Forty Guns West (26 page)

13

The man-hunters ran their horses over rough country, straight west, for several miles before the exhausted animals could go no farther. Reason finally overcame fear and Bones halted the wild retreat before he and his men killed their horses.

Slumped on the ground, trembling from fear, exhaustion, and shame, Bones looked at what was left of his party of bounty-hunters. He'd come west with just over forty men. He was down to fifteen, counting himself. He looked over at Lige, sitting with what was left of his bunch. Counting himself, Lige had been reduced to six men.

Bones Gibson shook himself like a big dog and stood up, amazed that his legs would support him. He was ashamed of himself for running away like a scared cat from a pack of dogs. He looked at the discouraged and thoroughly filthy bunch of men. “All right, people, listen up. Look at me, damnit, you dirty pack of cowards!” That got their attention. They stared at him, some of them through fear-glazed eyes.

Bones said, “We're through runnin'. I mean it. This is the end of runnin' from that mountain man. We're gonna get out of this fix, in an orderly retreat. We're gonna operate like an army from now on. With captains and lieutenants and sergeants and the like. And I'm the captain of this company. Anybody don't like it, leave and do it right now.”

No one moved. But new interest now took the place of hopelessness in many eyes.

“I'm fixin' to give you my first order. Here 'tis: We take shifts guardin' while the others take a bath in that creek over there. And I mean bathe. With soap. Then we shave close and give each other haircuts. And we wash our clothes and air out our blankets. When that's done, and we all look like human bein's again, instead of like a bunch of people who just crawled out of a cave, then we make our plans. Now move. Move!”

* * *

It was almost dark when Preacher hunkered down and watched the last one die. He rolled them all into a pile and tossed brush and limbs over them. He smashed their weapons and threw them aside. Then he went back to Thunder, saddled up, and rode out. He knew of a little spot that was ideal for a camp. He'd pick up the trail of the man-hunters come the morning. Right now, he wanted some hot food and a good night's sleep.

* * *

Miles to the north, Dutch had halted the men and made a very tight and secure camp. Dutch was under no illusions. He'd come to realize they were up against a first-class fighting man who possessed all the skills needed to not only survive in this godforsaken country, but to prosper in it. Dutch was going to call on all of his eastern woodsman skills to avoid Preacher. He did not want a fight with the man until the odds were all on his side. And he felt sure that would come, sooner or later. But for now, they had to stay alive.

The royalty had stopped their foolish antics, all of them finally realizing this was not a game, not a sporting event. This was a life or death struggle against a very skilled and very determined fighter. And to a man, they had silently admitted they were out-classed by Preacher. And they had suddenly turned into the hunted.

It was not a feeling that any of them savored. Just the thought of it left their mouths experiencing the copper-like taste of fear.

Sound carries in the high country, and they had all heard the very faint sounds of gunfire to the south of them. They all wondered now many more men Preacher had killed.

“Canada,” Sir Elmore said aloud.

“Beg pardon?” Dutch lifted his head and looked at the man.

“Canada,” Elmore repeated. “We'll try for Canada. We'll be safe there.”

“That's hundreds of miles away,” Falcon said. “Up through the unknown. Winter's gonna be on us in a few weeks. We got to get out of these mountains.”

“I concur,” Zaunbelcher said. “I do not think any of us would live through a winter trapped in here.”

Rudi Kuhlmann looked at the six men who had chosen to accompany the royality. “Get us out of this alive, gentlemen, and none of you will ever have to worry about money again. And that is a promise.”

“You got a deal,” Dutch told him.

* * *

“We'll cut north in the morning,” Bones told his group. “Head straight for Canada.”

“Canada!” Lige blurted.

The men at least looked more or less human now that they had bathed and shaved and trimmed their hair. But their thoughts were still dark and savage when it came to Preacher. They had panicked back at the pass, and were ashamed of it. And each had silently promised nothing like that would ever happen again.

“That ain't a bad idea,” Evans said. “I got some friends up there and they're doin' all right. They been up there for 'bout three years now. Huntin', fishin', trappin'. They're gettin' by, so's I hear.”

“All right,” Van Eaton said. “Canada it is. We'll pull out at first light.”

* * *

“Now this is mighty interestin',” Preacher muttered, squatting down and studying the tracks. He had been following the tracks of Bones's bunch for two days. They had passed right by an easy way out of the Rockies and kept right on heading north. “Canada,” Preacher whispered. “Canada? Now why did I think of that?” He didn't know, but the thought would not leave him. “Well, I ain't runnin' them ol' boys clear to Canada.” He swung back into the saddle, curious now, and once more began his following the trail. He took his time, trying to figure out what in the world Bones had in mind this time.

