Absaroka Ambush (24 page)

“You let me go, and I will. I'll swear on the Bible and my mother's picture.”

Preacher thought about that for a moment. “You pack your gear and get gone from here. Take the south trail out of the Hole. They's a tradin' post south and some east of here. On the Green. If the Injuns ain't burned it down, that is. Follow the Green on down and you'll find the trail back east. West is the cutoff, east is back home. Go back home. Don't never let me see you west of the Mississippi again.”

“You're lettin' me go?”

“Git!”

Fifteen minutes later the man was gone. Preacher had let him take his rifle, his pistols, and a bait of grub.

Preacher followed the man for a-ways, and then brought his horses in close and cleaned out the lean-to, laying down fresh boughs for his bed. Then he set about jerking some of the venison. He fixed another steak for his supper, hung the meat up high, away from his camp, so's the bears couldn't get at it, and lay down to rest, his rifle and pistols at hand just in case the man he'd cut loose had a change of heart. He rested well that night and awakened fresh and ready to go.

A light snow had dusted the Hole during the night, but Preacher knew it would be gone by midmorning. The sky was blue and nearly cloudless and the sun was bright. He had him another venison steak for his breakfast and stowed his smoked meat, leaving the deer carcass for the animals. They had to eat too. He pulled out, taking the west trail, following Cottonwood Creek up to Jenny Lake. There, he camped for the night, after eating enough fresh caught fish to grow gills. Five miles out of camp the next morning, he smelled smoke, and it wasn't no little one-man fire, neither. He felt he'd finally come up on the breakaway band of Bedell's men that the outlaw he'd cut loose had told him about. Checking his rifle and pistols, Preacher set out on foot.

“Now, by God,” he muttered. “I start riddin' the land of two-legged vermin.”

Preacher approached the outlaw camp cautiously. Hewas already sure that's what it was, for Indians had told him several times that no trappers were in the Hole or in the land that thunders up north of the Hole.

Three men and a woman were sitting around the fire. But there were five saddle horses at the picket line. Preacher sank down in the brush and waited. He was not close enough to make out what they were saying, only able to catch a word or so every now and then. They would all laugh from time to time. It was a dirty sort of laughter, followed by a lot of profanity, exactly what he'd expect from the low-life types in the rough camp. Preacher winced at some of the language being spoken. Preacher and his friends were no angels, and they could cuss with the best of them, but the language being used around the fire was of the sewer variety, and the words from the woman's mouth were just as bad, or worse, as the filth coming from the men.

When the fifth man finally made his appearance, coming in from the north, Preacher used the noise the man made settling in, as a cover to move in close enough to catch all the words being spoken. The newcomer poured a cup of coffee and sat wearily down with the group. “I went up high,” he said, now Preacher could hear the words clearly. “No signs of anybody else in here with us. No smoke, no movement. Nothing. I think we're clear.”

“Curtis's camp ain't that far to the south,” a man said. “He'd have smoke from a fire.”

“I 'spect he pulled out shortly after he left us,” another man offered. “He never did have no stomach for this kind of work. He was a cook back east.”

“But he killed three people!” the woman protested.

“He poisoned them,” yet another man spoke.

Oh, wonderful! Preacher thought. And I et up his cookin' like a starvin' hog.

“Curtis never did like it out here,” the first man said. “He wanted to go back to civilization. Hell with him. I don't trust no poisoner noway.”

“You reckon Preacher give up the hunt?” the woman asked.

“I 'spect he did, Nelly. There ain't no one man gonna take out after no twenty men alone. I just wish we'd have brung along some of them women we had. I liked to hear 'um holler when all of us started humpin' 'um.”

Then the men and the woman started mouthing and laughing about some of the most perverse and vulgar remembrances of the kidnapping, and the days and nights that followed. It made Preacher's stomach churn. He lifted his rifle and ended the foul discussion by putting a ball right between the eyes of one of the men. The outlaw's head snapped back and for a moment, he had a very odd expression on his face, before his heart told his brain he was dead. Then the man fell forward, face-first into the fire.

Preacher jerked out his pistols and let them roar just as the outlaw's hair caught on fire with a flaming whooshing sound. Preacher was now standing up, a pistol in each hand, and he was cocking and firing the complicated weapons as fast as he could. When the pistols had emptied, Preacher stood completely enveloped in a thick cloud of gunsmoke and the campsite was littered with the dead, the screaming, and the dying.

Preacher shifted positions and reloaded, paying no attention to the howling of the badly wounded. The woman was screaming vile curses at him; the worst language he had ever heard come out of a woman's mouth. He reloaded his rifle last and then stepped into the clearing. Two were left alive, a man and the woman, and they would not be long for this earth.

The first dead man's head had cooked to steaming and it was a dreadful smell. Preacher pulled him out of the fire and rolled the carcass off to one side.

Nelly, screaming the vilest of curses at Preacher, reached for a gun and cocked it. Preacher quickly leveled a pistol and put an end to the profane shrieking.

The camp was suddenly very silent. The one mortally wounded survivor lay on the ground, shot twice through the stomach, and stared in silence at Preacher.

“You got anything to say,” Preacher told him, “I 'spect you better get it said quick-like. 'Cause you sure ain't long for this world.”

The last words out of the man's mouth were horrible curses, all directed at Preacher. Then he gasped, closed his eyes, and died.

“I sure wouldn't want to go meet my Maker with them words bein' my last,” Preacher remarked. “But trash is trash right to the end.”

Preacher put out the fire and packed up what supplies he felt he could use. He took powder, shot, caps, and lead and secured his new supplies on a second packhorse. He'd be damned if he was going to waste his time and energy on burying such trash as these. He left them where they lay and pulled out, heading for the land that smokes and thunders.

As he rode away, he did not look back at the dead. Overhead, the buzzards were already circling.

 

 

Miles to the north, Villiers stared morosely into the fire. The grease from the meat on the spit cracked and popped as it hit the flames. To the east and north, Granite Peak, almost thirteen thousand feet high, was clearly visible, the summit poking out from the clouds.

“You reckon Preacher's a-comin'?” Logan asked him in a low voice.

“Yeah,” Villiers replied in a whisper. “You can damn well bet he's comin'. And he'll keep on comin' 'til we're all dead or gone to China or some goddamn place. I wish I'd never got mixed up in this mess.”

“Let's you, me, Trudeau, and Pierre slip out and get gone,” Logan's voice was very low. “We'll head to Canada, change our names, and start over.”

“Man, can't you understand what I been tellin' you people over and over?” Villiers replied. “We done a harm to Preacher. He don't forgive and he don't forget. Not ever. He'll hunt us all to the grave. And then probably come back and haunt us. We got to stay together and stop him. Splittin' up is the worst thing we could do.”

“Are you skirred, Villiers?”

Villiers slowly nodded his head. “Yeah. I'm scared, Logan. Preacher tracked a man from down near the Sangre de Cristos to clear up into Canada years back. He found him camped along the Battle. Left him dead on the riverbank. Wouldn't even bury him. You know what that man done? Stole his pelts. That's all. Just stole his pelts. You understand what we've done? We've kilt his friends and his horse, kidnapped women and girls and boys and tortured 'em and raped 'em and worser. And you ask me if I'm scared? Man, I'm so scared I'm bound up so's I can't even take a decent crap. Now go away and leave me alone.”

Sitting away from Villiers, Bedell's own thoughts were very much like those of the Frenchman. For the very first time in his long life of crime and mayhem, Victor Bedell was frightened. He had not been frightened of Preacher before. Yes, the man had thoroughly whipped him in a fight in St. Louis, but it had not been a fair fight. Preacher had fought like a savage, kicking, gouging, and biting, and otherwise engaging in pugilistic conduct unbecoming a gentleman.

But now Bedell knew that Preacher was never going to give up. He was going to track them all down and kill them. Over a goddamned
horse!
Bedell had never heard of anything so ridiculous. A horse was just a damn dumb animal. Like a stupid dog. You beat it until it minded you, or if it didn't, then you killed it.

“But no one tracks down and kills another human being over a goddamned horse!” Bedell blurted out loud.

