Preacher's Hell, page 7
Preacher surged to his feet and drew both Colts. The .36 caliber balls in the revolvers wouldn’t do much damage to a grizzly bear; not enough, at least, to put such a monster down unless the ball went through an eye and penetrated the creature’s brain.
Preacher was ready to shoot all ten rounds in the guns at the bear’s head, hoping for just such a lucky shot, when he had to hold his fire. Nighthawk had rolled and surged up on his feet again, leaping in to strike at the grizzly’s head with his tomahawk.
More than once, Preacher had engaged a grizzly bear in close combat, armed only with a hunting knife. He had lived through those encounters and the bears had died, but he had suffered a lot of punishment in the battles. Most men who had to fight a grizzly were doomed to a painful, bloody death.
Nighthawk was taller than Preacher, although the bear still towered over him. His shoulders were broad and powerful, his body covered with layered slabs of muscle. The bear outweighed him anyway, was stronger and just as fast, if not faster. Nighthawk had the tomahawk, and Preacher saw that the Crow had drawn a knife with his left hand and was wielding it, too. But the bear had claws and teeth.
No matter who won, it was going to be a hell of a fight between those two.
Preacher stood watching the epic combat. Dog backed off, as well, the hair on his neck still ruffled in instinctive anger and hatred toward the predator as a low growl sounded in his throat.
Nighthawk thrust with the knife, hacked with the tomahawk, and whirled away from the bear’s slashing claws as much as he could. A dark bloodstain began to show on the left shoulder of his buckskin shirt where the claws had ripped through it and gouged trenches in Nighthawk’s flesh, although fortunately they hadn’t penetrated very far.
The bear was bleeding, too, from wounds that Nighthawk’s weapons had opened, but Preacher could tell the injuries were superficial. The grizzly had such a thick layer of fat and muscle over its entire body that it was hard for a blade to reach anything vital.
As the bear tried to wrap both front paws around Nighthawk and catch him in a crushing grip, the warrior ducked quickly and dived between the animal’s rear legs. Once he was behind the bear, he twisted lithely and chopped at the grizzly’s legs, trying to hamstring it.
The bear bellowed in pain and dropped to all fours. It whirled around with speed and agility that would have done a bucking bronco proud. Nighthawk tried to get out of the way, but the creature’s shoulder caught him. It was an inadvertent blow but powerful enough to knock Nighthawk to the ground and make him roll over a couple of times.
The bear lunged after him, but once again Dog leaped into the fray. He bounded onto the bear’s shoulder and sank his teeth in. The bear roared again and twisted away from Nighthawk to paw awkwardly at Dog. The big cur released his jaws and dropped away before the grizzly’s claws could reach him.
That gave Nighthawk time to recover his wits and spring back to his feet. The bear was facing away from him now because Dog had distracted it. Nighthawk jumped onto its back, wrapped his legs around the thick body, and looped his left arm around the bear’s neck under those immensely powerful jaws. He began slamming the tomahawk into the back of the bear’s head, again and again.
A grizzly’s skull was so thick that sometimes a rifle ball would just glance off and fail to deliver a fatal wound. A pistol round was even less likely to be effective.
But not even a grizzly’s skull could stand up to repeated impacts from a tomahawk, especially one wielded by a warrior as strong as Nighthawk. Preacher had once heard Audie refer to the Crow as a copper-hued Hercules, and even though the mountain man didn’t know all that much about mythology, he figured that was a pretty accurate description.
The bear began to stagger as Nighthawk continued hitting it in the head. Preacher could almost feel sorry for the critter, but it had picked this fight, not the humans.
Finally, the bear collapsed. Nighthawk hit it again a couple of times, burying the tomahawk in its brain just to make sure the massive creature was actually dead. He wrenched the tomahawk free, pushed himself to his feet, and staggered a little as he tried to step away from the carcass. The fight had taken a lot out of him.
“I know that varmint got you at least once, Nighthawk,” Preacher said. “Are you all right?”
“Umm,” Nighthawk said with a nod.
