He now had a right smart amount of powder, more than he'd use in a year's time, so he set about making some bombs, using pieces of britches and shirts he'd found. He wouldn't even think of touching the longhandles he'd found. Filthiest things he'd ever seen. Preacher had handled them with a long stick and then burned them.
This was fir, hemlock, and pine country. Come the spring it would be some of the most beautiful country in all the Northwest, with tall yellow spikes of false hellebore, clusters of bleeding heart, white and yellow daisies, the umbrella-shaped cow parsnips, white bunchberry dogwood, blue lupine, lavender fireweed, and scarlet paintbrush. It was a scene that, once witnessed, would stay with a body for a lifetime. Peaceful and serene. But for now, Preacher was making bombs to kill people.
The Pardees and Son and Dirk and their gangs had to come after him. He had their horses. And in this country, a man without a horse was a dead man.
Preacher piled up the saddles and bridles and burned them, knowing the gang members would see the smoke. Indians would, too, of course, but Preacher was on good terms with most of the Indians who roamed this part of the country. He had a hunch the gang members were not. But by now the Indians would be in their winter camps and not all that anxious to make war.
Preacher piled all the supplies and clothing he couldn't use on the burning leather and destroyed it. Now all the gang members had was what they had with them when they came after him back down the trail. And that would be precious little. Now they had no blankets, no food, no nothing.
Preacher knew he was sentencing some of the outlaws to a hard death. That fact didn't bother him a twit. He had given them warning the game was about to turn rough. Besides, there wasn't a man back yonder who hadn't tortured and raped and killed innocent people. Whatever they got in the way of misery, they richly deserved.
Preacher drank the last of the coffee, ate the bacon, and sopped out the skillet with a hunk of bread. He washed the pot, the cup, and the frying pan in the creek and carefully packed them away.
He saddled up and cinched the pack frame, carefully balancing the load. He started the horses north, toward the Entiat. He knew a spot where he would make his stand and win and put an end to this war. Then he'd get on back to the mission and help see to the needs of the pilgrims, for the winter was going to be a harsh one.
He looked back once and muttered, “Follow me and die, boys. I warned you.”
F
IVE
“He's headin' for a spot of his choosin' for the showdown,” Son opined. “And we ain't got no choice in the matter. We got to follow.”
The others said nothing for the time being, just stood and stared at the hoofprints that headed north. They all knew that without horses, they stood a very good chance of dying in the Big Empty. They also knew that they stood a very good chance of dying if they went after their horses.
Dirk picked up his rifle and began walking the hoof trail. He did not look back to see if the others were following. One by one, the outlaws fell in behind him. They walked with a feeling of dread lying across their shoulders, but they simply had no choice in the matter.
They had no blankets or groundsheets, no robes or spare clothing, no supplies of any kind. They left the man with the blown off toes lying on the ground and walked away, ignoring his screams for help. He called after them until his voice was gone. No one looked back. The outlaw that Preacher had drilled through the noggin was left in the rocks where he had fallen. The varmits and carrion birds would feast on him. The man with the ruined foot tried crawling after his gang. He crawled until his hands were bloody and nearly useless and he could go no further. He lay on the ground and cursed those whom he had called friends. When his panic had subsided, he gathered what wits he had left and fashioned a crutch of sorts and started back down the trail they'd blazed after Preacher. He hoped all those bastards who had so coldly left him to die would meet a horrible fate at the hands of Preacher. He could not know just how accurate his wishes were to be.
* * *
Preacher put the horses in a little valley that had good graze still and good water. He knew that as long as the food and water held out, they wouldn't wander far. He cached loaded pistols and shot and powder in spots, as well as packets of food and water and blankets. Preacher ranged about five miles in his hiding of weapons and supplies. Satisfied that he was ready, he found him a vantage spot and waited.
It was a sullen and silent group of outlaws that trudged on, following the clear trail that Preacher had left. The leaders had no illusions. They all knew that this was the final showdown. They would die, or Preacher would die. It was that cut and dried. They had to have horses. If they didn't find mounts, they would die. Already the nights were cold, and getting colder with each passing night. They had to get out of the high country.
“We're walkin' right into it, Malachi,” Kenrick said. “Playin' right into Preacher's hands. This is his game all the way.”
“I know it,” Malachi panted the words. “You got any better plan?”
Kenrick was silent.
The outlaw who had taken the point suddenly threw up a hand, halting the column. “This is it, boys,” he called. “Come take a look at this, will you?”
The outlaws crowded forward and everyone of them sucked in their gut at the sight. Huge peaks lay on both sides of the wide valley; no way over them. At the end of the long valley, four or five miles wide and about that deep, more mountains loomed, beginning with a gentle sloping and charging upward.