Villiers turned his head to stare at the man. “That's what you think,” he said sourly. “I have. You kill a man's horse out here, you damn near condemn him to death. Logan's killed a man over a horse.” Logan looked up and grinned when Villiers added, “Of course, Logan was stealing it from the man at the time.”

“Ridiculous!” Bedell said, but all the men could detect the slight note of fear in his voice.

 

 

Preacher tracked the band of outlaws north over the Divide and up the east side of the lake and into the Absaroka Range. Whoever was doin' the guidin', Preacher deduced was keepin' way to the east of the scalding waters. Preacher had high hopes of sitting Bedell down on one of them big holes just about a minute before she blew. That blowhole would give his arrogant butt a cleanin' the bastard would never forget.

But Preacher concluded the chances of his bein' able to do that was slim to none.

Preacher figured he'd just have to settle for shootin' the no-count.

Maybe he could find him some wanderin' Blackfeet and hand Bedell over to them. The Blackfeet could get real inventive when it came to ways of dealin' with the likes of Bedell. They could make it last a long time.

Preacher went to sleep thinking of how Bedell would look after the Blackfeet got done with him. He knew one thing for a fact: that way of gettin' rid of Bedell would damn sure please the ladies who survived the wagons west.

 

 

Preacher spent the next two weeks scouring the land for some sign of Bedell and his bunch. He roamed from Avalanche Peak clear up to Slough Crick looking for a sign of them. But Bedell and his pack of hyenas seemed to have just dropped off the face of the world. That would have been just fine with Preacher, but he knew that men like Bedell and them who rode with him seemed only to survive when the good and the decent died young.

Preacher was determined to change that, at least for this go-around.

When Preacher awakened the next morning, he stretched in his blankets and took him a lung full of high mountain air. With the cold air, he sucked in the strong smell of wood smoke and the faint odor of frying bacon.

He smiled and came out of his blankets like a puma on the hunt. He dressed quickly, knowing that it was no bunch of Indians fryin' bacon. “Got you!” he said.

Making certain that Thunder was safe in a brush corral—which he could easily break out of should Preacher not return—with plenty of graze and water available, Preacher took his rifles, his bow and quiver of arrows, his pistols and ample shot and powder, and struck out on foot, literally following his nose.

Bedell and his gang had either been so close to him it was like that old saying about not seeing the trees for the woods, or the outlaws had shifted their camp and moved in close while Preacher was asleep. Either way it went, Preacher was about to end this show. The fact that he was going up against fifteen to one odds never slowed his step. He figured the more people in the camp the more confusion he could cause. Hell, some of them just might end up shootin' each other 'fore he got through.

The smell got stronger and Preacher slowed his step, weaving through the thickening timber as he worked his way down near to the flat valley floor.

He stopped, not believing his eyes. Bedell had picked the worst campsite Preacher had ever seen. The man was either a total fool or so arrogant that he believed he and his gang were all alone in the wilderness.

They were camped smack in the middle of a clearing, with timber all around them. They had them a fire going that you could roast an ox over, and they were all huddled around it, cookin' breakfast and boilin' water for coffee. And there was Bedell, just as big as brass, with Jack Cushing and Rat Face right beside him. That damn Villiers was standin' beside Trudeau and two others that Preacher didn't know right off.

Preacher carefully worked his way closer to the clearing. If he made the spot he'd chosen, he would be less than seventy-five yards from the group when he opened fire. My, but the smell of bacon and coffee was making his mouth water. After he did the deed, he just might sample some of that breakfast. Preacher lifted both rifles, holding them like pistols, and blew Eli and Able straight to hell, the heavy balls doubling them over and sending them lurching to the ground. Preacher jerked out both pistols and charged up to the edge of the timber, screaming like an angry panther.

Two men jumped up from the ground and ran into the timber on the far side of the clearing just as Preacher opened up with his pistols. Trudeau and Logan went down next, both of them belly-shot. A woman that Preacher recalled was named Ruby something or another grabbed up a pistol and fired it at Preacher. The ball came so close Preacher could hear the whiz and feel the heat. Preacher grabbed up a rifle and fired just as Ruby turned to charge up her pistol. Preacher's ball struck her at nearly pointblank range and took part of her head off.

