Absaroka Ambush (22 page)

“Whut are you grinnin' about, you ugly bastard?” one of the trio asked.

Several of the men who knew Preacher well and could guess what was about to happen, hustled the women out a side door. Eudora and Faith were standing off to one side, in the shadows, and did not move.

Preacher smiled slow and easy. “Why ... I'm laughin' 'cause in my mind, I just told myself a joke that I never had heard before. It was right funny.”

The trio of brigands looked at one another, all of them attempting to figure out what Preacher had just said. “He's makin' fun of us,” the original loudmouth said. “What he just said just ain't possible.”

“Whut did he say?” another asked.

Preacher laughed at him.

“It ain't possible, I say,” the spokesman insisted. “It just ain't.”

“Are you callin' me a liar, you bear-butt ugly son of a bitch?” Preacher asked, his voice suddenly hard and all traces of the smile gone from his lips.

“Take your troubles outside,” Godfrey said from behind the counter.

“Shut up!” one of the men told him. He cut his eyes back to Preacher. “Yeah, I reckon I am callin' you a liar. Now let's see what you intend to do about it.”

“Well, I reckon I'll just have to kill you,” Preacher replied.

And the huge room became as quiet as a tomb.

Faith and Eudora stood mesmerized. The counterman stood with both hands palms down on a blanket Claire Goodfellow had started to purchase. Snake and Blackjack were over near the bar, holding cups of whiskey. Steals Pony was outside, talking with several Indians. Rupert stepped to one side, quickly getting out of the line of fire.

“You got it to do,” the lout told Preacher.

“I reckon I can do it,” Preacher replied. “Make your play.”

The brigand grabbed for his pistol which was tucked behind his belt.

Preacher's right-hand gun flashed into action and boomed before the brigand could cock his pistol. The heavy ball struck the man in the center of his chest and knocked him back outside. He hit the ground on his back and twitched once as his brain told his body he was dead.

“Never seen a man git a pistol into action so fast,” a trapper broke the silence. “I believe Preacher's got something goin' for him, I do.”

“That was certainly a fast-draw,” Godfrey said, craning his neck to see if any blood had gotten spilled on his freshly mopped floor.

“Yeah,” another said. “He's a regular gunfighter, he is.”

And the term was born.

Preacher cut his eyes to the dead man's friends. They stood poised, their hands hovering near their pistols. But they were smart enough not to try a grab.

“You kilt Hill,” one finally said.

“I sure did,” Preacher replied. As soon as he had fired the first ball, he had cocked the hammer on another barrel of the awkward-looking pistol. “You boys want to join him?”

“Cain't say as I do,” the other one of the pair said. “That was his friend you kilt last year, not ourn.”

“The hell you say!” his buddy shouted. “You just stand aside.” He glared at Preacher. “I ain't no fast hand at pistols, but I'll fight you fair with a blade, Preacher.”

Godfrey lifted a double-barreled shotgun out from under the counter and pointed it at the mouthy brigand. “Outside,” he ordered. “I'll not have blood all over my merchandise.”

“Suits me,” Preacher said.

“You best think about this, Jackson,” the other friend of the dead Hill said.

“Shet your mouth, Cecil,” Jackson told him. “I ain't a-feared of this ignorant bastard.”

“Your funeral,” Cecil replied. He looked at Preacher. “I'm out of this.”

“Good enough,” Preacher said, easing the hammer down on his pistol and holstering the weapon. “Outside, Jackson.”

“Oh, sure. You want me to go furst so's you can shoot me in the back?” Jackson said with a sneer. “No, thanks.”

Preacher smiled and shoved past the man, stepping outside. A large crowd had gathered, most coming running at the sound of the shot. They backed away when Preacher pulled out his long-bladed knife.

“Come on, you misbegotten sot!” Preacher shouted. “Time's a-wastin' and I got better things to do.”

“Somebody drag that stinkin' body out of the doorway, Godfrey called. “You!” he pointed at Cecil. “There's a shovel around back. Get it and bury him in the woods.”

Jackson was showing signs of having regretted his challenge. He was slow in walking toward Preacher. Preacher saw it and offered the man a way out.

“This don't have to be, Jackson. Just get on your pony and ride on out of here.”

“Yeah, it has to be,” Jackson said, baring his blade. “It has to be.”

“I don't know why,” Preacher said. “But if that's the way you want it, come on.”

Jackson cursed and sprang at Preacher, his knife held low for a gut-cut. Preacher sidestepped, whirled, brought his razor sharp blade down, and cut Jackson on the buttock. Jackson yelped in pain and the blood flowed from the deep cut.

