Preacher's Assault

“Well . . . it was alive the last time we saw it, but as bad hurt as it was, it’s bound to be dead by now.”

“But you’re not sure?” Roland persisted.

Preacher shrugged. “I wish I was.”

He knew logically that the bear couldn’t have survived for much longer after their encounter earlier that day . . . but he had thought that on other occasions, too, he reminded himself.

Ghost bear. Spirit bear. The words forced themselves into his brain. He shoved them right back out. The bear was flesh and blood. He had felt it, smelled it, wrestled with it. Like everything else flesh and blood, it could be killed.

But he had to admit, that particular bear had been damned stubborn about dying.

“I hope Casey’s all right,” Roland said. “I . . . I hate to think about what might be happening—”

“Then don’t,” Preacher said. “Think about what we’re gonna do when we catch up to that bunch.”

“What are we going to do? We can’t just burst into their camp and start shooting. Casey might get hurt, and besides, they outnumber us, like I said before.”

“I plan to do somethin’ about that.”

“What can one man do?”

Preacher smiled in the darkness. “I’ve slipped into and back out of more than one Injun camp, and take my word for it, the Blackfeet and the Sioux and the Comanch’ are a hell of a lot harder to sneak around than those outlaws will be. I plan to find out just where Casey is—maybe even get her out of there before the shootin’ starts.”

“That would be wonderful,” Roland said. “She’s already been through enough in her life.”

“Told you about her life, did she?”

“She told me enough,” Roland snapped. “I don’t care about her past, if that’s what you’re talking about, Preacher. It’s a closed book as far as I’m concerned.”

“That’s a good idea,” Preacher said with a curt nod. “I’d keep it that way, if I was you.”

They dropped the subject of Casey, which was just fine with Preacher. He didn’t know how much of the truth she had told Roland about her past, and he didn’t care. That was between the two of them.

Preacher called a halt as the moon rose to let the men and horses rest for a few minutes. Later, around midnight, he estimated, they stopped again. The moon and stars wheeled through their courses in the sky as the party trudged on. Preacher could sense the exhaustion in the men.

Finally, he held up a hand and called softly, “Hold on. We’ll wait here a bit.”

“Don’t we need to keep going?” Roland asked. “Casey’s still up there somewhere. They can’t be too far ahead of us now.”

Preacher nodded. “That’s what I want to find out. You fellas stay here. I’m goin’ ahead to take a look around.” He added, “Don’t budge from this spot until I get back.”

“We won’t,” Roland snapped defensively. He knew their failure to do that at the springs had contributed heavily to the disaster that had befallen them.

Taking Dog with him but leaving the stallion behind, Preacher disappeared into the night.

CHAPTER 20

Time and experience and some good teachers among the Crow and other friendly tribes had given Preacher the ability to move with almost complete silence when he wanted to. He used that ability in the wee hours of the morning since midnight was long past. It was the best time to slip into an enemy camp, when sleep lay heavily on most of them.

Garity and his men were confident of their ability to protect themselves, so they had built a good-sized campfire when they stopped for the night. Preacher spotted the glowing embers of it when he was still several hundred yards away. When his keen eyes saw the orange coals, he stopped to size up the situation.

Now that he knew where to look, he could see the light-colored canvas covers of the wagons. The vehicles had been pulled off the trail a short distance and arranged in a circle. Garity knew enough to do that, anyway.

Preacher moved closer. When he was within a hundred yards of the wagons, he dropped to a knee and put an arm around Dog’s shaggy neck.

“Stay,” he whispered in the big cur’s ear.

Dog whined. He wanted to go with Preacher. The mountain man repeated, “Stay.”

Dog wouldn’t like it, but he would wait there until Preacher either returned or summoned him.

His boot moccasins made no sound on the hard ground as Preacher catfooted toward the wagons. He had left the long-barreled flintlock behind with Dog. It was too awkward to carry around while he was trying to be stealthy. He had his pistols, but if all went as he hoped, he wouldn’t need them.

More important, he had his knife. It was the blade that was going to come in for some work tonight.

Already in a low crouch, he dropped to his knees and then stretched out on his belly to cover the last fifty yards in a crawl. Garity surely had sense enough to have posted some sentries. As he came closer, Preacher caught a whiff of pipe smoke, confirming his hunch. He followed his nose until he spotted a dark shape leaning against one of the wagon wheels.

Grinning to himself in the darkness, Preacher began crawling in a wide circle that would allow him to come up behind the guard. He didn’t get in any hurry. Rushing things in a job like that could get a man killed. Minutes