Of the tribes in this area, the Kansa, Mandan, Osage, and the Missouri all spoke basically the same language, and so did Preacher.
“I am Preacher,” he told them.
They looked at one another. “We know,” one finally said.
“That’s a fine-lookin’ spare horse you got. I want it.”
“Perhaps we do not wish to trade,” another Kansa said.
But Preacher could detect nervousness in his words. The Kansa were only armed with bows and arrows, and one carried a lance. Preacher knew they had not missed how heavily armed he was. And the ferocity of the man called Ghost Walker, White Wolf, and other names was known from the Pacific to the Mississippi. The Kansa clearly did not wish to tangle with Preacher.
“I think you’ll change your mind. How is the horse called?”
“We just caught him. He has no name.
The horse was shod, and Preacher figured it had belonged to one of Bedell’s group who ambushed him. Preacher pulled his spare Hawken from the boot and tossed it to the Kansa holding the reins of the horse. As soon as he caught up with Bedell’s group, he’d have him another rifle right quick. He tossed a bag of shot and powder horn to the Indian.
“Fair trade?” Preacher asked.
The Kansa nodded and dropped the reins. “Fair,” he said, and he and his companions were gone.
Preacher petted and spoke to the big brown. He had him gentled down and taking grass from his hand in a matter of minutes. Preacher liked horses and most seemed to like him. Preacher was in the saddle and riding west within the hour. “You’re a dead man, Bedell,” he said to the wind. “And that’s a promise.”
A half a dozen Pawnee spied Preacher and with gleeful shouts of killing anticipation—there wasn’t a Pawnee in the tribe who liked Preacher—they rode to block his way. But Preacher wasn’t about to be intimidated by the Pawnee. He didn’t like them any more than they liked him. Preacher had discovered that whoever trained this horse had done a fine job of it. He looped the reins loosely around the saddle horn, filled both hands with those terrible pistols of his, let out a war whoop, and charged.
Scared the hell out of those Pawnee.
Preacher rode right in amongst them and blew three of them straight to the arms of whatever or whoever they believed in after death. The other three took off like their asses were on fire and didn’t look back. Preacher watched them until they were nothing but dark dots on the vastness of the land.
They’d be back, for sure, and Preacher knew that. But he had him a little time to inspect the dead ’fore they returned…with more warriors, he was sure of that, too. He first reloaded his pistols, then began the grisly job of checking out the dead.
One of the dead Pawnee had a rifle beside his body that Preacher recognized. Ring had carried it. With a sigh, Preacher picked up the plains rifle and checked it, then tore the shot pouch, powder horn, and caps bag from the dead Indian. He tried at first not to look at the hair on the Pawnee’s war-axe. It was Ring’s. But something else about the scalp troubled Preacher.
He jerked the scalp loose and felt it. It was dry. Even the underside was nearly dry. No Pawnee had killed Ring. They’d just come along after the bodies had stiffened and done their knife work.
Preacher did some fancy cussin’ for a time. Made him feel a little bit better.
He took all the powder, shot, and caps—the percussion caps told him the Pawnee had more than likely taken the rifles from the train for every rifle there had been of the latest model—and left the bodies where they lay. He swung into the saddle and headed out. When he made camp that evening, he buried Ring’s hair.
He found where the battle had taken place. Bedell had split his people. One group had swung wide and gotten in front of the wagons and another had hit them from the rear while the wagons were strung out and on the move. It had been one hell of a running battle, and the last wagon had been halted some five miles from the ambush site. Preacher found lots of signs of dried blood, but he could not find one body. So where the hell had the Pawnee come up on Ring? He’d probably never know. Some animals may have dragged off the body, or bodies, by now.
He backtracked. There was no point in getting into a hurry now. The deed was done and he couldn’t undo it. Every few hundred yards he’d stop and sniff the air. Preacher knew Bedell and his thugs wouldn’t have taken the bodies far. They had to be buried somewhere close by. Finally he smelled it: the unmistakable odor of death.
Four of the drivers hired back in Missouri were buried in a shallow grave. Animals had uncovered them and had been eating on the bodies. Preacher covered them again, piling rocks over the dirt, and went looking for more bodies.
He found the body of a woman he’d known only as Ros, buried in a hastily dug grave with a woman he’d heard called Marylou. Their heads had been bashed in. Neither of the women was real lookers, so Bedell and his gang figured they wouldn’t bring much in trade, or to sell to slavers, so they killed them.
Preacher found the other drivers. They’d been shot and part of a creek bank caved in on them. One hand, curled into a fist, was protruding from the earth. Preacher left them in peace where they lay. He walked a short distance and found two of Lieutenant Worthington’s soldiers next. And good ol’ Ring was lying dead with them. All had been scalped.
Casting about, Preacher could see plain the wagon ruts. It looked like Bedell and his men were going to follow the ill-defined trail all the way. Even though to Preacher’s mind that was risky. Once on the coast some of the women might talk and that would bring a hangman’s noose to Bedell and the outlaws.
“Black-hearted heathens,” Preacher muttered. “Filth and trash.”
Walking on, he found Charlie Burke dead and uncovered in the brush. Ol’ Charlie must have put up one hell of a fight, for he had been shot half a dozen times and had still managed to get away, to die alone. Preacher had found a shovel and he buried his friend, and his weapons with him.
“Sorrowful day,” Preacher said to the blue sky. “And folks call the Injuns savages.”
Fifteen minutes later, he found Ned. The mountain man had been shot ’bout as many times as Charlie but had still gotten away from the terrible fight and he had propped himself up against a tree and was smoking his pipe for the last time when he died. His pipe was still in his cold hand. Preacher buried him.
Then he found some of the young children and was taken by a savage, terrible rage that was almost blinding in its fury. The boys had been tortured and the girls used horribly. Preacher choked back his outrage and carefully buried the young’uns, boys with boys and girls with girls. He couldn’t find enough of their clothing to cover them proper, and that seemed like a sin to Preacher.
Then he found Sergeant Scott and the rest of Rupert’s soldiers. They had sought cover in a short ravine and had died like soldiers, fighting to the last man.
Preacher laid them out in the shallow ravine and caved earth and rocks over them. Bedell’s men had gone through their pockets, removing all papers and money.
When he could find no more bodies, Preacher began casting about for bloodstains that might have been left by any wounded. He found plenty of that. It looked like Steals Pony, Snake, and Blackjack had taken lead but had managed to get away. It was getting too dark to track, so Preacher made camp and cooked a rabbit he’d caught in a snare.
His thoughts were as dark as the night as he rolled up in his blankets. Old Satan himself would have tiptoed light around what Preacher was thinking.
13
At first light, Preacher was tracking with the skill and tenacity of a bloodhound. He soon found what he’d hoped to find. A small group of women had gotten away, and they had done so on horseback. Eudora had a foot size that was equal to her height, and she had led the group of females out and away from the attack. Obviously, Bedell and his men had decided not to pursue the women, thinking they’d probably die out here anyway. It took Preacher most of the day to find them. He spotted them through his spyglass and he noted with satisfaction that they had picked good cover in which to rest. He didn’t want to spook them, and as jumpy as he knowed they was, he might get shot right off the mark if he showed himself plain, so he commenced to hollerin’ while he was out of rifle range.