head. He saw several arrows sticking through the canvas whose shafts had not penetrated into the wagon.
Lorenzo took his rifle and clambered over the freight to the front of the wagon. His rifle blasted. “Got one of ’em,” he shouted.
Preacher leaned out through the opening at the rear and blew away two more Comanches. One of them had an old blunderbuss in his hands. The ancient weapon discharged as he fell, blowing a hole through the wagon’s canvas cover.
Preacher ducked back inside to reload again. “Did you see Roland throw Casey into the lead wagon?” he called over the roar of gunfire and the shrill cries of the Comanches.
“I ain’t sure, but I think so,” the old-timer replied. “That boy sure played hob, didn’t he?”
“We’ll talk about that later,” Preacher said.
Screeching unnervingly, the face of one of the Indians suddenly appeared in the gap at the back of the wagon. The warrior thrust the lance in his hand at Preacher, who twisted aside, reversed one of the pistols, and smashed the butt into the center of the warrior’s face. Blood spurted and bone crunched under the impact. The Indian fell backward, either dead or out cold.
Coolly, Preacher went back to reloading. Just as he had the pistols ready to go again, Lorenzo let out an excited whoop.
“They’re leavin’!” he shouted triumphantly. “They’re givin’ up, Preacher.”
Preacher crowded up beside him to look out. The Comanches were galloping off, twisting around on their ponies to throw a few last arrows and derisive cries toward the wagons.
“Leavin’, maybe,” Preacher said with a grim note in his voice. “But givin’ up . . . I don’t think so.”
The caravan’s defenders had done quite a bit of damage to the Indians. A number of bodies were sprawled on the ground around the wagons. But even so, the Comanches still outnumbered their enemies. And they wouldn’t likely abandon their efforts to avenge Lame Buffalo’s death.
Preacher went to the back of the wagon, climbed over the tailgate, and dropped to the ground. He kept a close eye on the bodies as he hurried to the lead wagon. It was possible some of those warriors weren’t dead. They might regain consciousness and try to carry on the fight. It was even possible some of them were shamming, in hopes of luring the white men into the open. If any of the varmints tried to rear up and shoot an arrow into him, Preacher was going to be ready.
When he reached the lead wagon, he called, “Casey! You all right in there?”
She stuck her head out through the rear opening in the canvas cover. “Preacher, thank God! Are you hurt?”
He shook his head. “Nary a scratch so far.”
“I’m all right, too, and so is Roland.”
Preacher hadn’t asked about the youngster, but he supposed he was glad Roland wasn’t hurt. If not for his impulsive action, though, they might have gotten through the confrontation without any violence.
Lorenzo came up beside Preacher. “What do you need me to do?”
“Go up and down the wagons and find out how everybody’s doin’,” Preacher told him. “See if we’ve got any dead or injured. Wounded men will need to be patched up while the Comanch’ are off lickin’ their own wounds and figurin’ out what to do next.”
Leeman Bartlett had emerged from the wagon where he had taken cover. He joined the small group beside the lead wagon and suggested, “Perhaps we should make a run for it.”
“That might work if we were all on horseback,” Preacher said. “With a bunch of oxen pullin’ heavy wagons, there ain’t no way in hell we’re outrunnin’ anybody, let alone those Injun ponies.” Preacher looked around. “Let’s see if we can get the wagons pulled over to the side of the trail and form ’em into a circle.”
Roland jumped down from the lead wagon. “I’ll spread the word,” he volunteered.
Preacher nodded curtly. Roland had gotten them into that mess, so it was fitting he try to help get them out of it.
For a fleeting second, Preacher debated the wisdom of trying to call a parley with the Indians. If he offered to turn Roland over to them, they might agree to let the rest of the party go. He was the one who had killed Lame Buffalo and started the fight, after all.
But as quickly as the idea came into Preacher’s head, he discarded it. He couldn’t do that, and he knew it. For one thing, Casey would likely never forgive him for it, and for another, Lame Buffalo was partially responsible for what had happened, too. If he hadn’t been such an arrogant horse’s rear end and grabbed Casey like he did, Roland wouldn’t have had any reason to shoot him.
Still carrying his pistols, Preacher walked from body to body, checking to make sure they were dead. Eight of the Comanches were lying on the ground, including Lame Buffalo, and all of them had crossed the divide.
Whips popped and bullwhackers shouted curses as they got their teams moving again. The wagons lurched forward. Preacher kept an eye on the area where the Indians had disappeared, and tried to look in every direction at once. He didn’t think the respite would last very long.
Bartlett came up to Preacher. “Our horses are gone!”
“I ain’t surprised,” the mountain man said with a nod. “The Comanch’ grabbed ’em.”
“How do we get them back?”
“More than likely, you don’t. You’ll have to walk or ride the wagons. Maybe a few of ’em followed my stallion. I ran him off when the attack started. He’ll be back, and with some luck, he might have a couple of your saddle mounts with him.”
“This is terrible,” Bartlett complained. “Just terrible.”
