Preacher's Fire

“He’s got a mean streak in him,” Preacher went on. “Likes to play with his food for a while before he eats it. He’s liable to start at your toes and just sorta . . . nibble his way up.”

The Pawnee swallowed hard. His eyes were wide, and he seemed to have forgotten about his busted nose and the kick in the crotch.

“What band are you from?” Preacher asked. “Who’s your war chief?”

“St-Standing Elk,” the Pawnee said.

Preacher nodded toward the other members of the war party, who lay scattered around the hillside, dead. “Is he one of these fellas?”

The Pawnee shook his head. “No. We were scouts . . . from a larger party.”

“Where’s Standin’ Elk and the rest of your bunch?”

The Pawnee started to look stubborn again. Preacher made a small motion, and a snarling, slavering Dog bent his head toward the Indian’s legs.

“One sleep toward the sunrise!” the Pawnee cried. “It is the truth!”

Preacher waved Dog back. The big cur retreated with obvious reluctance.

“How many?”

“As many as the fingers of four hands.”

Twenty more warriors, then. A formidable bunch. He and Uncle Dan would avoid them if possible, Preacher thought.

“All right,” Preacher said as he straightened to his feet. “I reckon we’ll tie you up and leave you here. The rest of your bunch will come along and find you sooner or later.”

The Pawnee sneered up at him. “Go ahead and kill me. I have shamed myself by talking to you.”

Preacher’s eyes narrowed. “There are a few hombres in this world who’re bad enough I might be tempted to kill ’em in cold blood. You ain’t one of ’em, old son.”

“Then let me . . . die in battle.” The Indian’s fingers groped for the handle of the knife at his waist.

“You ain’t fit to fight right now. I reckon I kicked your balls halfway up to your throat.”

Preacher started to turn away. Behind him, the Pawnee struggled to climb to his feet. Uncle Dan said warningly, “Preacher . . .”

With a sigh, Preacher turned around again. The warrior had made it upright and managed to pull his knife from its sheath. He raised the weapon and lunged awkwardly toward Preacher.

Preacher waited, hoping that the stubborn varmint would collapse or pass out or something, but when the blade started to thrust toward his chest, he had to act. He knocked the Pawnee’s knife aside and stepped in to bring up his own blade and bury it in the warrior’s chest. The man sighed and dropped his knife as he sagged toward Preacher.

“What’s your name?” Preacher asked.

“Bent . . . Stick,” the Pawnee forced out.

“Well, if anybody ever asks me, I will tell them that the warrior called Bent Stick died in battle, with honor.”

Gratitude flickered in the Indian’s eyes, then died out along with everything else. Preacher lowered the corpse to the ground.

Uncle Dan had ridden on down the hill and now sat nearby on his horse, still holding the reins of Preacher’s horse and the two pack animals. The old-timer nodded toward the body and asked, “How’d you know he’d talk if you threatened him with Dog?”

“I saw him eyein’ the old boy,” Preacher replied. “Some folks are more scared of one particular thing than they are of anything else. Might be dogs or snakes or, hell, I don’t know, bugs. I took a chance that with this fella, it was dogs.”

“Looks like you was right. We gonna try to avoid that war chief Standin’ Elk and his bunch?”

“Damn right,” Preacher said. He pulled up a handful of grass and used it to wipe the blood from his knife before he slid the blade back into its sheath. “We’ve got places to go and things to do, and I don’t want anything slowin’ us down.”

He walked over to retrieve his pistols from the place he had dropped them. He reloaded them first, then picked up his rifle and loaded it. He always felt a little naked when his guns were empty.

“If you hadn’t seen them birds fly up and guessed there might be somethin’ waitin’ for us on this side of the hill, them redskins would’ve had the drop on us,” Uncle Dan said as Preacher swung up into the saddle on the rangy gray stallion known only as Horse. “That was pretty smart of you, havin’ me go on singin’ whilst you slipped around the side of the hill and snuck up on ’em.”

“But if there was no ambush, I’d’ve wound up lookin’ a mite foolish, wouldn’t I?”

“Better to be foolish and alive, I always say.”

Preacher couldn’t argue with that.

“How far you reckon we are from St. Louis?” Uncle Dan went on.

“Be there in another week, just about, I’d say.”

“That arm of yours gonna be good and healed up by then?”