Ute nation would go on the warpath, and no white man would be safe for months or even years to come. Preacher couldn't allow that to happen.

Preacher built him a travois and began toting the bodies to a dry off-shoot of the creek. He placed Wind Chaser and his family together and carefully caved in part of the bank over them. He did that with all the Utes, choosing his spots with care. Then he took bushes and small saplings and transplanted them in the soil that covered the Indians. It took him most of the morning to get it done, stopping often to look around him for trouble and every fifteen minutes or so taking up his club to knock buzzards away from the remaining bodies.

He searched the area, gathering up everything that had belonged to the tribe and scattered it throughout the timber: clothing, utensils, tipi poles; everything he could find. Then he carefully cut squares of sod out of the earth, worked throughout the afternoon greatly enlarging the hold, dragged and sometimes having to muscle the pony into the hole, and then burying Eddie beside his little paint pony. Preacher carefully replaced the squares of sod and toted water from the creek to dampen the disturbed earth, making certain the grass would stay fertile and grow, ensuring Eddie a proper grave.

As the sun was setting, Preacher stood over the grave of the boy and took off his hat. It was rare for Preacher to be at a loss for words, but for a long time late that afternoon, words failed him.

“This here was a good boy, Lord,” he finally said, the waning rays of the sun casting shadows about him. “He never done a harm to nobody. I reckon he was about ten years old and in all them ten years, he never knew much comfort. Shore didn't know no love and affection 'til he come to the Utes. They give him a home, and it was a good one.”

Suddenly, Preacher realized he was crying, tears streaming from his eyes and rolling down his tanned cheeks. He remembered the last time he shed a tear it was over Hammer's body. He sure had liked this little boy.

He waited for a few moments, wiped his face, and said, “Eddie liked this little paint pony, Lord. So I'd consider it a debt owed if You'd let this here horse into heaven with him. I think You'll find they'll serve You well.

“Now them Utes I buried this day, well, they didn't have no fancy church buildin' like them so-called civilized Christians back East. But what they did have was a belief in Man Above, and that's You, and their church was the whole wide country around them. I think that's a fittin' thing, since it was You who created it all. Includin' the Utes.

“I reckon Eddie and his pony is standin' beside You now. Or maybe beside Jesus, or one of them appissles, or somebody up yonder. Leastwises I shore hope so. I'd hate to think I done all this for nothin'.”

Preacher held up the Bible he'd given to Eddie after finding it amongst the ruins of the burned out wagons back on the Big Sandy. “This here is the Good Book, which I'm shore You can plainly see. I ruminated some about plantin' this with Eddie and his little pony. Then I decided I'd keep it and read it from time to time. I ain't no Christian man, but I do find the words to be right comfortin'. I'm a-fixin' to read it now, 'cause what I'm gonna read is one of Eddie's favorite verses. I ain't no real good reader, so You excuse my stumblin' around on any big words I might run acrost.”

Preacher read the 23rd Psalm, then closed the Bible and tucked it away in his parfleche. “I reckon that about does it, Lord. I don't know what else there is to say. I'm gonna miss this boy. I liked him. That's all. Good evenin'.”

Preacher turned to go, hesitated, then once more stood over the grave. “Well, there is somethin' else. Them no-count, trashy heathens over yonder behind them log walls in that valley done a terrible thing last night. They's rich men over yonder that's had a fancy education and all the trimmin's that most of us don't get. They knew better. As a matter of fact, all them men over yonder knew better.
Now
, Lord, there ain't no law out here in the wilderness. But they is justice, and I aim to see it done.” He patted the buckskin parfleche containing the Bible. “I know that somewheres in the Good Book it says that vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord. Well, I'm a-fixin' to relieve You of that burden for a time. Now, if You don't cotton to me doin' that, You best fling down a mighty lightnin' bolt to strike me dead. 'Cause that's the only thing that's gonna stop me.” Preacher closed his eyes tightly and braced himself for a bolt from Heaven. When none came, he expelled air and said, “Thank You kindly. Now if You'll excuse my language, Lord, I'm a-fixin' to go kill me some sorry sons of bitches.”

13

Bones had figured Preacher would come after him, and he had prepared for the visit. The fort in the middle of the pretty little valley had been reinforced with rocks and logs and dug up earth. Every bush had been pulled up, every tree cut down for hundreds of yards all around the stockade. Grass for several hundred yards all around the little fort had been repeatedly trampled down by horses and mules.

“You think you're smart, don't you?” Preacher muttered. “Well, you are, Bones. But you ain't near'bouts as mean as me. So that means I got it all over you.”

After burying Eddie and the others, Preacher rode up into the high country to think things over and to clear his head. He knew better than to wage war when angry. Man has to be cold when he fights. Anger causes mistakes, and when outnumbered the way he was, Preacher knew he couldn't afford to make any mistakes.

Preacher sat his horse up on a ridge, in the timber, and ruminated for a time. Then he smiled and headed out. Maybe he couldn't get in that stockade, but he figured he sure knew a way to get them inside out. Might take him a couple of days to get it done, but he'd do it.

Willy Steinwinder limped down to the creek to get some water for coffee. He stood for a moment, looking rather confused. He closed his eyes, shook his head, and opened his eyes again. Same thing. He walked back to the stockade and up to Bones.

“There is no water in the creek.”

“What?” Bones asked, looking up.

“The creek is dry.”

“I don't believe it. That's impossible!”

“Go look for yourself.”

“Well, I sure will!”

Everybody walked out to look. The creek had dried up to no more than a tiny trickle in the center. Dark Hand sat on the bank and chuckled.

“You find this funny, Injun?” Jack Cornell asked.

“Yes. Most amusing. Preacher has dammed up the creek. Now what are you going to do?”

Jack Cornell wasn't going to do anything. Not ever again. Preacher didn't think he could make the shot, but he did. He had Jon Louviere's fancy hunting rifle and it was about the best rifle Preacher had ever had his hands on. It was handmade for Jon, that was evident. The workmanship was flawless. So Preacher loaded 'er up, sighted in, and let 'er bang.

He held high because of the distance and dead centered Jack Cornell in the chest. Cornell was stone dead before he hit the ground, his spinal cord severed. The others scattered for the protection of the stockade or hit the ground.

But no more shots came. Preacher worked his way out of the valley by following a ravine when he could and bellying the rest of the way. He figured he had at least three weeks before the others came back from Bent's Fort, and since he was sure they'd bring back some more ornery ol' boys with them, Preacher had decided to whittle down those that stayed behind.

He figured he had a right good start this morning. He was aimin' to whittle down one or two more come this evenin'.

Bones sat behind the earth and long walls and cussed Preacher. Van Eaton sat on a pillow and joined in. Willy Steinwinder had a few choice words to say about the mountain man, but he soon recognized the futility of that and fell silent. The men knew they had to move; without water they could not last long.

“We could go upstream and tear down that dam,” Jimmie Cook suggested.

“You want to volunteer to do that?” Bones stopped cussing long enough to ask.

“I reckon not,” Jimmie replied.

“That's what I figured.” Bones stood up. “Come daylight we're splittin' up into five man teams and takin' out after Preacher. I ain't havin' no more of this.”

“Oh, good show!” Sir Elmore said, clapping his hands. “Good show.”

Bones almost shot the man right then and there. But he had found out that the gentry might be a tad foolish, but they weren't stupid. The bearer bonds, or bank notes, or whatever in the hell they were, weren't worth a damn unless the signature matched up with the one on record back in St. Louis. And since Bones could just barely write his own name, there wasn't a chance in hell he could copy any of the gentry's handwriting, and he knew it. Torture was out, for the royalty would guess they would be killed anyway and just scrawl their name, making the certificates worthless. So they had to be kept alive and escorted all the way back to St. Louis. And that really irritated Bones.

“We managed to bring enough water up to water the stock and have some for ourselves,” George Winters said.

“Will we come back here for the evenin' tomorrow?” Bones was asked.

