THIRTY-SIX
He made sure everyone was back in position and ready for what was to come. Every gun in the darkened, makeshift stronghold was loaded. All the defenders were alert, their eyes turned in the direction the Indians would come from. When Preacher was sure he had done everything he could to prepare them for the battle, he drifted back into the shadows and said softly, “Dog.” The big animal followed him soundlessly as he slipped away from the wagons.
It would be a few minutes before they noticed he was gone, he thought. They might not even tumble to that fact until after the Indians launched their attack. By that time it would be too late for the defenders to waste any time wondering about his disappearance. They would be too busy fighting for their lives.
He catfooted along in a low crouch just behind the rise, moving about seventy-five yards before he dropped to hands and knees and began crawling. Within minutes his hands and knees were soaked and cold from the snow, but he ignored the discomfort as best he could. Beside him, Dog bellied along, following Preacher's example. Neither of them could afford to be spotted, not until they were good and ready.
He stretched out flat as his senses warned him that someone was moving nearby. Several shapes ghosted past him about twenty yards away. The war party had spread out, and now the Indians were closing in. Preacher glanced toward the wagon at the top of the rise, barely able to make out its bulk in the thick darkness. The stars were bright, but what light they gave off seemed to be swallowed up by the heavens before it ever reached the earth. It was as dark as the bottom of a well, and as Preacher came up in a crouch again and began to move, he was guided by instinct as much as he was by sight.
Smell helped too. He caught a whiff of bear grease and knew he wasn't far now from the Injuns.
As he came up soundlessly behind them, he began to be able to pick them out better, indistinct shapes here and there, dark against the snow. He heard one of them take a deep breath and knew that was his signal to go into action. They were getting ready to charge.
Preacher stood up straight, about ten feet behind one of the skulking Indians, and leveled his Hawken. He snapped, “Dog!” and then pulled the trigger.
Dog leaped forward, choosing one of the other warriors as his prey. The rifle roared and bucked against Preacher's shoulder and the heavy ball that it launched exploded through the body of the Arikara brave, smashing him face-first to the ground. Dog hit his target an instant later, his ferocious charge landing him on the startled Indian's back. The man cried out as he went down, but the yell ended in a grotesque gurgle as Dog's teeth sank into his throat and ripped it out.
Preacher dropped the Hawken and yanked out the brace of pistols. They were double-shotted and loaded with heavy charges, and they boomed like pocket cannons as Preacher fired. Three more of the Arikara went down, knocked off their feet by the scything lead.
“Open fire!” Preacher yelled. “Open fire!” He knew the shout would reach the defenders at the top of the rise. He hoped they wouldn't hesitate for fear of hitting him once they realized he was right in there among the Indians. He had known what he was doing when he decided to hit the war party from behind, and he was willing to take his chances.
Welcome spurts of flame came from the rifles around and underneath the wagon as Preacher bounded forward. As a dark shape loomed in front of him, he struck with one of the pistols and felt the satisfying crunch of a skull being crushed by the blow. Preacher shoved the dying man out of the way and dropped the empty pistols. He reached behind his back and brought up two more, loaded and primed. His thumbs found the hammers and pulled them back as feet rushed at him from the side.
He pivoted smoothly, bringing up the right-hand gun. The flame that licked out from the muzzle as he fired briefly lit up the face of the warrior who took both balls almost point blank. Then most of his head disappeared in a bloody spray of brains and bone, blown right off his shoulders by the double charge.
Preacher heard fierce growling and screaming and knew that Dog was still in the middle of the fracas, pulling down his prey just as his wolf ancestors had done for untold centuries. A grunt of effort warned Preacher in time to prompt him to duck under the sweeping blow of a tomahawk. As the warrior who wielded the 'hawk stumbled against him, thrown off balance by the miss, Preacher slammed the barrel of the empty pistol across the bridge of his nose, shattering bone and sending deadly splinters up into the man's brain. Jerking as he died, the Indian toppled off his feet.
Preacher still had a loaded pistol in his left hand. The next instant, he needed it as two of the warriors rushed him. He fired, hoping to take both of them down with the double shot, but only one man was hit. That one died on his feet, his heart pulped by the ball, as he continued to stumble forward for a few steps before diving face-first into the snow. The other one crashed into Preacher and bore him over backward. The Indian landed on top of him and knocked all the air out of his lungs, and for a moment all Preacher could do was lie there stunned as the Arikara warrior drove the blade of a knife at his throat.
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The defenders had been taken completely by surprise when Preacher started yelling and shooting from
behind
the Indians. None of them had realized he was gone. But the uproar about fifty yards in front of the wagons gave them something to aim at. Everyone who pressed the trigger of a rifle worried about hitting Preacher, but they fired anyway, knowing that the survival of the entire group depended on winning this fight.
The rifle in Roger's hands was empty when he saw one of the Indians closing in on him. The Arikara howled a war cry and fired an arrow that clipped the sleeve of Roger's coat as it went past. The warrior dropped his bow and grabbed his tomahawk instead, lunging at Roger with his arm upraised to strike a killing blow.
Roger reversed the rifle and leaned in, swinging it like a club. The stock shattered on the Indian's jaw and broke bone as well. The warrior went down. Roger struck again and again with the broken rifle, using the breech to batter in the enemy's skull. He knew he was fighting and cursing like a madman, but he didn't care. All the fear and grief and anger of the past few days came flooding out of him in an incoherent cry as he beat the Indian to death.
Under the wagon, Jonathan and Angela fired as fast as they could, taking the reloaded rifles that Nate slid up to them. But then several of the Indians were right there in front of them, and Jonathan shoved Angela back as he crawled forward to get in front of her and shield her with his own body. He rammed the barrel of an empty rifle into the belly of an onrushing warrior, and as the Indian doubled over in pain, Jonathan reached up and got him by the neck. He came to his feet and slammed the man's head against the sideboard of the wagon.
Pain lanced into his side like fire. He gasped and reached down to grasp the shaft of an arrow. It hadn't lodged deeply, so he was able to rip it loose. As another Indian grappled with him, Jonathan jammed the arrowhead at the man's left eye. It went in cleanly. Jonathan heard the eyeball pop and felt the spray of liquid from it on his face. The Indian staggered back, shrieking and pawing at his destroyed eye.
Jonathan saw a couple of them run past him and tried to get in their way, but he was too late. They were heading straight toward the wagon where Geoffrey stood guard over the children, Jonathan saw. “Geoffrey!” he shouted in warning.
As one of the Indians leaped to the tailgate, a pistol roared inside the wagon and knocked him backward. The children began to scream. Inside the wagon, Geoffrey dropped the empty pistol and snatched up another one as he crouched beside the rear opening. He was too late. A buckskin-clad figure lunged through the opening and crashed into him. Geoffrey went down. He cried out as cold steel bit deep into his belly. The stench of bear grease filled his nostrils, mixed with a coppery smell that a detached part of his brain knew came from his own blood. Feeling himself about to pass out, he summoned up the last of his strength, jammed the barrel of the pistol under the Indian's chin, and pulled the trigger. The Arikara warrior had been grunting with effort as he ripped his knife back and forth in Geoffrey's midsection, but those sounds ended abruptly with the roar of the pistol.
Mary and Brad kept crying in terror, along with the thin wailing of the baby. The children's shrieks redoubled as another dark figure clambered into the wagon.
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A fierce, furry shape barreled into the Indian just before the blade found Preacher's throat. Dog bowled over the warrior and went to work on him with slashing teeth. The Arikara tried to fight back and managed to land a long gash on Dog's shoulder before the powerful jaws crunched down on his throat, ending his life.
Preacher rolled over, came up on his knees, and dove to the side as he saw a tall, powerful figure lunging at him. Swift Arrow, he thought. Had to be. The war chief was the biggest of the Arikara.