Preacher pouched his irons and then hunkered next to the fire to stir up the embers. He added wood to them, and within a few moments flames began dancing again and throwing a feeble glow across the campsite. It was bright enough for Preacher to get a better look at the bloodstain on the shoulder of Nighthawk’s shirt. He agreed that it didn’t appear too bad, although those gashes from the bear’s claws would need to be cleaned so they didn’t fester.
Dog went over and licked Nighthawk’s hand. The Crow’s usual impassive expression didn’t change, but he rubbed Dog’s head and scratched the cur’s ears. Dog’s swift and daring actions may well have saved the big warrior’s life.
Preacher realized that Audie hadn’t returned to camp with the babies. He would have expected Audie to reappear and check on his old friend before now. He turned and called into the woods, “You can come back and bring the young’uns, Audie. Ol’ Ephraim’s dead and won’t be botherin’ nobody else.”
Many of the mountain men referred to grizzly bears as “Old Ephraim.” Preacher didn’t know where the nickname came from, but he’d heard it ever since he had come west to the mountains more than thirty years earlier during the Shining Times. Audie would be aware of that, too, and know what Preacher was talking about.
Yet there was no response to Preacher’s call. His eyes narrowed as he listened intently. The night was quiet, all the birds and small animals having fled because of the roaring from the bear. None of them wanted anything to do with a grizzly. A hush hung over the landscape. If Apollo and Artemis had been crying, Preacher would have heard them.
“Where in blazes did Audie get off to with them little sprouts?” he said to Nighthawk.
The warrior just shook his head, clearly as puzzled as Preacher was.
“Dog, find Audie,” Preacher ordered. “Find Apollo and Artemis.”
Dog took off into the woods. Preacher said to Nighthawk, “We’ll take a look around, too. I’ll head this way”—he gestured—“and you see if you can find any sign of ’em over yonder.”
Nighthawk nodded and disappeared into the trees, moving opposite to the direction Dog had taken. Preacher went yet another way.
From time to time, he called Audie’s name. Worry was growing inside him. Audie was mighty good at taking care of himself, but his small stature meant that he would often be at a disadvantage. That was just a physical fact.
Not only that, but Audie had also had the two infants with him when he hurried away from the campsite. His goal had been to get them as far out of danger as possible, which Preacher certainly agreed with. But that meant that if he had run into any problems, he would have been saddled with taking care of the babies as well as dealing with whatever peril he had encountered.
Preacher had seen which way Audie went when he left the camp, but he could have changed course and be just about anywhere out here in the night.
“Audie, dadgum it, where are you?” Preacher said out loud.
He didn’t get an answer, but a moment later he heard something else that sent a pang of alarm through him.
“Preacher!” Nighthawk called in a voice that rumbled like thousands of tons of rock sliding down a mountainside.
Preacher turned and hurried through the woods, being careful despite his haste that he didn’t run into any tree trunks along the way. He made his way to where Nighthawk waited in less than a minute.
The huge warrior was on one knee. He had Audie propped against the upraised knee. The little man groaned and shook his head slowly.
“Audie, are you all right?” Preacher asked.
“I … I will be. Someone … hit me in the head and knocked me unconscious.”
Preacher felt a cold ball of fear in his belly. It was a very unaccustomed sensation for him, and he never would have experienced such a reaction on his own behalf.
Right now, though, he was afraid for someone else. Two someones, in fact.
“Where are the babies?” he asked.
Audie tried to sit up straighter, but Nighthawk’s big hand on his shoulder held him back.
“They’re around here somewhere,” Audie said. “They have to be!”
“You sit here and take it easy,” Preacher told him. “I’ll fetch a torch from the fire and have a look around.”
Despite his calm tone, uneasiness continued welling up inside him. He whistled for Dog as he hurried back to the campsite some thirty yards away. The big cur reached the clearing at the same time Preacher did.
“Find the babies, Dog,” the mountain man commanded. “Find Apollo and Artemis.”
