Preacher and the Mountain Caesar (22 page)

“Are you serious about these—”

Preacher cut him off. “Yeah, yeah, them Romans is real enough. D'ya check the trophies our Arapaho an' Cheyenne allies collected off the cavalry?”

“No, but I'll have me a look.”

Eyeing the younger mountain man, Preacher reached a conclusion. “Duke, yu'rt purty nigh expert at slippin' an' slidin' around after dark, ain'tcha?”

Modesty commanded that Duke eye the ground beyond Preacher's shoulder. “I've done my share of dark-time stalkin'. You don't intend on
sneakin'
up on these Romans, do you?”

“Yep. On some of 'em at least. Now that you're here, it comes to mind that we ought to do somethin' about these outposts I hear the Romans done put up. Best done at night.”

Duke nodded. “You're right on that, Preacher. When do we have a go at it?”

“Reckon you an' me, an' a couple of Bold Pony's boys ought to pull out early tomorrow, get a day or so ahead of the rest. Then we can have a look around and see what can be done.”

A broad grin spread the full lips of the big man. “I say that shines. Count me in.”

* * *

Shortly before nightfall, two days later, Preacher and Duke Morrison crested the notch that separated them from the New Rome basin by but another valley and ridge. Careful to remain behind a screen of trees, they made a detailed study of the saw-tooth line across the way. After a seemingly long two minutes, Preacher lowered his spyglass. He pointed at a shadowy object partially obscured by tree limbs.

“A watch tower, right enough. I reckon they'll be spread around so's to overlap a slight bit of the view from one to another. I counted six men. Most likely there's some snoozin', an' a couple who act as messengers.”

“I saw another tower,” Duke revealed. “It looked to have the arms of one of those whatchamacallits—you know, a signal thing.”

“A heliograph, or something like it, eh?”

“Yeah. That's it.”

“That way they don't waste time sendin' a message, at least in daytime. The thing for us to do tonight is hit enough of these things to make bein' here plain uncomfortable. We want to get these boys all bollixed up. Seein' things that ain't there, firing off reports and alarms to call out the soldiers at all hours.”

Duke clucked his tongue. “That won't make the troops very happy.”

“Nope. An' it will make them careless. You 'member from bein' a kid the story about the boy who cried wolf? Well, by the time our outfit gets here, that's what the regular soldiers will be thinkin' about these fellers on the ridge. Then maybe we pop up . . .” Preacher went on to outline his plan.

They picked a spot on the far side and settled in among the pines to rest until the best time of night. Preacher and Duke gnawed on strips of jerky and cold biscuits to fill the empty space in their bellies, then caught a few hours of sleep.

* * *

Elijah Morton had quickly become bored with this duty. They could hang a Roman name on him, make him learn Latin, but he knew who he was, or at least who he'd once been. Elijah Morton had been a small-time highwayman who preyed on isolated trading posts along the North Platte. At least until the urge to move farther west, brought on by an increased presence of mounted federal troops, had brought him into the Ferris Range some two years ago. He had been captured and quickly volunteered to join a legion.

Often after that, he had regretted his decision. Not nearly so much as he would this night.

Elijah did not see the dark figures ghosting through the trees toward the watch tower. He had watch and had grown bored with staring into black nothing. Opposite him, Graccus peered toward the distant platform where two others did the same dull task. He sensed at the same time as Elijah the vibration of a footfall on the ladder leading upward. Could it be their relief?

Not likely, Graccus discovered a split-second before bright lights exploded inside his head, to bring excruciating pain for a brief moment, when Duke buried his war hawk in the top of his head. Preacher swarmed over Elijah at the same moment. His forearm pressed tightly against the throat of his victim, which effectively cut off any sound. