“That would be wonderful,” Roland said. “She’s already been through enough in her life.”
“Told you about her life, did she?”
“She told me enough,” Roland snapped. “I don’t care about her past, if that’s what you’re talking about, Preacher. It’s a closed book as far as I’m concerned.”
“That’s a good idea,” Preacher said with a curt nod. “I’d keep it that way, if I was you.”
They dropped the subject of Casey, which was just fine with Preacher. He didn’t know how much of the truth she had told Roland about her past, and he didn’t care. That was between the two of them.
Preacher called a halt as the moon rose to let the men and horses rest for a few minutes. Later, around midnight, he estimated, they stopped again. The moon and stars wheeled through their courses in the sky as the party trudged on. Preacher could sense the exhaustion in the men.
Finally, he held up a hand and called softly, “Hold on. We’ll wait here a bit.”
“Don’t we need to keep going?” Roland asked. “Casey’s still up there somewhere. They can’t be too far ahead of us now.”
Preacher nodded. “That’s what I want to find out. You fellas stay here. I’m goin’ ahead to take a look around.” He added, “Don’t budge from this spot until I get back.”
“We won’t,” Roland snapped defensively. He knew their failure to do that at the springs had contributed heavily to the disaster that had befallen them.
Taking Dog with him but leaving the stallion behind, Preacher disappeared into the night.
CHAPTER 20
Time and experience and some good teachers among the Crow and other friendly tribes had given Preacher the ability to move with almost complete silence when he wanted to. He used that ability in the wee hours of the morning since midnight was long past. It was the best time to slip into an enemy camp, when sleep lay heavily on most of them.
Garity and his men were confident of their ability to protect themselves, so they had built a good-sized campfire when they stopped for the night. Preacher spotted the glowing embers of it when he was still several hundred yards away. When his keen eyes saw the orange coals, he stopped to size up the situation.
Now that he knew where to look, he could see the light-colored canvas covers of the wagons. The vehicles had been pulled off the trail a short distance and arranged in a circle. Garity knew enough to do that, anyway.
Preacher moved closer. When he was within a hundred yards of the wagons, he dropped to a knee and put an arm around Dog’s shaggy neck.
“Stay,” he whispered in the big cur’s ear.
Dog whined. He wanted to go with Preacher. The mountain man repeated, “Stay.”
Dog wouldn’t like it, but he would wait there until Preacher either returned or summoned him.
His boot moccasins made no sound on the hard ground as Preacher catfooted toward the wagons. He had left the long-barreled flintlock behind with Dog. It was too awkward to carry around while he was trying to be stealthy. He had his pistols, but if all went as he hoped, he wouldn’t need them.
More important, he had his knife. It was the blade that was going to come in for some work tonight.
Already in a low crouch, he dropped to his knees and then stretched out on his belly to cover the last fifty yards in a crawl. Garity surely had sense enough to have posted some sentries. As he came closer, Preacher caught a whiff of pipe smoke, confirming his hunch. He followed his nose until he spotted a dark shape leaning against one of the wagon wheels.
Grinning to himself in the darkness, Preacher began crawling in a wide circle that would allow him to come up behind the guard. He didn’t get in any hurry. Rushing things in a job like that could get a man killed. Minutes stretched by with Preacher moving only a few inches at a time.
Eventually, he was where he wanted to be: close enough to reach out and touch the guard as he silently rose to his feet. The man was still puffing on his pipe, blissfully unaware that he had only seconds to live. He had no idea what was about to happen until Preacher’s left arm came around him and clamped down on his throat like an iron bar, stifling any sound and making the guard spit out his pipe.
By the time it hit the ground, the cold steel of Preacher’s knife was buried in the man’s back, the tip sliding between the ribs and delving deep to find the heart. The guard jerked a little but didn’t struggle as he died.
Preacher pulled the knife out, lowered the corpse to the ground, and wiped the blood off the blade onto the man’s shirt. He took the pistol he found behind the guard’s belt, tucking it behind his own belt, but left the rifle.
Soundlessly, the mountain man moved around the outside of the circled wagons until he found another guard. That man died without any commotion as well, and Preacher commandeered another pistol. When it came time for a battle, his forces would be at least a little better armed than when they had started out.
Some of the thieves were sleeping under the wagons. Preacher found a vehicle where the ground underneath it was empty and crawled through the space into the circle. He lifted his head and studied the wagons as best he could. The moon was lower and the light wasn’t as good. After a moment, he spotted a man standing guard inside the circle, next to the tailgate of one of the wagons.
Preacher was willing to bet Casey was inside that wagon and the sentry was there to prevent her from getting away.
He could do something about that, Preacher thought, and was about to crawl over to the wagon and get started on it, when some instinct warned him. A second later, he heard a swift padding of feet, followed by a shrill cry and the explosion of a gun.
Preacher jerked to his feet as shadows leaped through the night, hurdling wagon tongues and charging into the circle as they yipped. His brain worked swiftly and he realized the wagons were under attack by Indians. He suspected they were Comanches, and the possibility suggested itself they might be the remnants of Lame Buffalo’s party, reinforced by more warriors from the same band!
Preacher didn’t really care who the Indians were. They would kill him just like they would kill every other white man with the wagons if they could.
And Casey, too, he thought as he sprinted toward the wagon where he thought she was. He had to take advantage of the distraction to get her out of there. He couldn’t afford to wait any longer.
The man guarding the wagon threw his rifle to his shoulder as a pair of the attacking Indians charged at him. The weapon boomed and sent one of the warriors flying backward, but the other one lunged forward and drove his lance into the guard’s body. The guard screamed as the sharp-tipped weapon tore all the way through him and emerged from his back to hit one of the sideboards of the wagon behind him. For a second the dying man was pinned there until the warrior yanked the lance free with a whoop.
He was turning away from the crumpling guard when Preacher reached him. The mountain man’s hands locked on the bloody shaft of the lance and wrenched it out of the warrior’s hands. Preacher brought it up in a flash and thrust the tip into the Indian’s throat. He felt it grate against the upper end of the man’s spine as blood gushed from the ripped-open throat.
Preacher shoved the dying warrior aside. “Casey!” he called as he leaped to the back of the wagon. “Casey, you in there?”
He heard a shocked gasp. Then a familiar voice cried, “Preacher! Preacher, is that you?”
He used his left hand to rip aside one of the canvas flaps while his right pulled a pistol from behind his belt. Gunshots were blasting all over the camp. He didn’t have to worry about being silent anymore.
An arrow whistled past his head. He turned to see where it had come from and spotted one of the warriors trying to fit another arrow onto his bowstring. Leveling the pistol, Preacher pulled the trigger and sent a ball slamming into the man’s body. The impact of the shot made the warrior drop his bow and arrow and spun him off his feet.