He shook his head. “No. We'll meet up over yonder in the timber west of here. This place is worthless to us now.” He walked to a gun slit and looked out. The sun was going down.

“You reckon Preacher will be back and try to Injun up on us tonight?” Spanish asked.

“He will return this night,” Dark Hand said. He had not gone with the men on their raid against Wind Chaser and his band. Wind Chaser had befriended him one time, and he could not bring himself to do harm to one who had been his friend in a time of need. He wished desperately to convey that fact to Preacher.

And Dark Hand had already, several times, prayed to the Man Above that the group he was with did not run into any Utes. He had watched from a distance as Preacher very cleverly hid the evidence after the night raid. But he knew, as Preacher surely did, that it would not fool a determined search.

Dark Hand stood peering through a gun slit in the logs. He could sense Preacher's presence, ever more strongly as the last rays of the sun began to fade.

“You think he's out there, don't you, Dark Hand?” Robert Tassin asked.

“Yes.”

“Well, he's a fool then!” a man called Cobb snapped. “What does he think he's gonna do? Attack this stockade? That would be stupid.”

Dark Hand smiled as he turned to face the man. “It is dark now, Cobb. Do you wish to be the first to leave these walls to relieve yourself?” Cobb said nothing. “No?” Dark Hand said. “I thought not.”

Preacher was working closer as the night fell softly all around him. He stopped his stealthy advance at the far side of the creek bank. He took his bow, strung it, and selected an arrow from the quiver. He waited, watching the stockade. Those inside had lit candles or lamps and they had a fire going. Stupid, Preacher thought. The gun slits were lit up like a chandelier: rectangular pockets of light in the darkness. Every so often the shape of a head would appear briefly, then pull back.

Preacher calculated the distance. Easy shot. He waited with the patience of a stalking panther.

Davidson walked to a slit and peered out. Everyone inside the walls heard the wet smack and turned. Davidson stood on his boots for a few seconds, the shaft of the arrow protruding from his forehead. Then he toppled over and fell on his back. When he hit the ground the pistol in his hand discharged and the ball just missed Bones's head by a few inches. Bones stretched out on the cool earth.

“Douse them candles and lamps!” Bones yelled, cold sweat covered his body. “Put out them fires.”

“Drag Davidson's body out of here and heave it over the walls,” Van Eaton ordered. He had watched Davidson put the money given him by the gentry into his pack. He'd get it before they pulled out in the morning. Easy money.

There would be nine teams and then some pullin' out, Van Eaton thought. That meant the odds of Preacher trailin' any particular team was one in nine. Not the best odds in the world but better than nothin'.

Van Eaton knew what Bones was planning. With nine teams working the area, there was a good chance they could box Preacher in and end this man-hunt. But they would all have to be very careful. Preacher was like a ghost in the woods.

Percy lit the stub of a cigar and another arrow came whizzing through a gunslit, this time on the other side of the stockade. The arrow thudded into a log, just missing Spanish, and the man yelped and flattened out on the ground.

“Good God!” Bones yelled. “Don't fire up no more matches.”

“Isn't this exciting?” Sir Elmore whispered to his friend, Prince Juan Zapata.

Zapata's eyes were shining with anticipation of the upcoming hunt. “I cannot wait until the morning,” the Spaniard replied. “The mountain man is indeed a worthwhile adversary.”

“We'll have to do this again sometime,” Rudi Kuhlmann said. “It is fraught with danger but very exhilarating.”

“Oh, quite,” Burton Sullivan agreed.

“Igits!” Van Eaton thought, listening to the royalty whisper amongst themselves. “I ain't never in all my borned days seen such a goofy bunch all gathered up in one spot.”

Preacher had worked closer, passing through the horses in a crude corral. He calmed them with touches and whispers and made his way to the log walls of the stockade. Bones had placed no guards outside the stockade. Not very smart of him, Preacher thought. Then he stopped cold.

No way! No way that Bones would not put guards outside the log and rock and earthen walls. He wouldn't leave the horses unguarded. He wasn't that stupid. “Damn!” Preacher thought. “I been boxed. Unless I was awful lucky.”

