Preacher's Fury. William W. Johnstone

to camp. They did that on a little bench that backed up to a rocky bluff so they would be out of the wind.

      “With any luck we’ll find Bent Leg’s village tomorrow,” Preacher said that evening as he fried some salt jowl over a small fire.

      “What’s this fella Bent Leg like?” Lorenzo asked. “I reckon it’s safe for me to assume that he’s got a bent leg?”

      “Yeah, it got broke in a fight with the Gros Ventre when he was a youngster,” Preacher explained. “Didn’t heal back right, so it’s always had a funny kink to it ever since. It didn’t stop him from gettin’ around, though, and he grew up into quite a warrior. He’s gettin’ on in years now, but he’s been a good leader for his people.”

      “Who are the Gros … Gros … what’d you call ’em?”

      “Gros Ventre. That’s another tribe, lives west of here a ways. They don’t get along with the Assiniboine. Any time tribes don’t cotton to each other, they raid back and forth, and it was durin’ one of those raids that Bent Leg got hurt. The Gros Ventre stole some horses and took some captives to make slaves out of ’em.”

      “I don’t think I like these Gros Ventre folks, and I ain’t even met any of ’em yet,” Lorenzo said.

      “Because they take slaves?” Audie asked. “Almost every tribe has been known to do that, at one time or another. Not only that, but … Were you born in this country, Lorenzo?”

      “I sure was. Born and bred in Missouri.”

      “Well, your ancestors in Africa almost certainly had slaves from other tribes there with which they were at odds. It’s an accepted form of warfare across the entire world.”

      “That don’t make it right,” Lorenzo insisted.

      “No, certainly not. But it’s a matter of historical record that the African tribes were quite proficient at capturing slaves from other tribes and selling and trading them to the Americans who sailed slave ships to their shores, especially during the last century.”

      “How come you know so much?” Lorenzo asked with a frown.

      Preacher said, “Audie used to be a teacher at one of them colleges back East before he chucked all that and became a fur trapper.”

      “Why would you want to do that?”

      “Because the color of one’s skin is not the only means by which people discriminate,” Audie said. “I was tired of being judged solely by my stature, or lack of same, and not by what was in my heart and my head.”

      “Reckon I can understand that. I’ll be honest with you, you looked a mite funny to me at first, but now you’re just Audie. I don’t even think about the other no more.”

      “Nor does your Moorish coloring bother me, my friend.”

      “No, I told you, I’m from Missouri.”

      Preacher was about to chuckle when some instinct warned him. Maybe he had heard a faint noise from atop the bluff at their backs. Whatever it was, it brought him to his feet in a swift, sudden move. He started to turn and reached for one of the pistols tucked behind his belt.

      Before he could draw the gun, a shape plummeted down from the top of the bluff and a bloodcurdling cry split the night. The figure crashed into Preacher and drove him to the ground. The pistol slipped out of his fingers and skittered across the rocks. Preacher was stunned, but not so much that he couldn’t see the savage, twisted face of the man who had tackled him, or the tomahawk that was lifted high, poised to fall and dash his brains out.

      CHAPTER 5

      A gun roared before the tomahawk could swoop down and end Preacher’s life. It was the Indian who died instead, as the ball from Audie’s pistol smashed into the side of his head, bored through his brain, and exploded out the other side of his skull in a grisly spray of blood, brain matter, and bone chips.

      The attacker wasn’t alone. Rifles blasted from the top of the bluff. The balls thudded into the ground as Audie, Nighthawk, and Lorenzo scrambled in different directions.

      Preacher flung the dead Indian’s body aside, snatched up the tomahawk the man had dropped, and sent it spinning toward the bluff top with a flick of his wrist.

      He aimed the throw just above one of the muzzle flashes but didn’t really expect to hit anything. He just wanted to make one of the attackers duck for cover.

      Instead, a man suddenly pitched over the edge and plummeted to the ground, landing next to the fire. The light from the flames revealed that the tomahawk was buried deeply in his forehead.

      Preacher had never been one to turn down good luck. He rolled toward the base of the bluff, where the men on top of it would have a harder time drawing a bead on him because of the angle.

      He pushed himself to his feet and planted his back against the rock wall. From there he could see that Audie, Nighthawk, and Lorenzo had reached the cover of the trees that grew around the clearing where they had made camp. They opened fire, peppering the top of the bluff with rifle balls.

      Preacher had been about to draw his pistols and try to get a shot, but now he decided to leave the guns where they were for the moment. Instead he turned and faced the bluff. It was steep, but not quite sheer. Rocks stuck out from it here and there to form handholds, and a few hardy plants grew on it as well.

      Preacher looked at the trees where his friends had taken cover and grinned. He pointed at himself and then jerked a thumb upward.

      Reaching as high as he could, he found a hand-hold, got one of his feet on a rock lower down, and started to climb.

      The men on the bluff and the ones in the trees continued to trade shots while Preacher made his ascent. He could tell from the way three different rifles sounded in the trees that all three of his friends were still in the fight. One or more of them might be wounded, but they were still alive.

      Preacher had gotten a good enough look at the two dead Indians to know that they weren’t part of Bent Leg’s band of Assiniboine. He could tell by the decorations on their buckskins and the way their faces were painted that they were Gros Ventre. They had probably ventured this far east to raid Bent Leg’s village.

      As Preacher neared the top of the bluff, he stopped long enough to pull one of his pistols from behind his belt. Then he grasped one of the small, sturdy bushes and lifted himself higher as a rifle blasted a short distance above him. He could see flame spouting from the barrel.

      The warrior started to reload. Preacher pushed with his legs and drove himself up. His head and shoulders cleared the rim. The Gros Ventre was on one knee, ramming a fresh load down the barrel of his rifle, when Preacher appeared and took him by surprise.

      Preacher jammed the pistol under the warrior’s chin and pulled the trigger.

      The weapon went off with a flesh-muffled boom. The Indian was thrown backward. His head had exploded so that not much of it was left as he landed on his back with his arms and legs thrown out to the sides.

      The Gros Ventre hadn’t expected to find Preacher among them. He rolled onto the bluff and came up with his other pistol in his left hand.

      A few yards away, one of the surprised warriors let out an angry screech and tried to swing his rifle toward the mountain man. Preacher’s pistol roared before the Indian could pull the trigger. The ball smashed into the warrior’s chest and knocked him sprawling.

      Preacher heard a rush of footsteps behind him and whirled to see one of the warriors charging him and swinging a tomahawk. Preacher ducked under the slashing blow and crowded against the man. The empty pistol in Preacher’s right hand smashed against the warrior’s temple. Preacher felt bone crunch under the impact. The man dropped like a stone.

      He twisted away as another Gros Ventre thrust a knife at him. The blade brushed Preacher’s side, but it didn’t penetrate his buckskin shirt. He dropped both pistols, clamped his hands