Read Preacher's Journey Online
Authors: William W. Johnstone
Preacher's Journey (11 page)
“John,” Roger repeated softly, looking down at his son.
“John Edward Galloway,” Angela said, “this is your father.”
And as she saw the way Roger looked at the baby, she thought again of her own children, lost in the wilderness, perhaps by now even . . .
No. She would not allow herself to even think it. Preacher was out there looking for them.
Preacher would bring her children home.
SEVENTEEN
Nate threw a terrified glance over his shoulder as he tugged Mary and Brad along with him. The Indian was still chasing them, waving that tomahawk around and looking like he wanted to scalp all three of them. Nate knew they couldn't fight him. The Indian was too big and too strong, and he looked more frightening than anything Nate had ever seen, with those bones sticking up in his hair like he had grown them himself and was some sort of devil.
Deep down, Nate knew they couldn't outrun the Indian either. But they had to try. They couldn't just stop and wait for him to catch up and kill them.
There wasn't even time to think about what Preacher would do. There wasn't time for anything except sheer, panicked flight.
The kids had stopped screaming. They didn't have enough breath for that anymore. All of them were panting in the cold air, their breath visible in plumes and streamers around their heads. Nate saw a tree-covered slope in front of them and headed for it. Maybe they could throw off the Indian if they got in the trees. Maybe they could hide from him.
Those were forlorn hopes, Nate knew, but right now, any hope was better than none.
The Indian was so close when they reached the hill and started up it that Nate could hear him huffing and blowing. Nate hoped he wouldn't run into a tree or dash his brains out on a low-hanging limb. It would be all right, though, if something like that happened to the Indian.
“Nate!” Brad suddenly shrieked. “He's got me!”
Nate felt the tug as Brad was pulled away from him and Mary. He tried to stop and turn around, but he stumbled and fell instead, letting go of Mary's hand as he went down. She screamed too. Nate rolled over and saw that the Indian had hold of Brad by the neck with his free hand. The other hand swung the tomahawk at Mary's head. She dropped underneath the swing as the lethal weapon went over her head. It was more by accident than design, though. She tried to scramble away on her hands and knees, but the Indian planted a moccasined foot in the middle of her back and shoved her to the ground, pinning her there. He picked up Brad by the neck so that his feet swung and kicked in midair.
Nate knew Brad would choke to death if the Indian held him like that for very long. He scooted a little closer, moving as fast as he could, and lifted his leg in a kick, driving the heel of his boot between the Indian's legs. The Indian howled in pain, dropped Brad, and forgot all about scalping them or bashing their heads in with his tomahawk. He doubled over in agony, clutching himself.
Nate scrambled up, grabbed his cousins, and hauled them to their feet. He started climbing again, heading higher on the hill. When he looked back, he saw that the Indian was stumbling after them, although he was still bent over and wasn't moving very fast now.
For the first time, Nate dared to really hope that they might get away.
Of course, there might be other Indians around nearby. Where there was one savage, there might be more. But he couldn't worry about that now. They had to get away from this Indian first.
A strong, red hand shot out from some bushes and clasped itself around Nate's arm. He gasped in pain and surprise as the cruel grip tightened even more and swung him off the ground. Without him to pull them along, Mary and Brad tumbled off their feet.
Nate found himself staring into the face of another Indian. This one was even bigger and uglier than the one who had been chasing them. To Nate's surprise, the Indian said something in English, disgustedly spitting out the word “Children!”
Even more shocking, a vaguely familiar voice answered in English. “That's right, Chief, children. But they come from the wagon train you're after. I recognize the little brats.”
Nate turned his head and stared in horror at the face of the man called Hawley. He looked the same as he had the last time Nate had seen him, with that bristly, ginger-colored beard. Only his eyes were different now. Last time, Hawley had been scared of Preacher, and it showed.
Now the man leered at Nate and his cousins with an expression of pure evil, and although Nate wouldn't have thought it was possible, he discovered that he was even more frightened of this white man than he was of the Indians.
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This was a mighty fine stroke of luck, Hawley thought as he looked at the kid squirming in Swift Arrow's grasp. Swift Arrow and the rest of the war party, along with the now-freed Hawley, had followed the scouts sent out earlier by the war chief. Hawley planned on leading them to a spot where they could pick up the trail of the wagon train. But now, lo and behold, the three pesky young'uns from the immigrant party had been chased right into their laps by one of the scouts.
That redskin came trotting up, moving carefully and hunched over a little like he was hurt. Swift Arrow spoke sharply to him, and Hawley caught something about “making war on children.” The other Injun argued backârespectfully, since Swift Arrow was the chiefâand his main point was that when had the whites ever hesitated about making war on Injun children. Swift Arrow couldn't dispute that at times, redskinned little ones had died in fights with white men. Even more often, previously unknown sicknesses brought to this land by the whites had killed many more, striking indiscriminately at men, women, and children. Sometimes, shameful though it was to contemplate, white folks had infected the Injuns a-purpose, in hopes of wiping them out.
Hawley thought that actually wasn't that such a bad idea, only it hadn't worked well enough, at least not yet. Right now, though, he didn't want the Injuns wiped out. Unexpected as it might be, the savages were now his allies.
“Swift Arrow,” he said, “you better hang on to them kids.”
The war chief turned to him. “What good children?”
Hawley licked his lips and said, “Bait. I'll bet you anything Preacher's out lookin' for them sprouts right now. You keep the kids, and they'll bring Preacher right to you. You can kill him, and then you won't have near as much trouble killin' the other folks when you catch up to the wagons.”
