Absaroka Ambush (12 page)

“I'm very afraid you are going to be correct,” Rupert said, his tone quite dry. “Although the subject matter might be a bit suspect.”

“The Army's liable to make you one of them highfalutin' generals after all this is over, Rupert.”

“What I'll probably get is a courts-martial,” Rupert muttered.

“Cheer up, Rupert,” Eudora called. “You can always transfer over to the navy.... After the army lets you out of jail.”

“Just like I figured,” Preacher muttered. He had left the others well-hidden about two miles south while he headed for the Platte. “Stayin' right on the trail.” He had not been too worried about Bedell putting outriders very far from the wagons. With the supplies on hand, they really didn't have to hunt, except occasionally, when they wanted a taste of fresh meat.

Preacher waited until the last wagon had passed, then he hightailed it back to the others. “Let's go, people. This time tomorrow, we'll have spilled some of their blood . . . for a change,” he added, a grim note to the words.

The party took off, heading west for some ten miles, then cutting straight north. They reached the Platte River—which would later be dubbed as 'too thick to drink and too thin to plow' by the westward bound flow of settlers—and Preacher selected his ambush site.

He fixed a small fire out of dry, virtually smokeless wood, and venison steaks, but from a deer that Preacher had killed with an arrow that day, were soon cooking.

Rupert watched Preacher carefully going over his arrows. “What in the world are you doing?”

“I got to make the first shot count, boy. I can't let him or her scream. Gurgle or moan is all right, but screamin' is definitely out.”

“Where do you plan on shooting the person?”

“Right through the throat. All they can do is moan soft and gurgle some.”

Rupert swallowed hard at just the thought.

“Or,” Preacher said, “I might take a chance and get on the wagon through the rear and cut his throat. Or her throat. Whatever. I'll just have to see what it looks like. Them steaks is done. Let's eat.”

Preacher had dug up some tubers and wild onions and with the meat, he considered the meal quite a feast. Most of the others were less than exhilarated over the meal but ate it down without complaint.

“I have seen tubers that weighed as much as thirty pounds,” Preacher said. “That'd feed us all for a week, wouldn't it?”

“A thirty pound potato?” Rupert asked. “Now, come on, Preacher!”

“Oh, it's true. Injuns call the tater from the wild: tater vine man of the earth. Staple food for lots of tribes.” Preacher dug in his bag and handed them all what looked like thin dried roots. “After supper, chew some of these. They're right good.”

“What is it?” Faith eyed the stuff suspiciously.

“Wild licorice. Injuns been dryin' it and chewin' it for centuries. That's where I learned about it. The earth is always pregnant, people. Always. Even under cover of snow, something is growin'. The earth will feed you, if you'll learn from it and use it proper. In this area where we are, stretching way down into Mexico, is a tuber called hog potatoes. They ain't the tastiest things I ever put in my mouth, but they'll keep you alive. They's all kinds of eatable things all around us. They's wild cabbages, squashes, and punkins. Injuns use the goosefoot herb in several ways. They can cook it up like greens and grind the seeds into a flour. In the deserts, the Injuns use the pulp of the cholla cactus to make candy and syrup. Hell, I could talk half the night on things to eat that's growin' wild right out yonder.” He jerked his thumb. “I've eat my weight in pond lily roots and dried 'em and made tasty flour.” He smiled and winked. “But you got to know
which
pond lily. That there's the trick. They's all kinds of plants that'll kill you deader than hell if you eat 'em raw, but cook 'em up, and they're lip-smackin' good. And some of them will kill you deader than hell raw or cooked. Lemmie tell y'all something about the wilderness. It ain't agin you. It really ain't. The wilderness is neutral. But if you try to fight it, it'll kill you. You got to learn to live with it. Now go to sleep. We got some killin' to do come tomorrow.”

 

 

The ambush site was in the eastern bend of a long curve. It was a rocky section of the trail, and the going was tortuously slow. Preacher figured the stock would be driven on ahead and he had figured right, because that's what he would have done. The man who was driving the last wagon was a hard-faced, sour-looking man, whose face bore several deep scratches. He'd had his way with some woman, but she had damn sure marked him up good 'fore he got her britches off.

