stretched by with Preacher moving only a few inches at a time.
Eventually, he was where he wanted to be: close enough to reach out and touch the guard as he silently rose to his feet. The man was still puffing on his pipe, blissfully unaware that he had only seconds to live. He had no idea what was about to happen until Preacher’s left arm came around him and clamped down on his throat like an iron bar, stifling any sound and making the guard spit out his pipe.
By the time it hit the ground, the cold steel of Preacher’s knife was buried in the man’s back, the tip sliding between the ribs and delving deep to find the heart. The guard jerked a little but didn’t struggle as he died.
Preacher pulled the knife out, lowered the corpse to the ground, and wiped the blood off the blade onto the man’s shirt. He took the pistol he found behind the guard’s belt, tucking it behind his own belt, but left the rifle.
Soundlessly, the mountain man moved around the outside of the circled wagons until he found another guard. That man died without any commotion as well, and Preacher commandeered another pistol. When it came time for a battle, his forces would be at least a little better armed than when they had started out.
Some of the thieves were sleeping under the wagons. Preacher found a vehicle where the ground underneath it was empty and crawled through the space into the circle. He lifted his head and studied the wagons as best he could. The moon was lower and the light wasn’t as good. After a moment, he spotted a man standing guard
Preacher was willing to bet Casey was inside that wagon and the sentry was there to prevent her from getting away.
He could do something about that, Preacher thought, and was about to crawl over to the wagon and get started on it, when some instinct warned him. A second later, he heard a swift padding of feet, followed by a shrill cry and the explosion of a gun.
Preacher jerked to his feet as shadows leaped through the night, hurdling wagon tongues and charging into the circle as they yipped. His brain worked swiftly and he realized the wagons were under attack by Indians. He suspected they were Comanches, and the possibility suggested itself they might be the remnants of Lame Buffalo’s party, reinforced by more warriors from the same band!
Preacher didn’t really care who the Indians were. They would kill him just like they would kill every other white man with the wagons if they could.
And Casey, too, he thought as he sprinted toward the wagon where he thought she was. He had to take advantage of the distraction to get her out of there. He couldn’t afford to wait any longer.
The man guarding the wagon threw his rifle to his shoulder as a pair of the attacking Indians charged at him. The weapon boomed and sent one of the warriors flying backward, but the other one lunged forward and drove his lance into the guard’s body. The guard screamed as the sharp-tipped weapon tore all the way through him and emerged from his back to hit one of the sideboards of the wagon behind him. For a second the dying man was pinned there until the warrior yanked the lance free with a whoop.
He was turning away from the crumpling guard when Preacher reached him. The mountain man’s hands locked on the bloody shaft of the lance and wrenched it out of the warrior’s hands. Preacher brought it up in a flash and thrust the tip into the Indian’s throat. He felt it grate against the upper end of the man’s spine as blood gushed from the ripped-open throat.
Preacher shoved the dying warrior aside. “Casey!” he called as he leaped to the back of the wagon. “Casey, you in there?”
He heard a shocked gasp. Then a familiar voice cried, “Preacher! Preacher, is that you?”
He used his left hand to rip aside one of the canvas flaps while his right pulled a pistol from behind his belt. Gunshots were blasting all over the camp. He didn’t have to worry about being silent anymore.
An arrow whistled past his head. He turned to see where it had come from and spotted one of the warriors trying to fit another arrow onto his bowstring. Leveling the pistol, Preacher pulled the trigger and sent a ball slamming into the man’s body. The impact of the shot made the warrior drop his bow and arrow and spun him off his feet.
“Casey, come on!” Preacher said. “We gotta get out of here!”
“I can’t!” she said despairingly. “I’m tied up.”
Muttering a curse under his breath, Preacher clambered into the wagon. It was black as pitch in there, so he had to fumble around to find her, following her voice as she said, “Here! I’m here!”
He reached down, touched the fabric of her dress, and pulled his knife. Finding her ankles first and working carefully by feel so he wouldn’t cut her, he worked the blade under the ropes binding her and severed them with a hard tug on the razor-sharp blade.
Whether her hands were tied in front of her or behind her, he could deal with later, he decided. He sheathed the knife and put his arms around her, lifting her to her feet. Her wrists were bound in front of her, he discovered as she sagged against him.
“You all right?” he asked.
She nodded. He felt the movement of her head against his chest. “Yes, they didn’t hurt me . . . too bad.”
He wasn’t sure what she meant by that, but again, it could wait until later when they were safely away from the battle raging outside the wagon. Shots continued to fill the night, along with shouted curses and the shrill cries of the attacking Indians.
He led her to the back of the wagon. “I’m gonna put you on the ground,” he told her. “Get to the trail and run as hard as you can back the way we came from. Roland and some of the men are waitin’ back there a ways.”
Preacher heard the genuine concern in her voice as she asked, “Is he all right?”
“He caught a bullet in his leg, but he’ll be all right. I reckon he’ll be a lot better once he sees you again. Now go!”
He put his hands under her arms and swung her out of the wagon. She stumbled a little as her feet hit the ground.