They all knew that at the end of the valley, hidden amid the rocks and brush and timber, was Preacher. Waiting. To a man they cussed.
“I suggest we break up into groups of two and three,” Dirk said, squatting down and resting his tired legs. “I think we'd have a better chance that way.”
“I agree,” Son said.
“All right,” Malachi said. “Kenrick, you take one group of our boys, I'll take one, and Radborne can take the other.”
“Two groups of my boys,” Son said.
“Three of mine,” Dirk said, standing up. “No point in wasting time. We might as well do it.”
The men got their positions and trails straight and began moving out. Alone, on the other side of the valley, Preacher looked through the spyglass he'd found in the saddlebags of the outlaws â it probably belonged to the Englishman, for it was said that Dirk had once been before the mast, probably as a pirate â and watched the men split up and come toward him.
Some were going to work both sides of the valley and try to get around him and box him, while others came straight in. “Ain't gonna work, people,” Preacher said. “You'll be so busy lookin' for traps that ain't there, you ain't gonna be givin' your full attention to all the surroundin's. And that's when I'm gonna nail you.”
Preacher chewed on jerky and waited. He was going to drop the first one that came into rifle range, just to give the others something to think about.
“Stop that damn gigglin', Ansel,” Malachi told his goofiest brother. “This ain't no joke, you fool.”
“Can I sing?”
“No. Just shut up and keep your eyes wide open for booby traps. You know that damn Preacher laid some out for us.”
The man with the arrow point still embedded in one cheek of his ass hobbled along at the rear of one group. No one had wanted to dig the point out, so he just broke the shaft off and endured the pain ... which was considerable. But it wouldn't be for long, as he was motioned up to take the point. His group was going straight up the valley.
“I really 'preciate you guys offerin' to dig out this damn arreyhead,” he bitched. “Some friends you are.”
“Aw, shut up and take the point, Fabor. No one wants to look at your smelly butt.”
“When I get my horse back, I'm gone from this bunch. Jinked is what we is.”
No one replied, but they all agreed with him.
Fabor limped along, his eyes trying to take in everything around him and, in doing that, missing much. The group made the center of the valley and stopped to rest by a creek. After a drink of water, they pressed on, each step taking them closer and closer to where Preacher lay in the rocks.
Preacher cocked his Hawken and waited.
The other groups of outlaws were moving out of the valley and onto the first gentle slopings of the mountain. No one had spotted Preacher's hideout.
“There ain't no traps,” Malachi said. “That ain't like Preacher. Maybe he ain't here.”
No one replied to that because all knew it was wistful thinking. Preacher was close. They all felt it.
Fabor stopped for a moment just at the edge of the slope. He stood still, his eyes inspecting the rocks and the brush and the timber ahead of him. He opened his mouth to speak just as Preacher fired. The big slug took him in the center of the chest and dropped him dead as a stone.
Preacher immediately shifted positions, reloading on the move.
“He's in them rocks up yonder!” a man called Curtis yelled from his belly-down position on the ground.
Preacher was in the rocks, but the rocks and boulders ran for hundreds of yards west to east, with twisting passageways weaving in and out. It was a death trap and the outlaws knew it.
Dirk motioned one of his men forward and the man reluctantly obeyed, moving very slowly and cautiously. He entered the rocks and the silence fell about him. The rocks blocked the cold winds, but the outlaw took no comfort from that. He'd much rather face the winds than Preacher. He paused for a moment, listening. But all he could hear was the low moaning of the winds.
He turned toward a narrow passageway and caught the butt of Preacher's Hawken square on his chin. The heavy rifle smashed his jaw and knocked out teeth. The outlaw was unconscious before he sprawled out on the ground.
Preacher picked up the man's rifle and checked it. He wasn't familiar with the rifle. It looked like a .69 caliber English rifle, which fired a very respectable ball. Preacher turned at a slight noise and fired. The ball struck the man in the belly, and the range was so close the wadding as well as the ball tore into the brigand's stomach. The force slammed the outlaw against a boulder and he sat down on his butt, screaming as waves of pain tore through him. He hollered and cussed Preacher as the blood leaked from his mouth, dripping onto his filthy shirt.
Preacher vanished into the maze of passageways he had thoroughly checked out that morning, marking the dead ends with small rock cairns.
“Roy!” someone called. “Peter! Answer me.”
The wind moaning and sighing was the only reply, since Roy was gut-shot and dying and Peter's jaw was broken in so many places he was not capable of speaking ... even if he was conscious. Which he was not.
