Lame Bear appeared to be considering the proposal. After a moment, he said, “Show me.”
That was the beginning of a long, tense negotiation that lasted over an hour. The Indians had them outnumbered two to one, and everybody in the wagon train knew it. Impending violence was thick in the air.
Lame Buffalo had to look in every wagon and decide what he wanted. Every time he made a demand, Preacher made a counteroffer. Finally, they reached an accord. In return for the sugar, the cloth, some salt, a couple women’s hats with bright-colored feathers, and a bag of nails—Preacher had no idea what the Comanches intended to do with those, but he had a brief moment of hesitation when he guessed it might have to do with torturing prisoners—the Comanches agreed not to kill them all and burn their wagons. It seemed like a fair enough deal to Preacher.
Lame Buffalo waved some of his men over to gather up the spoils. The warriors took the goods and galloped back to rejoin the others. Lame Buffalo said, “One more thing, and then you can pass.”
“What’s that?” Preacher asked. He suddenly had a very bad feeling.
Lame Buffalo nudged his horse over next to Casey’s and reached out to grab her arm. “The yellow-haired woman goes with me, too!” he shouted.
Casey let out a frightened cry. Preacher knew Lame Buffalo didn’t really mean it. The Comanche was just playing with them, in the sometimes cruel fashion of his people. Preacher opened his mouth to tell Lame Buffalo he couldn’t have her, figuring the man would demand one more piece of tribute since he had been denied his latest demand. It was one more way of establishing his dominance.
But Roland Bartlett didn’t know that, and Preacher didn’t have time to tell him. The young man yelled, “Take your hands off her, you filthy savage!”
Roland jerked his pistol from his belt, and despite Preacher’s warning shout, he whipped the gun up, cocking it as he did so, and pulled the trigger. Smoke plumed from the muzzle as the pistol boomed.
Lame Buffalo jerked to the side but managed to stay on his pony. Eyes wide with pain and shock, he looked down at his bare chest, where blood welled from the black-rimmed hole made by the pistol ball. He swayed for a second, then toppled from his mount.
The fragile truce that had existed a second earlier was blown to hell, just like Lame Buffalo.
CHAPTER 15
Preacher knew the rest of the Comanches would be startled by what had happened to Lame Buffalo, and it would be a second before they reacted. He used that second to cut down the odds a little more by yanking his rifle from its sheath and snapping it to his shoulder. He fired without aiming, letting instinct guide his shot, and one of the warriors in the trail let out a cry and pitched off his pony to fall in a limp heap.
“Everybody in the wagons!” Preacher bellowed. “In the wagons now!”
The sideboards of the vehicles would stop an arrow and would probably stop a bullet. The thick canvas covers over the wagon beds might stop one of the feathered missiles. They would be better off fighting from inside, rather than underneath.
Preacher slapped Horse on the rump. The stallion took off at a dead run, with Dog following him. Preacher knew he didn’t have to worry about the Comanches catching his trail partners. They were faster than the Indian ponies and wouldn’t let them get close enough to shoot them with arrows. They wouldn’t return to the wagons until Preacher summoned them.
Preacher reloaded the flintlock as the Comanches
One of the warriors charged, his lance leveled to pin Preacher to the wagon behind him. He finished priming the rifle, lifted it to his shoulder, centered the sight on the Indian’s chest, and pulled the trigger. The Comanche was only a few yards away, and he went flying backward off the pony as the ball from Preacher’s rifle smashed into his chest like a giant sledgehammer. The lance slipped from the fingers of an outflung hand and skittered across the ground at Preacher’s feet.
He snatched it up and thrust it into the side of another warrior who had gotten too close. The man screeched in pain as the lance’s sharp tip pierced his vitals. Even as he was dying, he swung his bow toward Preacher and tried to loose an arrow, but the mountain man knocked the bow aside with the barrel of his rifle.
Preacher slid under the wagon as arrows thudded into the sideboards and bounced off the wheels. He rolled all the way to the other side and came out with pistols in both hands. The weapons roared and spat flame and smoke, and two more of the Comanches went down.
“Preacher!” Lorenzo yelled from the rear of the wagon. “Preacher, get in here, you crazy fool!”
Lorenzo had a point. With his guns empty, Preacher was in a bad spot. But he wasn’t defenseless. As long as he drew breath, the man called Preacher wouldn’t be defenseless.
He jammed the guns behind his belt, ripped his knife from its sheath, and dodged the thrust of a lance. Grabbing the shaft of the Comanche weapon, he dragged its owner off his pony. As the man fell, Preacher thrust up with the knife to meet him. The blade went deep in the warrior’s body. Preacher pulled the knife loose and shoved the dying man away.
An arrow whipped past his ear. He turned and leaped for the wagon’s tailgate. Lorenzo waited there to grab him and pull him in. The old-timer caught Preacher’s wrist and hauled him through the opening.
Preacher sprawled on top of some crates. Lorenzo asked, “Are you all right?”
“Yeah!”
“We’re in one hell of a mess, ain’t we?”
“Reckon we’ll just have to fight our way out of it,” Preacher said.
Guns boomed all along the line of wagons. The defenders were outnumbered, but their firepower helped offset that disadvantage. Preacher reloaded his pistols, and winced as an arrowhead ripped through the canvas near his