Unbeknownst to either of the two groups, they were only about ten miles apart, and since Bones and his bunch were traveling faster, almost parallel to one another.

Preacher shared his supper with an old Indian and his wife who had stumbled onto his camp, and after eating, the men smoked and talked. The old man and his wife were of the Northern Ute, and both were not well. They were going back south to where they had first met, long ago, to build a lodge and die together.

The old Ute told him that there were two parties of white men, about eight or ten miles apart, both of them traveling north. He said he sensed evil in these men, and he and his woman had hidden both times. He said the men were not happy people; sullen and grim-faced. And they used bad language ... at least it sounded bad to him.

The old man had heard of Ghost Walker, and was honored to be in the presence of such a fine and brave warrior. When Preacher awakened the next morning, he knew the old man and woman would be gone, and they were. Lying next to Preacher's blankets was a gift from the old Indian, one of the finest-made tomahawks Preacher had ever laid eyes on. Preacher hefted it and knew it was made to throw, and that was something he was a pretty fair hand at. He stowed it behind his sash.

As he rode, he smiled at the old Indian's news. So the gentry and the trash with them were only a few miles to the west of Bones's pack of hyenas. That was interesting.

* * *

“I believe we've shook him off,” Fred Lasalle said, on the evening of the third day after the ambush in the pass.

“Maybe,” Bones replied.

“I think we've lost Preacher,” Percy said, at approximately the same time and sitting about six miles away from Bones's bunch.

“Maybe,” Dutch said.

At that moment, Preacher was about four miles behind of both groups. He had cooked and eaten his supper, boiled his coffee, and then let his small fire burn down to only coals, just enough to keep his coffee hot. He sat with a blanket over his shoulders, drinking coffee and mentally fighting with himself.

He figured he'd more than avenged Eddie, Wind Chaser, and the trappers the man-hunters had killed and robbed. He ought to just give up this hunt and go on about his business.

Preacher had been fighting this mental battle for several days, and was no closer to a decision now than when he began. Even if there were some sort of law out here, he couldn't prove that Bones and his party had done anything. It would be his word against theirs. And if it came to that, Preacher might well be the one who ended up on the wrong end of the rope. Patience and Prudence and the others hadn't actually seen any of the man-hunters break any laws—and since everything had happened in so-called 'disputed territories,' he wasn't sure what country's laws applied where. Or even if there were any laws out here, was more like it. Preacher, like so many mountain men, was pretty much in contempt of the so-called laws of so-called 'civilized people.' Preacher felt that most of them were downright stupid.

Just before Preacher snuggled deeper into his blankets, for the nights were turning colder, he made up his mind to make no further contact with the man-hunters, other than continuing to push and follow them north. Well ... he might accidentally hassle them a little bit. If the man-hunters started trouble, then he'd fight. But they would have to start it. He'd let Canada handle the man-hunters.

* * *

The weather grew colder, the days shorter, and the nights longer the farther north the men rode. Even though the two groups were only a few miles apart, neither group was aware of the other. But both knew that Preacher was still behind them, staying well back, but coming on.

Preacher had begun trailing one group for a day or so, and then swinging over and trailing the other. Both groups were aware of him. And the hunt became a game with the Indians. Word was passed from tribe to tribe and the Indians were amused by it all. If so many men were running away from just one man—even if that man was Ghost Walker—the fleeing men must surely be cowards and therefore not worth bothering with. They would not be brave under torture.

* * *

“What the hell is he doing?” Van Eaton threw out the question to anybody who might have an answer, although he knew no one in the group did.

“Following us,” Bones said. “Driving us north. He's got something up his sleeve, for sure. And I think I know what it is.”

“What?” Titus asked.

“I ain't got it all worked out yet in my mind. But I figure I'm close.”

“Well, I'm gettin' right jumpy about him bein' back there,” Tatman said. “It's gettin' hard to sleep at night, worryin' 'bout him slippin' into camp and cuttin' a throat or two. I say we ambush him.”

“Maybe,” Bones said. “Yeah, I been givin' that some thought, too.”

Van Eaton said, “You don't reckon he's somehow got in touch with the Canadians and they're waitin' for us at the border?”

Bones smiled. “You always could read my mind, Van Eaton. Yeah. That's what I think he's done.”

“How?” George Winters asked.

Bones shook his head. “I don't know.”

* * *

“Preacher had the missionaries inform the Canadian authorities about us,” Sir Elmore said, about the same time Bones's group was discussing what Preacher was doing.

What neither group knew was that there were no Canadian authorities within five hundred miles of where they planned on crossing the still ill-defined border. And what neither group knew was that they had crossed out of Ute country and were now in the territory of the Northern Cheyenne and Arapaho. Furthermore, neither the man-hunters nor Preacher was aware that they were all being carefully trailed by a band of Ute, who had some ideas of their own. For the moment, a rare event was happening: representatives of the Utes had met with chiefs of the Northern Cheyenne and Arapaho and agreed to a temporary peace. The Cheyenne and the Arapaho could fully sympathize with and understand what the Utes wanted, and they agreed to it, for the time being.

“I say we ambush Preacher,” Zaunbelcher said. “If we plan it carefully, we can succeed. I am certain of that.”

“Maybe,” Dutch said. “And that's a big maybe. Preacher is a wily ol' curly wolf. The problem is, we don't never know just where he is. He disappears for days at a time.”

“Wonder where Bones and them got off to?” Percy pondered.

“Who cares?” Dutch replied.

* * *

Preacher had felt eyes on him for the past two days. But it wasn't the kind of eyes that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. It was more a curious feeling he felt. He circled and back-tracked, but he could not spot a soul.

It was Indians, he was sure, and probably Cheyenne or Arapaho, tribes that he got along well with. He was known to them, so why were they spying on him and not coming near his camp?

Preacher rode Thunder down into a creek, stayed with it for about a mile, and then exited on gravel. He tore up an old shirt and covered Thunder's hooves and walked him for about a mile. He picketed Thunder, climbed up on a bluff, and with his pirate glass in hand, bellied down, extended the glass, and began scanning the territory all around him.

It took a while, but his patience finally paid off. He smiled and put the glass away. “Well, I'll be damned,” Preacher muttered. He knew the Ute riding in the lead. He was one of the big chiefs, Black Hawk. Then Preacher remembered something that caused his throat to tighten. He slowly shook his head. “You boys would have been far better off if you'd let me kill you back down south.”

Then he noticed two Indians not five hundred yards away, below him. They were riding slow, studying the ground, trying to pick up Preacher's trail, and they looked frustrated because they had lost the trail and could not find it again.

Preacher watched them until they were out of sight. He made his way back to Thunder and then decided he'd just make his camp right where he was. There was water close-by, and plenty of dry wood. Besides, things were going to get real exciting in a very short time. Preacher decided he'd just stay out of sight.

After all, deep down, he was a peaceful sort of person.

14

“White Wolf has discovered us,” Black Hawk was informed the next morning. “My scouts have found where he hid his trail and then watched through the long glass as we followed the two groups of men.”

Black Hawk nodded his head solemnly. “And Ghost Walker did what?”

“Nothing. Returned to his camp, prepared his evening meal, and went to sleep.”

Black Hawk smiled. “By doing so he has told us that whatever else happens to the evil men is in our hands. He will do nothing to interfere.”

“How do you know that?” the man dared to ask.

Black Hawk shifted his obsidian eyes to the man, but did not take offense. “How I know is but one of the reasons I am chief of this tribe and you are not.”

The man wisely nodded his head and backed away, knowing he had come dangerously close to overstepping that invisible line.

One of Black Hawk's closest friends and advisors chuckled in the misty morning air. “Good reply.”

Black Hawk waggled one hand from side to side. “Not too bad for so early in the morning.”

The two men laughed softly.

Black Hawk said, “We have gone far enough north. Today we begin taking a life for a life.”

* * *

“Look!” Tom Evans cried, jumping to his feet and pointing to the east.

About a quarter of a mile away, on the crest of a hill, Preacher sat his horse and was staring at the camp of the man-hunters.

“What's he doing?” Derby Peel asked.

“He ain't doin' nothin',” Van Eaton said. “He's just starin' at us.”

“There's a reason for it,” Bones said, looking at Preacher. “Preacher don't do nothin' without thinkin' it through. But damned if I can figure out what it is.”

The man-hunters turned at the sound of a thud. For a moment they were frozen where they stood, staring at the sight. Benny Atkins swayed on his feet, his eyes looking in horror at the arrow protruding from his belly. Then he screamed as the first waves of pain hit him. He sat down heavily on the ground, both hands holding onto the shaft of the arrow.