He pointed in the direction where he had left Audie and Nighthawk to indicate where Dog should begin his search. As soon as Dog bounded off into the trees to pick up the trail, Preacher plucked a burning branch from the fire and quickly returned to the spot himself.
A circle of light spread from the makeshift torch as Preacher held it above his head. The flickering glare revealed the trickle of blood that had flowed down the side of Audie’s face from a cut on his head. He also had a swollen lump just below his hairline. Somebody had walloped him a good one.
“I tell you, they should be right here,” Audie insisted. A frantic note crept into his normally strong, confident voice. Preacher knew he was talking about Apollo and Artemis.
Preacher walked back and forth, examining the surrounding area in the light from the torch. He saw no sign of the infants.
As soon as he’d realized that Audie had been knocked out, he’d had a pretty good idea what happened. He was sure Audie did, too. Audie just hated to admit it.
But that reluctance wasn’t going to change anything. Audie sighed and said, “Somebody took them. Whoever struck me absconded with the babies. When he saw that I was unconscious, he took them, the unspeakable reprobate!”
“Could be he even figured you were dead,” Preacher pointed out. “Reckon you were lucky he didn’t cut your throat just to make sure, while he was at it.”
“Lucky,” Audie repeated with a hollow note in his voice now. “Yes, I suppose so.”
“You didn’t even catch a glimpse of who it was?”
Audie shook his head and then winced. The movement must have sent fresh bursts of pain through his battered skull.
“No, I heard just the briefest rustle in the brush, and then it was as if someone dropped a mountain on my head. I didn’t know anything after that until I regained consciousness. I moaned a bit, and then Nighthawk was here helping me to sit up.”
“Let’s get back to the campfire,” Preacher said.
“But the infants—”
“I put Dog on their trail. He’ll find ’em if anybody can. We need to take a better look at that head o’ yours, and Nighthawk’s got some little scratches that need patchin’ up, from that tangle he had with the grizz.”
“Good heavens, that’s right! What happened to the bear? Were you able to chase it off?”
“Before it was over, that ol’ bear must’ve wished he hadn’t come bargin’ into our camp like that. Nighthawk killed it. Stove its head in with his tomahawk.”
“That’s incredible! A herculean feat, to be sure.”
“I was just thinkin’ the same thing a while ago.”
Nighthawk rose to his feet, bringing Audie with him. Preacher knew Audie didn’t cotton to being toted like that, but there wasn’t much he could do about it. The Crow warrior carried Audie back to camp and set him down carefully near the fire.
Preacher tossed the burning branch back onto the flames and knelt beside Audie.
“Lemme take a look at that head.”
Audie jerked his hand in a curt gesture. “I’m fine,” he said. “See to Nighthawk’s injuries.”
“Umm,” the Crow said.
“You two can argue later about how the other one’s hurt worse,” Preacher told them. “Quit your fussin’, Audie, and let me take a look.”
The former professor’s injury was a simple one. From the looks of it, Preacher figured somebody had struck him with a gun butt. That had opened up a cut, raised a lump on Audie’s head, and knocked him cold. Preacher probed around the goose egg, but although it was painful, judging by the faces Audie made, Preacher didn’t think the skull was busted.
He told Audie as much, then added, “Good thing you got a nice, hard head.”
Nighthawk grunted in amusement.
“You never can tell, though,” Preacher went on. “I’ve knowed of fellas who got walloped like that, seemed to be all right, and then up an’ dropped dead a few days later without no warnin’. Try not to do that.”
“I’ll certainly endeavor not to drop dead,” Audie said.
Preacher had Nighthawk take off his buckskin shirt and then examined the deep claw marks left on the Crow’s shoulder by the bear attack. The wounds were already scabbing over, but Preacher fetched a bottle of whiskey from his saddlebags and soaked a cloth with the fiery stuff anyway. He cleaned off the partially dried blood and then poured whiskey directly on the wounds.
“Burns like blazes, don’t it?” Preacher said, even though Nighthawk acted as if he didn’t feel a thing.
