Preacher's Fury. William W. Johnstone

no one came at him. There were three dead men down below and three more corpses up here on top of the bluff. It was possible those half-dozen warriors made up the entire raiding party.

      Preacher listened intently for the sounds of anyone fleeing, but he didn’t hear anything. The violence had even silenced any birds or small animals nearby.

      “Preacher, are you all right?” Audie called from below.

      “Yeah. That seems to be all of ’em.”

      “You killed everyone up there?”

      “Seemed like the thing to do at the time,” Preacher replied.

      He sheathed his knife, picked up his pistols, and swiftly reloaded them. He tucked away one of the weapons but held the other one ready as he checked on the three Gros Ventre up there. All of them were dead, which he had thought to be the case, but it never hurt anything to make sure.

      The raiders’ horses had to be somewhere nearby. He went to look for them and found them tied in a stand of trees about fifty yards away. There were only six ponies, confirming Preacher’s guess about the size of the raiding party.

      The Gros Ventre must have smelled the smoke from the campfire and decided to investigate. Then one of them had gotten carried away and jumped Preacher, probably figuring he could take the mountain man by surprise and kill him.

      That had come close to happening. Audie’s fast reaction had saved Preacher’s life. That wasn’t the first time, either.

      He untied the ponies, gathered their reins, and led them along the bluff, looking for a way down. He left the dead warriors where they had fallen.

      A couple of hundred yards away, the slope fell away at a gentler angle. Preacher was able to lead the ponies down it. He started back toward the fire, and as he approached, he called, “Hello, camp! It’s just me, so don’t get antsy.”

      When he walked up leading the horses, he found Audie and Lorenzo standing there, alert and watchful for trouble, while Nighthawk dragged the corpses of the other Gros Ventre into the trees.

      “We ain’t gonna bury these fellas?” Lorenzo asked.

      “I ain’t in the habit of goin’ to the time and trouble to bury folks what try to kill me and my friends,” Preacher said. “The wolves’ll take care of ’em for us.”

      “Fine by me,” Lorenzo said. “I was just askin’.”

      “Gros Ventre, by their markings,” Audie said. “We were just talking about them. Do you think they came looking for Bent Leg’s village, Preacher?”

      “That’d be my guess. They either didn’t find it yet, or else their raid didn’t go so good. They didn’t have any prisoners or stolen ponies with them.”

      Nighthawk came back from disposing of the bodies in the woods. He pointed to the top of the bluff and said, “Umm.”

      “I didn’t hear anything,” Audie said. “Did you, Preacher?”

      “Nope,” the mountain man said. “I reckon everybody up there is dead—”

      He stopped short as the sound of a muffled cry reached his ears.

      “Doggone if you ain’t right, Nighthawk,” Preacher said. “Somebody is alive up there. Don’t know who it could be, though. All six of the Gros Ventre are accounted for, and they only had six ponies.”

      “A prisoner could have been riding double with one of them,” Audie pointed out.

      Preacher nodded.

      “That’s sure enough true. Lorenzo, you and Nighthawk stay down here, and be ready for more trouble. Audie and me will go have a look.”

      “I’m not sure I can climb that bluff,” Audie said.

      “There’s an easier place over yonder a ways,” Preacher told him, pointing.

      He led Audie to the spot where he had brought the ponies down from the bluff. They climbed to the top without any trouble and started back along the rim. Preacher heard several more muffled cries and steered toward them. They seemed to be coming from some thick brush, not far from where the Gros Ventre ponies had been tied.

      “Somebody’s in there, all right,” Audie said. “You want me to take a look, Preacher?”

      “Naw, I can do it.”

      “I’m smaller. I can get through that brush easier than you can.”

      Preacher couldn’t argue with that. He said, “All right, but be careful. You don’t know what you’re gonna find in there. Might even be a bear.”

      “It doesn’t sound like a bear to me,” Audie said. He handed his rifle to Preacher and drew a pistol instead. The short gun would be much easier to use in that brush if Audie had to shoot.

      Audie pushed some of the branches aside and disappeared through the small opening he had made. Preacher heard the crackling sounds as Audie moved through the brush. After a moment they stopped.

      Preacher’s nerves grew taut as he waited. Several more seconds went by, and then Audie said, “Preacher, you’re going to want to look at this. Just push the brush aside, there’s nothing to worry about.”

      Preacher trusted the little trapper with his life, so he did as Audie said. He set Audie’s rifle on the ground, then used the barrel of his own flintlock to make a path for himself. It didn’t take long to reach a tiny clearing surrounded by undergrowth.

      Audie knelt there next to a shape Preacher couldn’t quite make out in the darkness.

      “Just a moment and I’ll have this loose,” Audie said, and Preacher got the sense that Audie wasn’t talking to him. It was starting to look like the Gros Ventre had had a prisoner with them after all.

      “There you are,” Audie went on. “You should be able to breathe easier now that that gag is gone. I’ll cut these bonds on your hands and feet— Whoa!”

      The startled exclamation made Preacher stiffen. He lifted his rifle and said, “Audie, are you all right?”

      A woman’s voice came out of the darkness, warning him, “Back away, white man, or I will cut this child’s throat.”

      CHAPTER 6

      “Madam, please,” Audie protested croakingly, indicating that there was some pressure on his throat. “I’m not a child. And I give you my word that I didn’t intend to touch you in such an indelicate fashion. I was simply trying to determine your circumstances.”

      “By pawing me all over?”

      “It was too dark to see.”

      Preacher didn’t know whether to chuckle or curse. He settled for saying, “Take it easy, ma’am. If you were a prisoner of that Gros Ventre raidin’ party, then we’re your friends. We’re the ones who done for ’em.”

      After a moment’s hesitation, the woman asked, “Are they all dead?”

      “That’s right,” Preacher told her. “Six of ’em, and I’m pretty sure that was the whole bunch.”

      “It was,” she said.

      “Audie, I reckon the lady grabbed your knife away from you as soon as you cut her hands loose?”

      “Yes, and I’ll thank you not to tell Nighthawk about this. He’d never let me hear the end of it.”

      The woman had been speaking English, but the slight accent in her voice told Preacher that it wasn’t her native tongue. He said, “Ma’am, you wouldn’t happen to be Assiniboine, would you? One of Bent Leg’s people?”

      “You know Bent Leg?” she asked, sounding surprised.

      “For a good many years now,” the mountain man said. “My name’s Preacher.”