Cecil, dragging the body of the dead man toward the woods, heard the cry of pain and shook his head. He was sorry he'd ever gotten mixed up with this bunch. Ever since he'd come west he'd been hearing tales about a mountain man called Preacher. He hadn't believed them. But he sure did now. Them was the most awfulest lookin' pistols on Preacher he'd ever seen in his life.

“You cut my ass a-purpose!” Jackson squalled.

“Sure did,” Preacher said, grinning.

Jackson cussed him and took a swipe. Their knives clashed and locked at the cross guards. Preacher smiled at Jackson and hit him in the belly with a hard right fist. The wind whooshed out of the man and his eyes glazed. Using his knife, Preacher tore Jackson's knife loose from his weakened grip and shoved the man back.

“I don't really want to kill you, Jackson,” he told the startled man, as he was sheathing his blade. “I just want to beat the snot out of you.” Then, before Jackson could get set, Preacher flattened him with a right to the jaw. Jackson landed on the ground flat on his back, the wind knocked clear from him.

Preacher stepped back and let the man get slowly to his boots. Jackson looked at his brace of pistols on the ground where he'd dropped them. But what really got his attention was the sound of Steals Pony cocking his Hawken.

“Touch those pistols,” the Delaware warned him, “and I will certainly drop you where you stand.”

“Goddamn wild savage!” Jackson cussed him.

Steals Pony laughed openly at the absurdity of the remark.

Jackson turned to face Preacher. He lifted his fists. Preacher raised his fists; there was a strange smile on his tanned face.

“You really think all this is funny, don't you, Preacher?” Jackson asked, a trickle of blood leaking from one corner of his mouth.

“Well, not really. It's more sad than funny. You so damn clumsy. But I know who you are, now. You're Jackson Biggers, ain't you?”

“That's right. And you kilt a runnin' buddy of mine last year.”

“I disremember the time and place 'xactly, but I 'spect he was tryin' to kill me.”

“So what? You been needin' killin' for a long time. I'm sick of hearin' your pukey name.”

“So come on, Biggers,” Preacher laid down the challenge. “I've seen men killed with fists. You think you're hoss enough to do that?”

Biggers stepped forward and smashed a right in through to Preacher's jaw. But Preacher had been expecting something like that. He turned and the blow only landed with about half-power. Still, it was enough to hurt, and Preacher knew the man was no pushover.

Preacher countered with a left and then a right to Jackson Biggers' belly and face. With blood streaming from his newly busted beak, Biggers backed up, shaking his head to clear away the blood and the birdies and cobwebs.

Preacher pressed him hard, punching fast, landing body blows that he knew were hurting the man. Biggers was slightly taller than Preacher, and outweighed him by twenty or thirty pounds. But Preacher was all bone and hard-packed muscle. His legs were spring-steel strong and Preacher was a runner, nearly always winning the footraces at the rendezvous.

Biggers dropped his guard and Preacher landed a hard right to the jaw that staggered the man. Biggers backed up and Preacher bored in. He landed a left to the belly and a right to the mouth. Biggers spat out teeth and blood and cussed Preacher.

Preacher didn't waste his breath with words, obscene or otherwise. He just proceeded to beat the crap out of the bigger man. In a few moments, Biggers' face was a mask of blood and torn skin. His nose was flattened and both his eyes were closing.

Preacher took one look at the man and measured his next blow. It sounded like the flat side of an axe hitting a side of raw beef. Biggers went down and didn't move. One side of his jaw was all cattywhompous; busted all to hell and gone. Cecil came and dragged the broken-nosed, busted-jawed, unconscious, and ass-cut Biggers off behind the trading post.

“He never did have no sense,” was Cecil's summation of the entire affair. “I can't speak for Jackson, but you'll not see me no more.”

“Good,” Preacher said, taking the water bucket that Snake handed him and pouring it all over his head right good. He slicked his hair back with his fingers and looked around him. The women were all standing around, staring at him.

“All right. Let's get this circus on the move, people,” Preacher said, plopping his hat on his head. “We got mountains to cross.”

 

 

And cross them they did.

Rejuvenated by the stop at the first lone light of civilization after hundreds of miles of plains and wilderness, the women picked up the reins, took their prod sticks, swung into their saddles, and pressed on westward. Preacher had warned them that the hardest part was still ahead, and they believed him. But they were trail-wise now, and felt that nothing could stop them—and nothing was going to. The mountain men knew that, too. They saw the change in the women, in the set of jaw, the way they sat their saddles or handled the reins, and in the way they walked.