Clift Wright jumped for his rifle. He managed to bring the weapon to his shoulder just as an arrow entered the right side of his neck, the arrowhead ripping out the left side. His eyes widened in horror as blood filled his mouth.

Joe Moss, using a stick for a crutch, hobbled for his guns. He didn't make it. Two arrows tore their way into his flesh, one in his back and the other in his chest.

Preacher sat his horse and watched the scene without expression.

Ray Wood began yelling as mounted Indians charged the camp, seeming to come out of nowhere. Ray's yelling stopped abruptly as an Ute lance ran him through, pinning his flopping body on the cold ground.

Bones, Van Eaton, Lige Watson, and several more who had already saddled their horses, left their supplies behind and fled the scene, riding hard. The other men were slaughtered. Some were taken alive ... they were the less fortunate ones. Utes could be quite inventive with torture.

Ed Crowe died cursing Preacher. One of the attacking Ute, who spoke English, would wonder at that for the rest of his life. White men certainly did many strange things.

Alan James, Derby Peel, Fred Lasalle, Evans, Haywood, and Winters died in the camp. Tatman, Price, and Titus were taken alive.

With the blood lust running hot and high, one of the younger Utes galloped his horse toward Preacher, his lance-point level with Preacher's chest. A sharp shout from Black Hawk brought the brave to a halt just a few yards from Preacher. The young Ute stared hard at Preacher, then his eyes touched upon that terrible-looking pistol in Preacher's right hand.

“Back off,” Preacher said in the Ute's own tongue. “I am not your enemy.”

The young Ute lowered his lance and turned his pony's head. He rode back to the camp and jumped down, a scalping knife in his hand.

Preacher holstered his pistol and rode away.

* * *

Willie and Lucas, Lige Watson, Pierre, Homer, Calhoun, Van Eaton, and Bones made it out alive. The only supplies they had were what they had carried in their saddle bags.

“I can't believe no white man would just sit back and watch whilst red savages attacked other white men,” Lige panted the words.

“What tribe was that?” Calhoun asked.

“Who knows?” Bones said. “They all look alike to me.”

Homer fell to his knees and vomited up his fear, while Willie and the giant, Lucas, clung to each other, both of them trembling in fright.

“Now we know why Preacher was layin' back,” Pierre said. “He fixed it up with them savages to do us in. Damn his eyes!”

“Take anything we got and wrap them horses' hooves,” Van Eaton said. “We got to hide our trail and find a place to hole up. It's the only chance we got. I'll make a wager them Injuns was from the same tribe as them we kilt in that valley. They ain't never gonna give up looking for us.”

He turned and grunted as an arrow tore into his chest and penetrated his heart. Van Eaton had hunted his last man.

Lige Watson lost control of his senses and ran screaming from the shady glen. He ran right into the Ute lance. The Ute left him pinned to the ground. Lige would be a long time dying.

Pierre died on his knees, praying.

Homer was taken alive.

Calhoun ran blindly in panic, fighting the slashing branches and stumbling through the thick underbrush. He could not believe his eyes when he saw Preacher, sitting his horse about a hundred yards away.

“Help me!” Calhoun screamed, hearing the Utes coming up fast behind him.

“Man who needs help hadn't oughtta left home in the first place,” Preacher told him.

“You'll burn in hell for this!” Calhoun screamed at the mountain man.

“I might,” Preacher acknowledged. “But you'll be there afore me.” He lifted the reins and rode away just as the avenging Utes reached the man.

Bones, Willie, and Lucas had lept into their saddles and whipped their near-exhausted horses into a run.

They didn't get far.

Bones and Lucas were taken alive, the Utes having known for days that Bones was the leader. His death would be most unpleasant. The Utes looked at the tiny Willie, trying to figure out exactly what sort of man he was. They'd never seen a dwarf. They finally decided it would be bad medicine to harm such a thing. They turned him loose.

Ignoring the screams, Black Hawk rode over to Preacher.

“Howdy,” Preacher said.

Black Hawk studied the mountain man for a moment. “You know why we do this?”

“I know. All who are with you are family members of Wind Chaser's bunch.”

In the Ute society, such offenses as stealing, adultery, and murder were private matters, the punishment left up to the family members.

“It ought to be that way in my society, too,” Preacher added, knowing his words would please the chief.

“I have severely chastised the warrior who threatened you, Ghost Walker. But in battle the blood runs hot.”

“I understand.”

“Tell me about the other band of evil men.”