Ansel suddenly left Malachi's side and went screaming into the maze of rocks. Preacher heard him coming and braced himself, not wanting to kill the fool. Preacher reversed the outlaw's rifle and waited. Ansel's screaming drew nearer. Behind him, Malachi was shouting for his brother to come back. Ansel rounded the curve of rocks, panting and cussing and hollering and slobbering. Preacher gave him the stock of the English rifle smack in the face. The stock broke off and Ansel went down in a sprawl of arms and legs, minus a dozen teeth and with his jaw smashed horribly. Preacher grabbed up the nitwit's rifle and took off, winding his way through the huge boulders.
“You hurt my baby brother and I'll tear your eyes out, Preacher!” Malachi screamed out his rage. “Ansel, honey, you all right?”
It would be a long time before Ansel even woke up, much less managed to speak. Roy lay dead, his back to a boulder. Peter had not moved. Fabor's body lay cooling on the slope.
Preacher checked Ansel's rifle and waited patiently in the rock maze.
“Goddamnit!” Dirk shouted. “He's just one man. One man. Get him. Come on. Everybody into the rocks.”
“Yeah!” Malachi shouted. “Surround him in there. We can starve him out if nothin' else.”
Fools, Preacher thought. Nothin' but fools. I'm a-squattin' here in about ten acres of rocks and I know all the ways in and out. So come on, you sorry pack of worthless ne'er-do-wells. Let's settle this now.
“Baby brother!” Kenrick yelled. “Where are you, boy? Call out.”
“Here's Peter,” a man called. “His face is all tore up bad. His jaw's busted. Roy's dead.”
Preacher picked up a fist-sized rock and chunked it over the boulders. It crashed against the side of a passageway and a dozen rifles roared. The sounds of ricochets screaming around the rocks was fearsome. Then a scream ripped the early afternoon's cold air as Preacher began working his way toward the unconscious Ansel.
“You bastards!” a man cried out. “You've shot me. Oh, God, help me.”
“Hell with you,” Radborne called. “Here's our baby brother, Malachi. Oh, Lordy, he's hurt bad.”
Preacher stepped out onto the narrow path, leveled his Hawken, and dusted Radborne from side to side, the ball tearing through the man. Radborne screamed and fell across his brother, mortally wounded. He struggled to rise to his boots and failed. Preacher vanished back into the maze, reloading quickly.
“He's in the center of the rocks,” Son called, frantically reloading his rifle. “Damnit, stay away from the center of these rocks.”
“Radborne!” Kenrick yelled. “Where are you?”
That was a very good question, but money placed on Hell would probably be a sure bet.
Preacher mentally counted up the score in this deadly game. He figured six were out of it, dead, dying, or badly injured. Not a bad day's work, Preacher thought.
A cry of anguish went up out of the rocks as Henry Pardee found his brothers. “Radborne's dead, Malachi. And Ansel don't answer me. His face is all swole up.
Preacher!”
he screamed. “I'm a-comin' after you, Preacher.”
Come on, Preacher thought.
Son had linked up with Dirk. Each man wore an expression of hopelessness. The two men exchanged glances.
“Let's get out of here,” Son whispered. “We'll find the horses and leave.”
“I'm for that,” the Englishman returned the whisper. “We'll not do nothing except die in here. Preacher is a devil.”
The men began backing out of the rocks.
Henry began stalking the silent stone passageways, his face grim and angry. He ignored the calls from Malachi and Kenrick to come back.
Preacher waited.
The remaining outlaws stayed put, afraid to move.
Valiant Pardee joined Malachi and Kenrick. His face was pale under the dirt and he was badly frightened. “Son and Dirk pulled out,” he whispered. “I seen them leavin'. I'm afeard, Malachi. I truly am.”
“Preacher!” Henry screamed. “Come out and fight.”
Henry was very close as Preacher pulled out a pistol and placed one hand over the hammer to muffle the sound of the cocking. He could hear Henry's heavy breathing and the scrape of his clothing as he brushed up against the sides of the rock passageway. Henry stepped in front of the narrow, almost hidden passageway where Preacher stood, and paused for a second. Preacher fired, the ball striking the Pardee brother in the temple and blowing out the other side. Henry Pardee dropped soundlessly to the rocks; his life of crime and depravity was over.
“There's one less of your kin, Malachi,” Preacher shouted above the echoing of the shot. “You want the body, come get it. I'd hate to see a buzzard get sick from eatin' on it.”
Malachi cursed Preacher until he was breathless.
Son and Dirk had stripped the clothing from two dead men for extra warmth, leaving their naked bodies on the ground, and were now frantically searching for the hidden horses. They were not having much luck.
“They could be miles from here,” Son said. “We got to chance walkin' out, Dirk. We stay here and Preacher will get us for sure and certain.”
The Englishman thought about that for a moment. “All right. Let's go. We got ample powder and shot and we're sure to see Indians. We can shoot them and take their ponies.”