“Definitely closin’ the gap,” Preacher muttered, lowering the spyglass. He stayed where he was until the band of men were out of sight. Then he sat for a time and thought a few things out.
As to what Bedell and the men might be up to, he had only the word of Woford Lewis to go on. And even though Preacher knew for a fact that Victor Bedell was a no-good, capable of doing anything mean and nasty, and that good men don’t ride with no-goods, he was at a loss as to just what he should do to cut the odds down some. Preacher didn’t think one man tackling forty-nine would be real smart. That is, providing the men were after the wagon train and the women. Preacher was 100% sure they were, but so far they had not made a move against the train.
Then Preacher’s eyes narrowed as a thought came to him. A very disturbing thought. The bunch he’d watched through his spyglass had been a few men short. About five or six short. He was sure of that.
What had happened? Where had the five or six men gone? Had the men quit Bedell and turned back? Preacher didn’t believe that. Not for a second. Their absence could only mean one thing. Bedell had become suspicious and had ordered the men to lag behind, keeping a sharp lookout on the party’s backtrail. Bedell was as wily as a fox. Preacher silently admonished himself for forgetting that. And he just as silently realized that he was in a lot of danger.
Preacher took a slow, careful eyeballing of his surroundings. The land looked peaceful. Empty. A slight breeze was blowing. But this part of the country was very deceptive. A whole bunch of people could be hiding anywhere within a hundred yards of his location. His eyes cut to Hammer. The horse’s ears were pricked and he was tense.
“You done it stupid this time, ol’ son,” Preacher muttered. “Them men of Bedell’s is out there and workin’ in close to you. Damn!”
Preacher carefully checked his pair of awesome pistols. He then checked his rifle just as carefully. Hammer blew softly. Preacher cocked his rifle. The very softest of sounds reached him. He whirled around, came up on one knee, and fired just as a man topped the ridge. The big ball caught the man in the center of his chest and stopped him cold for an instant, then he was flung backward as if hit with a giant fist. Preacher ran toward Hammer and leaped into the saddle just as a bullet slammed into his back, almost knocking him out of the saddle. Hammer leaped into motion as rifles boomed all around him. Preacher pulled a pistol and fired nearly point-blank into the bearded face of a man who had jumped up out of the tall grass. The face erupted into a terrible mess of blood as the ball hit him dead center. Another man appeared in front of Preacher and Preacher fired, the ball striking the man in the shoulder. He heard the horrible screams as Hammer’s hooves pounded the man’s flesh and shattered his face. Hammer was running all out now. And there was not a horse around that could outdistance Hammer in a flat out run. Another rifle sounded, and Preacher’s head exploded into a blinding mass of pain. He threw his arms around Hammer’s neck and held on. Then he remembered nothing.
It was nearly dark when Preacher forced his eyes to open. He was flat on his back on the ground, and he was cold. His head hurt something fierce. Slowly, his mind started working and he recalled the gunfight back on the ridge. He’d been shot. More than once. He felt around him. His arms and hands worked. He found a pistol and pulled it to him. He felt his left side holster. That pistol was still in place. He turned his head and sorrow struck him hard. Hammer was down, lying on his side, his pain-filled eyes open and looking at the man he loved. Preacher could see pink foam coming from the faithful horse’s nose and mouth. Hammer had been lung shot.
“Oh, no,” Preacher said. “Oh, Sweet Baby Jesus, no.” Summoning his massive strength, Preacher forced himself to his knees, then to his feet. He swayed for a moment, conscious of a pain in his back and side. He ignored it. He staggered over to Hammer and looked down at the horse. Hammer was finished. He’d been shot four times, but had still managed to carry his master to safety.
Preacher was openly, unashamedly weeping as he put a merciful, pain-relieving bullet into Hammer’s brain. Then he fell down to his knees and wept some more. He collapsed beside the big, faithful horse and the pain took him. Preacher fought it hard, but it was a losing battle. He was taken into blackness.
It was light when he awakened. He looked overhead and saw buzzards circling ever closer. He clawed for the rifle in the saddle boot and blew one buzzard out of the sky. He reloaded and knocked another spinning. The remaining buzzards seemed to get the message and soared higher.
Preacher fought the swimming pain in his head and rose to his feet. He found his other rifle and reloaded both, then checked his pistols, reloading them fully. One buzzard made a bad mistake by landing and staring with his evil eyes at Preacher. The mountain man blew his head off.
He stripped saddle and saddlebags from Hammer’s stiffening carcass, having to dig under the horse with his big knife to finally get the saddle free. Exhausted, Preacher rested for a time, fighting pain and nausea. He dampened a kerchief and held it against his aching head, near the back where he figured the ball had clipped him. It seemed to help. He pulled up his buckskin shirt and looked at the hole in his side, close to the outside. He felt around to his back. The ball had entered in his back and exited out the front. Preacher figured if the ball had hit anything vital, he’d a been dead by now. He cleaned the wounds as best he could, and then found some moss and placed it over the holes, tying them in place with pieces of cloth he tore from his only spare shirt.
He built a small fire and boiled coffee, chewing on jerky while making his coffee. Then, ignoring his pain, he worked for hours covering Hammer with rocks, until he had a pile nearly as tall as his chest. Animals might get to his faithful companion of many years, but if they did, they’d have to work like hell to do it.
“I broke my promise to you, Hammer,” he said. “I’m sorry. I truly am.”
Preacher then turned his face toward the west. “Bedell,” he said, his voice low and full of menace, “you sorry pile of coyote shit. You better catch you a whaler ship to China and slant your eyes, yeller your skin, and belly up in a rice paddy. ’Cause I’m comin’ after you, you son of a bitch. And I’ll find you. I don’t care how long it takes me, or how many miles I got to travel. You are dead, Bedell, and anyone who rides with you is dead. And that there is a cold promise, you low-life bastard.”
Preacher patted the pile of rocks. “Rest easy, now, old friend. You carried me many a mile, and we rode some trails, we did. You earned your rest. You ride the skies now, Hammer. And I promise I’ll avenge you. I swear to God Almighty I’ll do that.”
Preacher had deliberately put all thoughts of the wagon train out of his mind. For he did not know how long he’d been unconscious. He figured he’d drifted in and out of consciousness for two days, maybe three. He’d ridden a full day from the wagons, so he was sure that whatever evil Bedell had planned, the deed was done.
Dragging his saddle, Preacher made it to a creek and rested in the cool shade. For several days he drank often and ate up his meager supplies, managing to catch some fish to supplement his diet. He dug up tubers and ate them, and tended to his wounds by making poultices. When he started walking west, he knew he wasn’t 100%, but he was strong enough to get going. On the second day after leaving the creek, he found himself looking at three Kansa braves, sitting on their horses and staring at him.