Preacher ducked back into the timber and frantically reloaded, looking up every few seconds to scan the scene in front of him. His guns just half-loaded up, Preacher started shooting arrows into the clearing. He could not understand why the men and women did not run for the timber. After a man and woman went down from the arrows, the others seemed to realize that they were terribly exposed and as one, they hit the air for the timber, on foot, leaving everything behind them in their frantic retreat.

Preacher shifted positions, bellied down in some brush, and quickly reloaded everything up full. Some of the horses had broken free from their ropes and had run off, out of the clearing, away from the noise of guns and the screaming and yelling of people. Preacher lay still as death in the brush and waited. Near as he could figure, there was twelve or thirteen men still out yonder, and five women. The woman who'd stepped into the path of an arrow meant for Bedell had taken it in the throat and was making all sorts of horrible noises as she thrashed around. The man had taken Preacher's arrow in the center of his chest and he was not moving. The woman suddenly rolled onto the fire and her dirty, greasy clothing burst into flames. She hollered and jerked and squalled awhile longer and then fell silent as the cold hand of death shut her evil mouth and stilled her vile oaths.

Preacher had not moved anything except his eyes since he'd crawled under the brush. His eyes caught movement across the clearing. Rat Face was slippin' around, nearly as furtive as the rodent he was named after. Preacher let him slip. He was after bigger game. He could not use his bow; the brush prevented that. He did not want to fire and give away his position ... unless, that is, he could get a shot at Bedell. And Bedell was not about to expose his arrogant butt for that. He'd probably crawled up inside a hollow log. Preacher hoped the bastard came nose to snout with a bear.

“He's gone!” someone yelled.

“Don't you believe it,” another voice said. “He ain't gone. He's waitin' for some of us to show.”

“Somebody kill that son of a bitch!” Bedell screamed from deep in the brush.

“You can't kill something you can't see,” Villiers said. “Just stay put. He's got to move sometime.”

“What's that horrible smell?” a woman called.

“Nina,” Villiers said. “She rolled into the fire.”

And shore ruined my breakfast, Preacher thought. Damned inconsiderate of her.

“That's disgusting,” another whore said.

“I'm sure she would have preferred not to do it,” Villiers called.

“She still stinks.”

“I think he really is gone,” a man called, and Preacher almost jumped out of his skin. The man was not more than five feet from where he was hiding in the thick brush. “I've worked all around the clearing and didn't see a thing.”

“You won't see anything of Preacher,” Villiers said. “The Injuns don't call him Ghost Walker for nothin'.”

“He's gone,” another voice came from Preacher's left. “I can see Gar from where I'm at and no sign of Preacher.”

“Then if you're so sure, Wade,” Villiers called, “you and Gar step out into the clearin'.”

But neither man was that sure Preacher was gone.

Preacher waited, as silent as the ghosts that were his namesake.

“How many's down?” Bedell shouted from deep in the timber across the way.

“Eli, Able, Trudeau, Logan, Nina, Ruby, Pete, Dixon.”

Bedell cursed.

“Everybody stay right where they are,” Villiers called from his hiding place. “Nobody move. We got all the time in the world.”

No, you haven't, Preacher thought. The sands of time is runnin' out fast for all of you.

The minutes ticked past and the outlaw men and women got restless, just as Preacher figured they would. Villiers and Pierre didn't, however, and Preacher had figured that, too. Those were mountain men turned bad, and they had just about as much patience as Preacher.

The man to Preacher's close right suddenly sprang out of the timber and into the clearing. He ran for a pile of supplies and disappeared behind it. Then the man on Preacher's left did the same. Preacher did not move anything except his lips, which curved into a knowing smile.

Another man cautiously stepped out of the timber across the clearing. Another followed him, then another man and a woman stepped from the timber sanctuary.

“He's gone,” Jack Hayes finally said. “The ambushin' sorry son is really gone.”