These women who now pushed westward bore little resemblance to the band of powdered, perfumed, and soft-handed ladies who had gathered back in Missouri for a grand adventure. Most had cut their hair short so they wouldn't have to fuss with it. The women had become more proficient with weapons than most men of that time, handling them with an expert's ease and sureness.

And Preacher, Steals Pony, Blackjack, and Snake were proud as punch of these women. They had taken more than their share of hard knocks and had bounced right back. These women would make fine partners for men, but the men who chose them had damn well better know right off the mark that these ladies would be their equals. The first man to raise a hand to these gals had best understand that when they did, odds were good they'd spend the rest of their life one-handed.

The hot and dusty days creaked and rattled past and the wagons pushed on without seeing any sign of Bedell and his gang. Two days after crossing the river, Steals Pony rejoined the train.

Before he said anything, he squatted down by the fire and poured a cup of coffee. “Tomorrow we fight,” he told Preacher and the other men. “Bedell and his men have laid out what appears to be a very elaborate ambush.” The Delaware smiled. “Perhaps too elaborate.”

“How many men?” Blackjack asked.

“I counted forty. They have pulled in their scouts and now wait in hiding.”

“You got a plan?” Snake asked.

“I do,” Steals Pony said. “But it is a very risky one for us. It could misfire.”

“Lay it out,” Preacher said.

The Delaware took a twig and started drawing in the dirt. He had worked his way in close to the encampment and memorized the positions of Bedell's men. He now highlighted each ambush point. As before, it appeared to Preacher that Bedell was supremely confident. And now that overconfidence was going to blow right up in his face.

“He's a fool,” Preacher said flatly. “He ain't kin' to his back. Seems like Trudeau or some of them others would point that out to him.”

“I think that Bedell is a man who does not take kindly to the suggestions of others,” Steals Pony said.

“Ten women up here,” Preacher said, pointing to the top of the cliffs surrounding Bedell's position. “We go in from the rear. The wagons stop here on the flats.” He jabbed at the ground. “And don't move no further. They'll be gone out of rifle range and safe. There ain't no way Bedell's men can approach them from any direction without gettin' the crap shot out of them. The women on the ridges open fire and we move in. That it, Steals Pony?”

“That's the way I see it.”

“Let's do it.”

Preacher chose the women carefully and moved them into position that night. Ten women would be firing, and ten others would be reloading. Each woman carried two rifles. The hard practice Preacher had put them through at the beginning of the trip would now prove to be invaluable. There would be a nearly constant barrage from the ridges. The first wave of fire would cut Bedell's band down by a full ten men. The rifle fire after that would keep them pinned down and cut off, allowing Preacher and the other men time to work their way in among those trapped near the rear. It would be a very bloody dawning.

“The man is no soldier,” Rupert pointed out, after reviewing the plan. “He positioned his forces all wrong. For which,” he added, “I am everlastingly grateful.”

“You real shore in your mind that you want to go in with us?” Preacher asked the young officer. “We ain't plannin' on takin' no prisoners, son.”

Rupert cut his eyes over to Snake. The old man was patiently and skillfully sharpening his scalping knife to a razor's edge. He was planning on taking some hair. All the mountain men had unpacked their bows and quivers of arrows for that first silent kill at dawning's light. Steals Pony had gathered up some plants, pounded them into a thick and smelly pulp, and soaked his arrow points in the solution overnight.

“Poison,” the Delaware had told him. “Kills slow. Very painfully. These men deserve no better. I would not use it on an animal. I have too much respect for them.”

“Oh, yes,” Rupert said, a steely edge to his voice. “I'm going in.”

Preacher looked hard at the young man. He saw a very different person from just a few months ago. Rupert Worthington would never again fit entirely into genteel Virginia society. The west and the wilderness had left its mark on the career army man, and like a deep tattoo, it could never be removed. There was finely tempered steel in the man now. Many of his past illusions about right and wrong and the treatment of career criminals had been blown away like smoke in a high wind.

“You'll never leave the west again, will you, boy?” Snake asked softly.

“I don't plan to, sir. I will ask that I be posted to the wilderness. You see, I happen to know a new fort is to be built in the Dakota territory. I shall ask to be sent there. I have some experience in construction and engineering.”

“I wish you luck,” Snake said, sheathing his blade and getting up and walking away.

“Is he ill?” Rupert asked.

“No,” Steals Pony said. “He goes off to quietly sing his death song.”

“His
death song?”

“He does not believe he will live to see another nooning. He told me.”

“But...”