“No!” That was the oldest boy yelling at him. “No, you can't hurt Preacher!”
Swift Arrow still had hold of his arm. He shook him until the boy cried out in pain.
“Boy be quiet,” Swift Arrow ordered. He looked down at the other two kids, who were huddled on the ground sobbing in fear. “All be quiet!”
Hawley hunkered so that he could speak directly to the younger kids. “You two best be quiet, or the chief'll scalp you. You hear me?”
Biting back whimpers of pain, the older boy said, “Mary, Brad, hush now. It's going to be all right.”
Hawley knew better, but he didn't say as much. Instead, he put a false note of cheer in his voice and told them, “That's right. Ain't nothin' bad gonna happen to you kids. You just settle down and stop cryin', and nobody will hurt you.”
The little girl sniffled and looked up at him. “You . . . You promise, mister?”
“Sure,” Hawley lied. “Hell, I'm a white man, ain't I? You can trust me. I'll look after you.”
Swift Arrow dropped the older boy, who fell beside the other two. He clutched his arm and whimpered, and Hawley wondered briefly if Swift Arrow had pulled the arm right out of its joint. Not that he really cared.
“You keep children,” Swift Arrow said. “We use to trap Preacher.”
Hawley nodded. “Damn right.”
And once Preacher was dead, they wouldn't have any more use for these sniveling little kids.
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Jonathan and Geoffrey kept up better than Preacher expected after this long a time. The men were moving on very little rest and even less food, but they kept going somehow. Preacher supposed it was because they loved those kids.
He found himself wondering if he would ever have any kids of his own. If things had been different for him and Jennie, then maybe . . .
But no, it didn't do any good to think about that. Maybe one of these days, when he was older and more settled down, he would meet another woman . . . somebody like Angela Galloway maybe . . . but not Angela, of course, since she already had a husband and kids . . .
Older and more settled down, Preacher thought again. As if that was likely to ever happen.
All those thoughts vanished in an instant from his head as he saw the sun strike a momentary reflection off something on the hill that was their destination. In the blink of an eye, he was once again focused on the chore at hand. The reflection was there and then gone, but it had been enough to tell him that somebody was up there on the hill. He put out a hand to stop Geoffrey and Jonathan.
“Those kids carryin' anything metal on them?” Preacher asked.
“Metal?” Jonathan repeated. “You mean like a knife or a gun?”
“Anything the sun might strike a glint off of.”
Geoffrey said, “Nate has a folding knife. And Mary probably has some little geegaws that might shine in the sun. Did you see something, Preacher?”
“The sun flashed on something up yonder on the hill. Don't know what it was, but it couldn't have been anything natural.”
“You said they might go up there,” Jonathan said excitedly. “Could they have gotten there ahead of us?”
“Sure, anything's possible,” Preacher allowed. “They could've moved a mite faster than I expected.”
“Well, let's go get them! Do you think if we shouted their names, they could hear us from here?” Jonathan lifted his hands and got ready to cup them around his mouth.
Preacher made a sharp, slashing motion. “Don't go to hollerin', damn it! We don't know if it's them, and even if it is, we don't know if they're alone.”
“Who else could it be?” Geoffrey asked.
“What about that Arikara war party?”
The two older men exchanged a glance that Preacher couldn't read. “I thought you weren't sure there even
was
a war party,” Jonathan said.
was
a war party,” Jonathan said.
“Didn't you say those Indians who attacked us were probably renegades?” Geoffrey put in.
“I said they might be. My gut tells me that ain't the whole story, though. I think there's more o' those 'Rees, and I think they're after you folks for a reason.”
“That's crazy!” Geoffrey insisted. “We never saw those Indians before.”
“What about Indians like them?”
Both men shook their heads. “No, of course not,” Jonathan said.
Preacher's uneasy instincts warned him the men might be lying. He was convinced they were. And yet he knew that getting to the bottom of it would have to wait. First they needed to find those kids. Preacher hoped they weren't in too much trouble.
“Let's go,” he said. “Watch me, and try not to make too much noise.”
He set out with the older men trailing him. An occasional glance over his shoulder told him that they were trying their best to imitate him as he moved soundlessly through the woods toward the knoll. They made a little racket, but not too much. Preacher thought again that with time, they might turn into decent frontiersmen.
He just wished they would tell him the damn truth about any grudge that the Arikara might have against them.
They came to a gully that ran all the way to the base of the hill. Preacher motioned them into it and then led the way closer. When they reached the bottom of the hill, he raised a hand to call a halt. He listened intently, hoping to hear childish voices drifting down the slope.
Instead, he heard the faint whisper of stealthy footsteps, followed by something alarming: a whimpering sound that might easily be a young child crying. Preacher glanced at Geoffrey and Jonathan and saw that they had heard it as well. Their eyes were wide, and he could tell they were both ready to blurt out questions. He stopped them with another curt gesture and a finger held to his lips. He motioned for them to lie down at the edge of the gully behind some brush. Preacher stretched out beside them and parted the branches a tiny bit so that he could peer through them.
In a matter of moments he saw a sight that would haunt him for all his borned days. A dozen or more Arikara warriors strode quietly through the woods. Behind them came a familiar buckskin-clad figure: Mart Hawley. Hawley had hold of Mary and Brad by the arms and jerked them along roughly. Nate was with them too, being tugged along by one of the Indians. The kids looked scared to death, as well they might be. They were in the hands of a war party that obviously had a grudge against their folks, and even worse, a white man who had evidently turned renegade and thrown in his lot with the Arikara.
The job of fetching those kids back to the wagons had just gotten a hell of a lot harder.
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