Preacher did not move, remaining as still as a rock. Only his eyes shifted, searching the darkness. And when his eyes touched a shape he almost jumped out of his moccasins. The man was no more than ten feet away. Preacher could make out the shape of the man's head, and the long barrel of his rifle. Fortunately for Preacher, the guard had his back to him. The night had turned cloudy, and there would be no moon. Already a few large drops of cold rain had fallen. If the dark building clouds held true, in a very few minutes this night was gonna produce a rain that would be a real toad-strangler.

Preacher pulled out his razor-sharp, long-bladed knife and held it close to one leg, so no stray glimmer of light would reflect off the blade.

“You see anything, Cleave?” the whisper came from a gun slit about a foot from where Preacher stood.

“Nothin',” the guard replied. “But the wind is fresh-enin' and it's gonna pour down any minute. That's when Preacher will make his move. Bet on it.”

“I just spoke to MacNary on the other side. He ain't seen or heard nothin' neither. I'm bettin' Preacher has done his deed and got gone back to his camp 'fore the rain comes.”

“I just want to kill that Preacher and get back to civilization,” Cleave said. “I don't like these mountains.”

“Knock off the talk!” Bones called. “You'll give away your position.”

Cleave muttered something about Bones under his breath and leaned up against the logs, still with his back to Preacher.

Preacher cut his throat and lowered the body to the ground. He began working his way around to the other side of the stockade, moving very slowly. John Pray had told him about MacNary, and MacNary was a bad one. A thug and a brigand through and through, a man who would do anything to anybody, man, woman, or child, if the price was right. Preacher had come into the cleared area to stampede the horses, but Bones had used a length of chain to fasten the crude corral gate, and Preacher had to nix that plan.

Thunder began to rumble in the distance and that covered any slight sound that Preacher might make. The clouds began dumping a very light rain and Preacher decided he'd pushed his luck enough for one night. When the shape of MacNary came into view, Preacher shot him and then jammed the muzzles of those terrible pistols into a gun slit and began firing as fast as he could.

Inside the log walls, the wound and fury was enormous. The lead balls were slamming into the logs, whining off of cook pots, and terrorizing those who had thought themselves to be safe and secure. A thug called Dutch screamed as a ball took him in the side. An Arkansas man known only as Wilbur began choking on his own blood as a ball took him in the throat and put him down. The flashes from Preacher's multi-barreled pistols blinded those inside the logs and before their eyes could once more adjust to the darkness, Preacher was gone, running through the night.

The men rushed outside of the stockade. But the darkness of the night and the now heavy-driving rain obscured the fast fading form of Preacher.

About two hundred yards from camp, knowing he could not be seen, Preacher stopped and turned around. “I am Preacher!” he shouted. “The Indians call me Ghost Walker. White Wolf. Man Who Kills Silently. None of you will ever leave the mountains. You will all die. I have given you all the chances you will ever get. Make your peace with God. Some of you will die tomorrow.”

“I was under the impression the man was a near cretin. Illiterate,” Sir Elmore said. “That was a very eloquent little speech.”

“Now how does he propose to carry out that rather ominous threat?” Rudi Kuhlmann asked, stuffing snuff up his nose. He sneezed explosively several times in a row and the bounty hunters standing close to him, their nerves stretched as tight as a guitar string, almost shot him.

Dark Hand was the only one who had not rushed outside. The Pawnee squatted near the gate to the stockade. “Preacher means what he says,” Dark Hand said. “It is my suggestion that we all leave these mountains at first light and do not look black.”

“Yeller,” Tatman said, his arm in a sling, easing the pressure on his wounded shoulder. “I knowed you was yeller all the time.”

Dark Hand did not reply. He had moved back from the door and was packing up a few belongings. He had made up his mind. He was going to look up Preacher and make his peace with the man. If Preacher would accept it, the two would never again make war against the other.

The Pawnee was very swift in packing. He was through before the others even thought about reentering the stockade. Dark Hand was not missed the next morning.