“Leave it alone,” Preacher told him. “We know what to do. I done promised him I'd bury him high. Get some rest. Tomorrow's gonna be right busy.”

After Rupert had gone to wrap up in his blankets, Preacher looked at Steals Pony. “You know something I don't?”

“Snake has a sickness inside him. A growth that keeps getting bigger and more painful. I have seen them in others. The pain just gets unbearable at the end. He chooses to go out as a warrior. It is a good thing, I think. He told me about your promise to him.”

Preacher nodded. “He see a doctor?”

“Snake? You surely jest. No. Of course not. But he's tired, Preacher. He wants to rest. Forever.”

“Ought to be right interestin' come the dawnin'.”

Steals Pony smiled. “Quite.”

 

 

The women were in position an hour before dawn. Preacher, Snake, Steals Pony, Blackjack, and Rupert had Injuned up to the sleeping camp and were silently waiting for the dawning and the wagons to start rumbling westward. Bedell had chosen a good ambush spot; Preacher himself couldn't have done better. Only thing was, Bedell had not counted on having to protect his back and north side. He was as exposed there as a newborn baby's butt.

Slowly the east began to lighten, and the camp began to stir. No fires were built, and the mountain men could tell that the outlaws were not happy about a no-coffee morning. They were going to be a hell of a lot unhappier in about an hour.

The mountain men were spread out well, effectively covering the canyon floor from side to side. At the sound of the first fusillade, the leading wagons were to wheel and present their broadside to the outlaws. The teams would be quickly unhooked and lead to safety. The wagons had been reinforced on the sides and now held half a dozen women each, all heavily armed and all good shots.

Preacher knew that some of the outlaws would get away. There were several shallow canyons running off to the south for a few hundred yards before they leveled out and met ground level amid a jumble of rocks. Preacher just didn't have enough people to cover all of it. But with any kind of luck, they would break the back of Bedell's gang and be done with the bastard once and for all.

The mountain men watched as the gang members got into place for their planned murderous ambush. Invisible from the front, their backs were in full view of Preacher and the others. There were a half dozen or so women with the gang, dressed in men's clothing and armed, taking up positions along with the men in Bedell's gang. Preacher held no sympathy for them. They'd chosen their lot willingly and had held their fate in their own hands. And according to the ladies rescued, the outlaw women had been just as bad, or in many cases, worse, than the men who had kidnapped, raped, and abused them. So to hell with the outlaw women. Preacher had him a hunch that Eudora and her crew up on the ridges would make short work of them.

Preacher and the others felt, rather than heard, the wagons approaching. The mountain men saw the outlaws tense as they, too, felt the ground rumbling. Only a few of the outlaws had chosen positions that covered their backs; Bedell, naturally, was one of them.

Slowly, ever so slowly, the wagons came into view and the outlaws made ready their weapons. It was evident by their actions that they planned on taking no prisoners. When the wagons were about five hundred yards from the ambush site, Preacher lifted his Hawken as the others followed suit and sighted in. On the ridges above them, Eudora and her ladies did the same.

Fifteen rifles roared from the rear and from above the ambushers and the life was ripped from that many outlaws. The lead wagons quickly turned and the teams unhitched and lead out of the field of fire. Canvas was flipped back and the besieged outlaw found themselves facing the long rifles of twenty-five women.

Eudora and her ladies on the ridges kept up a savage fire, so savage that Preacher and the others chose not to close in and mix it up with Bedell and his scum. All but one: Snake. The old mountain man left his position to tangle hand to hand with several of Bedell's men. Preacher lost sight of the old man as Snake jumped into a jumble of rocks, his knife blade flashing in the early morning sunlight.

Through the confusion of smoke and dust, Preacher watched helplessly as half a dozen or so made it to their horses and raced down the canyons to the south.

“That's it!” Preacher shouted, standing up and waving his arms. “Stop shootin'!”

Eudora and her sharpshooters ceased firing—the women in the wagons had not had to fire a shot—and Preacher and the men worked their way into the rocks. It was carnage.

Many of the dead had taken the heavy rifle balls through the head or neck; several had been shot half a dozen times or more. A few were still alive, but their wounds were grievous and none of the mountain men—Rupert included—felt any great compulsion to offer any comfort or aid.

Snake had gone in cutting and slashing and he lay among the dead, shot several times. The old man had sliced the life out of three outlaws before his soul had left his body to meet the Man Above. Snake lay on his back with a smile on his lips, his right hand still gripping his knife.