Preacher hesitated, then said, “They are better mannered in the white man's way than the ones you just killed, but they are much worse in here.” He pointed to his heart.

Black Hawk nodded his head at that. He understood perfectly. He turned his horse and rode back to the blood-spattered camp. Willie rode his horse over to Preacher. The little man was so scared he stank of it.

“What am I gonna do?” he asked.

“Stay just as far away from me as you can, Shorty. 'Cause I might take me a notion to kill you yet.”

“You've got to help me. I can't survive alone out here!”

“That's your problem. You come a-huntin' me, to kill me. Now you want me to help you. No way. You'll survive. You know the way back. I got no sympathy for you a-tall. Now get movin'. Get clear out of my sight and do it fast. Git!”

Willie got.

* * *

Dutch was jumpy. He was all knotted up inside and couldn't keep his food down. Something was wrong. He had chosen this place to hide with great care, and felt they would be safe. But he hadn't heard a bird sing or a squirrel chatter all morning. The woods were as still as a graveyard.

“Something's awfully wrong around here, Dutch,” Percy said, lumbering up, his big gut leading the way.

“Yeah. I feel it, too.”

“I heard screamin' last night.”

“You, too?”

“Yeah. It was faint, but I heard it. Like to have made me puke.”

“I been told that Preacher is hell in any kind of fight—and we shore known that for a pure-dee fact now—but he don't go in for torture.”

“Somebody was shore dyin' hard last night.”

“Anybody else hear it?”

“Not that I know of. I was on guard. Give me goose bumps all over.”

“Yeah. Me, too.”

Percy looked toward the clearing and his eyes widened as if he'd seen a ghost. About four hundred yards away, there sat Preacher, just sitting in his saddle as big as you please, looking right at the camp. “Dutch!” Percy gasped. “I ain't a-believin' my eyes.”

“What are you talkin' 'bout?”

“Preacher!”

“Preacher? Where?”

“Right there!” he pointed.

Dutch turned and as he did, his belly exploded in pain. He looked down at the shaft of the arrow that protruded from his gut. “Oh ...” was all he managed to say before another arrow split his spinal cord and he dropped to the ground.

Percy shouted out the warning but it was too late, far too late. He took one step and went down with several arrows in his body.

The Utes were all over the camp a few silent seconds later and the fight was brutal and brief. The braves knew who to kill quickly, and who to take alive. They had been following the group for days, and after studying the men, Black Hawk had pointed out the gentry.

The royalty who had come to America to kill men for sport were no longer the haughty, sneering, arrogant bunch of several months back. They stood in a group, their hands bound cruelly behind them. They knew they were facing death, and they were not facing it well. They stank of fear and relaxed bladders and bowels. The sweat dripped from their faces and their legs shook so hard several had to be helped to stand as the stony-faced Utes stared at them, the contempt they felt for such fear showing only in their eyes. Preacher still sat on his horse out in the clearing, Black Hawk sitting on his horse beside Preacher.

“For the love of God, man!” Sir Elmore Jerrold-Taylor screamed at him. “Help us.”

“For the love of God?” Preacher muttered. “For the love of
God?”

“The white man calls upon his God to help him?” Black Hawk asked.

“Yes.”

“Will this God of yours help them?”

“Well, now, I can't speak for God, but if I had to take a guess, I'd say no.”

“Good. I would not like to fight a God.”

Preacher held out a hand and the Ute solemnly took the offering and shook it. “I'll be goin' now, Black Hawk. You're welcome in my camp any time.”

“And you in mine, Brother To The Wolf.”

Preacher swung his horse and rode away. He wanted to put some distance between the Utes, their prisoners, and himself. He knew this bunch was going to die slow, long, and hard. And he knew why.

Black Hawk rode his horse into the center of the camp, his pony gingerly stepping around a sprawled out body.

“We have gold!” Burton Sullivan shouted at the chief. “We have money and jewels and all sorts of things we can give you.”

“I will have them soon,” Black Hawk said. “You have no more use for them.”

“Filthy savage!” Baron Zaunbelcher screamed at the chief.

“Savage?” Black Hawk questioned. “You call me a savage? You are a very amusing person.”

“Why?” Robert Tassin screamed at Black Hawk. “Why are you doing this to us?”

“I have done nothing to you. Yet. But I will.”

“Why, damn you? Why?” Sir Elmore shouted.

Black Hawk smiled sadly. “Because Wind Chaser was my younger brother. I helped in his upbringing after our mother died. That's why.”