Swift Arrow came at him, starlight glittering on the knife in one hand and the tomahawk in the others. Preacher leaped to the side to avoid a flurry of slashing blows. He still had an empty pistol in his left hand. He used his right to pull his own hunting knife from its fringed sheath.
It was almost like a dance then, across the shadowed, blood-spattered snow, as Preacher and Swift Arrow darted and lunged and circled, each man attacking and parrying in turn, moving with blinding, deadly speed. Swift Arrow's knife slashed across Preacher's upper arm, leaving a bloody wound behind, fortunately not cutting deep enough to sever any nerves or muscles. An instant later, the barrel of Preacher's pistol thudded with numbing force on the top of Swift Arrow's left shoulder. The war chief stumbled but caught himself before Preacher could press the advantage.
Back and forth they struggled. Breath rasped in Preacher's throat. His foot suddenly caught on something concealed underneath the snow, and he staggered and went to one knee. Swift Arrow rushed in at him. Preacher went on down, letting the Indian's attack go over his head. He bowled forward, knocking Swift Arrow's legs out from under him. Both men rolled away to put some distance between them, then came up to face each other again.
Preacher had dropped his pistol, but the tomahawk had slipped out of Swift Arrow's fingers. They came together, knives flashing, and suddenly they were locked motionless, less than a foot apart, each man with the fingers of his free hand wrapped desperately around the wrist of his opponent's knife hand. They strained against each other's grip, putting all their incredible strength into the effort, but for long moments neither man could budge the other.
Then Swift Arrow's left arm buckled slightly, and the tip of Preacher's blade came nearer the war chief's chest. Though Preacher didn't know it, Swift Arrow's left shoulder was broken where Preacher had hit him with the pistol. Swift Arrow struggled on anyway, gritting his teeth against the terrible pain as shattered bones ground together.
Preacher had his own problems. The gash on his left arm had bled quite a bit, and he felt himself weakening and growing light-headed. If he passed out, even for a second, the fight would be over. Swift Arrow's knife would be in his heart in the blink of an eye. Preacher reached inside himself, drawing on all the reserves he had left. He sensed that Swift Arrow was growing weaker too. If he could just hold out, hold out a little longer . . .
Swift Arrow's left arm buckled again, and this time there was no holding back the thrust that Preacher made. The knife penetrated the war chief's buckskins, slipped through skin and flesh and muscle. Preacher shoved hard and felt the steel grate on bone as the blade passed between ribs. Swift Arrow said softly, “Ahhh . . .” Preacher pushed harder, driving the knife through the tough fibers of the Arikara's heart. He twisted the blade.
Swift Arrow's knees buckled. His hand opened and he dropped his knife as he sagged. Preacher ripped his knife free and stepped back. Swift Arrow fell to his knees, looked up at Preacher, and died. He toppled to the side like a falling tree.
Then and only then did Preacher realize there was no more shooting going on. The battle was over, he told himself as Dog came up to him and nuzzled his hand. He looked around and saw dark shapes sprawled everywhere on the ground. Then he lifted his gaze toward the wagons and saw someone hurrying toward him. His fingers tightened on the handle of the knife. He didn't know if he could fight anymore, but damned if he was going to surrender.
“Preacher!” Jonathan Galloway shouted. “Preacher, is that you?”
“Damn . . . Silvertip . . .” Preacher husked as Jonathan came up to him and reached out toward him. “I'm mighty glad . . . that's you . . .”
Jonathan grabbed his arm and held him up long enough to get an arm around his waist. Then he began helping Preacher back toward the wagons.
“Anybody . . . hurt?” Preacher managed to ask.
“I've got a cut in my side from an arrow,” Jonathan said, “but it's not too bad. Roger and Angela and the children are all right. None of them were hurt. It's a miracle.”
“Not . . . a miracle. Just . . . hard fightin'.” Preacher forced himself to concentrate on what Jonathan had just said. “Your brother . . . Geoffrey . . . ol' Catamount . . .”