Preacher then shot Jack through the head, and grabbing up his second rifle he gave Rat Face the same, but just a mite lower. Rat Face doubled over as the big ball tore into his innards and blew out the back of his shirt. Rat Face sat down on the ground and yelped once, very weakly. Then he toppled over dead.

Preacher grabbed up his pistols and gave those in the clearing every barrel, and he had double-shotted several. Wade and Gar had ridden their last dark trail.

The sounds of galloping horses reached Preacher as he was reloading as quickly as he could. The bloody ground grew silent and the gunsmoke wafted away on the fall breezes. Preacher worked his way out of his cover. Staying in the timber, Preacher made his way all around the clearing then through to a patch of clear. Far away, he could see the riders still galloping on their horses. He counted nine, maybe ten. At this distance, he couldn't be sure. One thing he could be sure of was that he had played hell with Bedell's gang and that he now had most of their supplies. And winter was only a few weeks off.

Preacher returned to the clearing and packed up what he felt he could use and secured the riggin' on a big packhorse that had broken loose. He took all the powder ... and there were several small kegs, in addition to the horns each man and woman had carried. He smashed the rifles and pistols so's the Injuns wouldn't get them and turned the horses loose to run wild. He rolled the bodies away from the fire and opened the lid and took him a sniff of the nearly full coffeepot. Smelled all right to him. But Nina had fell acrost the bacon and ruined the hell out of that.

Preacher drank a cup of coffee and felt better. He chewed on some bread he'd found and poured another cup.

“You ... cold, black-hearted bastard!” a man gasped the words at him.

Surprised the hell out of the Preacher. He was sure he'd inspected all the bodies and found them dead. He turned to look at the man who'd spoken.

“Who be you, Pilgrim?”

“John Lucas. From Arkansas.” The man's coat was soaked with blood. Preacher wondered how the man was still alive.

“You shoulda stayed to hearth and home, John Lucas. You look sort of peaked to me. And you damn shore shoulda picked better company to ride with.”

“Don't you ... preach no sermons to me . . . you godless heathen! Sittin' there ... stuffin' your mouth full... amid the dead ... damn your eyes.”

“I hate to see vittles go to waste.” Preacher looked around the body-littered clearing. “'Sides, they don't appear to be a bit hungry.”

“You're a ... savage, man! A savage, I ... say.” He moaned out the last word.

“I'm a savage, hey?” Preacher said with a smile. “Me and you, John Lucas, we have shore got different interpertutions of that word.”

“You can't even ... speak proper English,” John gasped.

“Can too. If I want to.” Preacher finished his coffee and bread and poured another cup. “You want a cup, John Lucas?”

“No.”

“It's gonna be the last one you ever taste on this earth. You reckon they got coffee in hell?”

“I wouldn't know. I'm a baptized Christian.”

Preacher had him a good laugh at that. “Christian, hey? Church shore ain't what it used to be.”

“If I had the strength, I'd kill you!” John Lucas. said, blood leaking out of his mouth and nose.

“Oh, and I wouldn't blame you, neither. I 'magine I did mess up your day quite a bit.”

“I feel sorry for my ... poor mother.”

“I do too,” Preacher said solemnly, nodding his head in agreement. “I 'magine it grieved her old heart something terrible to see her boy turn out to be such a rotten no-count scallywag like you. You want me to post a letter to her?”

“I don't want you to ... do anything 'cept ... die, you bastard!”

“You closer to doin' that than me, John Lucas. But I will be nice and plant you. I ain't plantin' none of these others though. You was kind enough to engage me in civil conversation over vittles, and that was fairly polite, so I'll bury you.”

“Oh, Lord!” John shouted. “I'm comin' home!”

“I hate to break this news to you, but you shoutin' in the wrong direction, John Lucas.”

“I see the light, Lord!” John gasped.

“Them's probably the flames of the pits,” Preacher muttered.

John Lucas belched, broke wind, and died.

“Hell of a way to checkout,” Preacher said, pouring the remainder of the coffee over the fire.

He then buried the man like he said he would, and using a knife taken from the scabbard of one of the others, Preacher carved into a tree: JOHN LUCAS 1839 HE WAS A FOOL.