One of the wounded outlaws that the rescued women had said had been particularly cruel, savage, and twisted, both to the kidnapped women and the boys, let out a fearful shriek as Steals Pony took his scalp. The Delaware left the pervert flopping around on the rocky ground. Rupert's eyes took in the scene with no emotion showing on his face.

A dying outlaw, his chest and belly covered with blood, gasped to the young officer, “You a white man, but you as bad as that damn Injun!”

“Thank you,” Rupert said. “I consider that quite a nice compliment.” He walked on.

“How many dead?” Preacher called.

“Thirty-four,” Rupert said, completing his body count. “Well, when the six still alive do expire there will be thirty-four dead.”

“Help me!” one gut-shot outlaw called out weakly.

One of the women from the train helped him. She remembered him as one of those who had raped her repeatedly. She shot him between the eyes.

After that, the five outlaws still alive did not call out for help.

Preacher gently wrapped up Snake's body in his blankets and tied the old mountain man across his saddle. He sighed and then turned to face the others. “Y'all go on. I'll catch up with you in a week—maybe less than that, maybe more than that. All depends. You won't have no more problems. Injuns witnessed this here fight... such as it was. They pulled out when the shootin' stopped. They'll pass the word. The train won't have no more trouble from Injuns. They ain't never seen so much firepower as we showed today. They won't want to come up against that.”

“You wish us to bury the dead, Captain?” Eudora asked.

“Hell, no! Leave 'em for the buzzards and the varmints. Take their horses, guns, and supplies and head on west.” He looked at Steals Pony. “How many you figure got clear?”

“Twelve or so, I think. Not many more than that. Bedell, of course, was one of them.”

“We get these women to the Willamette, then I'll take care of Bedell and what's left of his gang. I'll do it if I have to track that bastard clear to New York City.” Preacher swung into the saddle and took up the lead rope to Snake's pony. “I'll catch up with you. Move 'em out, Blackjack.”

Preacher headed for a place that he knew the Indians called the Silent Rocks. On a hill there, he buried Snake and covered the grave with rocks. He buried Snake facing west, for the old man had requested that, said he always liked to sit and smoke his pipe and watch the sun goin' down. Gave him a right peaceful feelin'.

Preacher took off his hat and held it by his side while he pondered on what he might say. “You done good, Snake,” he spoke softly in the waning light of day. “You was a man to ride the rivers with, and we sure nuff rode a many of 'em, didn't we? We seen some country and had some fights. But it's your time to rest now. You sure earned that right. If any man did, you did. There ain't a whole hell of a lot of us left, Snake. And ever' time I plant another, I feel like I'm losin' a part of myself.” He sighed heavily.

“I'm gonna turn your pony loose. You caught him wild, and he's a good'un. He'll hang around here for a day or two, doin' his grievin' for you in his own way, and then he'll find him some mares and sire some fine offspring. I ain't gonna chisel your name in no rocks, 'cause you asked me not to. I don't know what else to say, Snake.”

Preacher sat for a time by the mound of rocks, smoking his pipe as the sun went down. His thoughts were all jumbled up. Talkin' with that man from Washington had got him to thinkin' hard 'bout his mother and father. After all this was over, he thought he might just take him a ride back east. See his ma and pa ... 'fore it was too late to see anything except a grave. But first he had to get back to his valley and get his Appaloosa. Then he was going after Bedell and what was left of his gang. The ones that had got away were the bad ones, Villiers, Trudeau, Pierre, Gar, Slug and Pug—two brothers—and Tater had all run, one of the dying outlaws had told him. He had also begged for forgiveness, but Preacher had told him he was sorta short on that at the time.

There was also Able, Eli, Monroe, Logan, Wade, Jack Hayes, Rat-Face, Tom Cushing, and of course, Victor Bedell still alive. Preacher knew some of them, but some of them were completely unknown to him. 'Ceptin', of course, the knowledge that there wasn't a single one in the bunch worth a bucket of scummed over, stinkin' buzzard puke.

Preacher sat by the grave of his old friend for a long time, lost in his many thoughts. The sun was long gone over the mountains and darkness had settled in hard around him before he made a move, and then it wasn't very far. He'd already unsaddled and picketed his horse, so he just ate a couple of biscuits, drank some water, and rolled up in his blankets.

Preacher was up before the sun and fixed coffee and bacon, sopping out the grease with chunks of pan bread he'd taken from the wagons. In the saddle, he paused and turned once to look at Snake's grave. “Goodbye, ol' hoss. You rest easy and be sure to ride ol' Hammer ever' now and then for me. Tell Hammer I'll be along sometime. We still got trails to ride.”

Then he rode toward the west.