The killers lying in the tall grass heard the singing while the two men were still on the other side of the hill. Their voices were loud and raucous, and although the members of the Pawnee war party didn’t really understand the words, it was clear from the tone that the song was a bawdy one.
It was a shame the white men had chosen such for their death song.
Because most certainly, they were about to die.
The six Indians waited patiently. They had spotted the riders and the two pack horses heading toward them and had concealed their own horses in the trees. Watching from the top of the hill, they had seen the white men coming straight toward them and had decided to lay their ambush here. Two of the warriors had rifles they had taken from dead white men in the past. The other four were armed with bows and arrows. The riflemen would attack first, standing up and firing at the whites. Then the bowmen would finish them off, if they survived the shooting.
Then the Pawnees would take the scalps of the white men.
It would be a good afternoon’s work.
The song came to an end. One of the whites, an old man by the cracked sound of his voice, said loudly, “Whoo-ee, Preacher, that’s a good ’un! Let’s sing another. How about the one about the one-legged gal and the deacon? You know that one? It goes like this.”
The old man topped the hill as he started bellowing out the new song. The two Pawnee riflemen leaped to their feet as soon as they saw the wide-brimmed felt hat and the long white hair and the white beard. They had raised their rifles to their shoulders before they realized that the saddle of the horse next to the old man was empty.
Off to the left, the dull boom of a flintlock sounded, and one of the Pawnee died as a heavy ball smashed into the side of his head, collapsing his skull and pulping his brain. He hadn’t even had time to turn toward the unexpected threat.
His companion did, though, and he saw a tall white man with a dark beard stalking toward him on the side of the hill. The white man tossed aside the empty rifle, and his hands swooped down to pull two flintlock pistols from behind his belt. The Pawnee let out a cry of angry surprise and tried to swing his rifle around, but the movement had barely started before smoke spurted from the muzzle of both pistols. Three out of the four balls from the double-shotted loads slammed into the Pawnee’s chest, driving deep into his body and knocking him backward off his feet.
All the shots had roared out in a matter of heartbeats, shocking the other four Pawnee into immobility for a second. But that spell broke, and they leaped to their feet, yipping and howling in outrage at the deaths of their companions.
Their reaction came too late.
Death was already among them.
A couple of long-legged bounds took Preacher into the middle of the war party. Dog was right behind him, leaping through the tall grass. Preacher swung the empty pistol in his right hand and caved in a warrior’s skull as Dog took down another one and ripped his throat out with a slash of sharp teeth and powerful jaws.
Preacher pivoted and kicked another man in the groin, doubling him over. Dropping the pistols, Preacher grabbed the Indian’s head, and brought his knee up into the man’s face. Blood spurted from the Pawnee’s crushed nose as Preacher shoved him into one of the warriors who remained on his feet. Their legs tangled, and both Indians fell toward Preacher.
He yanked the long, heavy-bladed hunting knife from the sheath at his waist and brought it up into the body of the uninjured Pawnee. The blade went in cleanly, penetrating deep into the warrior’s chest. Preacher ripped it free and stepped back in time to see the lone remaining Pawnee about to loose an arrow at him.
From the top of the hill, Uncle Dan Sullivan’s rifle boomed. Blood, brains, and bone combined into a pinkish spray as the ball blew away a good chunk of the warrior’s head. The arrow flew from the bow, but it went into the dirt halfway between Preacher and the Indian.
As the echoes of the shot rolled away across the grassy hills, Preacher looked up at Uncle Dan and called, “Could’ve been a mite quicker on the trigger. He almost had me.”
The stocky old-timer grinned and stroked his long white beard as he rested the rifle across the saddle in front of him. “Wanted to make good and sure of my shot,” he said. “These old eyes o’ mine ain’t as good as they used to be.”
Preacher grunted. He happened to know that Uncle Dan’s eyes were almost as keen as those of an eagle.
A groan made Preacher look around. The Indian whose nose he had busted was still alive. The man lay on the ground, writhing from the pain in his nose and his balls. Still holding the knife, Preacher went over to him and dropped to a knee beside him.
With his left hand, Preacher took hold of the Pawnee’s long black hair and jerked his head up. He laid the razor-sharp edge of the blade against the man’s throat, pressing hard enough so that a drop of blood welled out and trickled down the taut skin.
“You thought to ambush us,” he said in the Pawnee tongue, having recognized the warrior’s tribe by the markings painted on the man’s face and the bead-work on his buckskins. “That was a mistake. Are there any more of you around here, or were you and your brothers raiding alone?”
“I speak your filthy . . . white man tongue,” the man gasped, his voice choked by the blood that had run from his ruined nose into his mouth.
“Is that so?” Preacher said in English. “All right, then. You can answer my question. How many more of you are there in these parts?”
“Go ahead and . . . kill me! I will tell you . . . nothing! Cut my throat, white man!”
Preacher thought about it for a second, then shook his head and said, “Nope, I reckon not.” He took the knife away from the nicked place on the Indian’s throat. “Dog!”
The big, wolflike cur edged closer, his lips curling away from his teeth as he snarled at the Pawnee.
“I ain’t gonna cut your throat,” Preacher went on. “I’m just gonna let Dog here gnaw on you for a while.”
He saw the fear in the Indian’s eyes as Dog approached.