Preacher'd left Rupert to guard the women, telling him that he was needed there, and telling him that he was really depending on him. And that he was taking Eudora in case some of the women in the wagon wasn't in proper dress and needed a woman's touch.

Rupert bought it. He was really a good lad; Preacher just needed someone with him who would not hesitate to cut a throat if need be. And he knew that Eudora would not hesitate one second.

“You can be diplomatic when you try, Captain,” the tall handsome woman whispered to Preacher as they crouched in the thicket along the river. “That was kind of you to soothe Rupert's feelings at being left with the women. Even though I know it was a crock of stinking fish.”

Preacher grinned at the woman. They were only a few yards from the trail, if spotted it would almost certainly mean instant death, and the lady could still make small talk as if nothing was wrong. “Just as soon as I let the arrow fly, I'm out of here and on the wagon seat, Eudora. When I signal, you come hoppin'. I figure we got three to four minutes at the most to get it done. We take supplies and any prisoners that might be ridin' in the wagon bed. They got to think it's Injuns. You ready?”

“As I'll ever be.”

When the next to last wagon had rounded the bend and was out of sight, Preacher stood up and let his arrow fly. It was true to the mark. The driver threw up his hands and toppled backward into the covered bed of the wagon. No sound came from the bed, so Preacher figured there were no prisoners there. He leaped from the brush and hopped onto the seat, grabbing up the reins and stopping the wagon. The dying outlaw thrashed and jerked on the floor of the wagon. Preacher paid him no mind. Eudora quickly gathered up sugar, flour, beans, and bacon, while Preacher picked up blankets and coffee and as many other items as he felt he could carry. The outlaw's horse was tied to the rear and Preacher took the animal, after quickly lashing the supplies to the saddle and behind it. Then he and Eudora were gone, racing back to their hidden horses.

Preacher did not expect any pursuit, and none came. Bedell was too smart to send men into what might be an Indian ambush. Long after the wagons were out of sight, Preacher and Rupert rode back to the ambush site. The wagon had been abandoned, but the mules had been taken. It looked like Bedell didn't have any spare drivers. Preacher grinned at that. The bastard was going to have less drivers come the dawnin'.

“Take the canvas, Rupert,” he told the young officer, “and the rope. I'll see what they left in the bed.”

“What about him?” Rupert asked, pointing to the dead man hanging half out of the tail of the wagon.

“That ought to tell you what kind of people we're dealin' with. They didn't even take the time to bury him. Sorry bunch of bastards. Leave him.”

“But ...”

“Shut up, Rupert. Do what I tell you to do. I warned you about arguin' with me.”

Rupert closed his mouth and turned his head as Preacher carefully removed his arrow from the dead man's neck. “It's a good arrow,” he said.

Bedell's people had not even bothered to inspect what contents remained in the bed of the wagon. Much of it was useful to Preacher and his small group. Preacher took the dead man's pistols to give to the ladies, and fine pistols they was, too. He started to take the dead man's hat, for it was a good one, until he saw lice crawlin'. He decided to forego the hat.

“I still think we should bury the poor wretch,” Rupert tried again.

“Stop thinkin', Rupert. I'll tell you when to think. Let's get gone.”

 

 

Bedell didn't believe for one second that Indians had been responsible for the ambush of the wagon. The handsome, well-dressed man sat drinking coffee and staring morosely into the dying flames of the fire. The sounds of weeping women were all around him as the outlaws continued their raping and defiling, but Bedell paid no attention to it.

The man who ambushed the wagon, and it was one man, Bedell was sure of that, was Preacher. His men had said that they'd seen Preacher take at least two balls into him days back, one of them to the head. The wounds must have been slight, Bedell concluded. But no matter. Preacher would be dealt with in due time. He had more men waiting to join up with the group when the wagons cut north some days ahead. They would more than make up for the men Preacher had killed thus far.

But Preacher was still the fly in the ointment. He had to be killed, and so did those who were with him.

Damn the luck! Bedell thought. Faith Crump had gotten away and that was the card Bedell had counted on to play. Old Man Crump would have paid a fortune to get his daughter back. With that money, plus the money the gold brought—and the gold was there, all right, Bedell knew that—he could live like a king for the rest of his life.