“There’s no point in trying to get a response from him,” Audie said as Nighthawk pulled his bloodstained shirt back on. “Nighthawk is, perhaps, the most perfect example of stoicism I’ve ever encountered. His visage might as well be carved from solid granite.”
“The Great Stone Face, eh?” Preacher nodded. “Pretty good description of him.”
The next moment, some rustling in the brush made him turn sharply. Dog pushed through the branches into the open, came to a stop, and gazed intensely at the three men for a moment.
Then, with an emphatic bark, the big cur turned and ran back to the edge of the woods, where he stopped again and looked over his shoulder at them.
“He’s found ’em,” Preacher said. “He knows where Apollo and Artemis are.”
CHAPTER 9
They traveled on foot because they could do so without making as much noise as they would if they were mounted. Also, since they were moving through thick woods, it was easier on foot than on horseback.
Audie rode on Nighthawk’s shoulders so as not to slow them down as they followed Dog. Preacher had suggested that Audie remain at the campsite since he’d been knocked out and probably needed to rest, but the little man wasn’t having any of it.
“What I don’t understand,” Audie said as they followed Dog, “is what the connection could be between that bear and Mack Ozark.”
“Ain’t no connection, more than likely,” Preacher said. “The bear wasn’t workin’ for Ozark, if that’s what you’re thinkin’. That ol’ grizz just happened on us and decided he was mad at us. Mad enough to come stompin’ into our camp bent on raisin’ hell. Who knows how a bear thinks?”
“The attack was just an unfortunate coincidence, is that what you’re saying?”
“Seems to be the most likely explanation. Figure it this way. Some o’ Ozark’s men have been keepin’ an eye on us, probably sendin’ word back to Ozark his own self, wherever he’s holed up, lettin’ him know that we’re still headed in his direction. But then, they heard that bear a-bellerin’ and headed toward the camp to take a look, but then who do they run smack-dab into? You and the very young’uns the varmints are tryin’ to get their hands on. So one of ’em wallops you, and they grab the kids and take off for the tall and uncut.”
“How many, do you think?”
“Might have been just one hombre. More likely two or three, I’d say. But probably not the whole bunch or they would’ve tried to kill us—assumin’ the blamed bear didn’t. I’ve got a hunch Ozark’s gathered up most of his gang to wait for us, like you were sayin’ earlier.”
“Yes, I did say that, didn’t I?” Audie mused. “And I should have already grasped the scenario you just laid out, Preacher. In hindsight, it seems blindingly obvious.”
“Nothin’s obvious when you been walloped on the head. After somethin’ like that happens, thinkin’ through anything takes a heap more work for a spell. I ought to know. I’ve had this ol’ noggin o’ mine dented more times than I like to think about.”
Preacher was in the lead with Nighthawk and Audie close behind him. They kept their voices pitched low as they talked, although they weren’t really worried about getting close enough to their quarry to be overhead. Dog would warn them before that could happen.
Preacher was using his instincts and his keen senses to follow the big cur as it led them on the trail of the stolen babies. They had left the horses back at the campsite, about a mile behind them.
Dog doubled back and nudged Preacher’s leg. That told the mountain man they were getting close to their destination. He put out a hand to stop Nighthawk. In a voice barely above a whisper, he said, “You fellas stay here. I’ll scout ahead a mite.”
With Dog still leading the way, Preacher moved through the trees as noiselessly as a phantom. His ability to travel through a forest without making a sound was uncanny. There was a very good reason why, among his mortal enemies the Blackfeet, he was known as the Ghost Killer. He had sent many of their warriors across the divide without them having any idea he was even in the vicinity.
A few minutes later, Dog stopped next to Preacher’s leg and whined softly. Preacher sniffed the air and dropped to a knee beside the big cur.
“Yeah, I smell it, too,” he whispered. “Woodsmoke. Somebody’s got ’em a campfire up yonder. They must be mighty confident nobody’s gonna find ’em. If I’d stolen somethin’ important like those young’uns, I reckon I would’ve made a cold camp tonight, just to be on the safe side.” He leaned closer to Dog. “Let’s go, old son. Slow an’ easy now.”