Damn Preacher's eyes! Bedell thought. Goddamn the man to hell! When the wagons linked up with the men from California, Bedell would assign all the new men to kill Preacher and grab Faith Crump. It had to be. It was the only way. He had already promised the women to some of the men, and they would be taken to California and sold into brothels . . .

“Oh, God, no more!” a woman pleaded with an outlaw. “Please, God, no!” Her pleadings ended with a scream of pain and several other women laughed in the night.

Bedell paid no attention to it. Neither did one of the guards stationed around the protective circle. He couldn't because he was dead, his throat cut from one side to the other. Preacher had then lashed him to a wagon wheel so's he'd look like he was standing up, and then made his way to the horses. He moved quietly, whispering to the animals and petting them. Preacher had a way with horses, and none of them so much as blew. He led several away from the wagons and picketed them. Then he returned to the wagons.

He passed up several wagons, for the outlaws were busying themselves with the ladies in them, until he came to a wagon that was silent. He peeped in. Gayle Hawkins, Brigitte Wilson, and Bertha Macklin were all trussed up like hogs, with gags in their mouths. Preacher slipped into the darkened wagon.

“Don't make a sound, ladies,” he whispered. “Not one sound or we're all dead.”

The women, wide-eyed in shock, surprise, and relief, nodded their heads in understanding. Even in the darkened bed of the wagon, Preacher could see that the women had been savagely beaten. They were all naked and had been used badly. Preacher cursed silently at the brutality of the outlaws and tried to keep his eyes from the bareness of breasts and the whiteness of bruised thighs. He slashed the ropes and the woman quickly slipped into britches and shirts and boots.

“One at a time, gals,” Preacher whispered. “It gets real chancy from here on. Follow me and don't trip on nothin'. Don't make a sound.”

They almost made it without incident. They had just reached the horses when a guard found the dead man and sounded the alarm. The camp was instantly alert.

“Ride!” Preacher told the women. “Ride like the devil and his demons is after you.”

“They are,” Brigitte said bitterly, and bit her lips against the pain as she settled into the saddle.

Shots were fired from the circle, but Bedell would not allow pursuit.

“No!” Bedell shouted the camp into silence. “We stay right where we are for the night and we'll mount a party come the dawn. Blundering around in the dark, in unfamiliar country will just get more of our people killed. Stand down for the night, but double the guards.”

After a moment of hugging and rejoicing among the women, Preacher put a halt to it. “Pack it up and let's get gone. Bedell will have men out come the mornin' lookin' for us. We'll swing wide around the wagons, then follow the river for a time.”

“For how long a time?” Gayle asked, fatigue in her voice.

“Till I say we stop. Let's go.”

Preacher pushed the tired group hard for several hours. Then he let them sleep for a few hours, and then rolled them out and pushed them hard for several more hours. Just at dawn, he finally allowed them to stop and make camp.

“Fix something to eat and get some rest,” Preacher told the exhausted group. “I'll stand first watch and then wake you up, Rupert. It's not only Bedell and his people we got to look out for, it's the Injuns as well. We been real lucky so far. But the further west we travel, the more likely that is to change . . . at any moment. Eat and rest.”

Preacher let them rest for four hours. A slight noise made him quickly turn around. Eudora was up and pouring a cup of hot black coffee. “Get some rest, Captain,” she told him, picking up her rifle. “I'll stand the next watch.”

Preacher smiled at her and nodded. So complete was his trust in the New Englander, that he went right off to sleep and didn't wake up until the middle of the afternoon.

He opened his eyes and without moving, looked around him as much as he could while lying on his side. Rupert was on guard, and keeping a low profile of it. Madeline was cooking, the small fire built under branches to break up the smoke and she was using wood that was nearly smokeless. It hadn't taken these women long to learn. Eudora was sitting with her back to a large rock, a rifle across her knees. Preacher had the thought that Eudora would be one hell of a fine wife . . . as long as her man stayed true to her. But God help him if he ever strayed.

Preacher stirred and Eudora cut her eyes to him. “All quiet as far as we can see, Captain.”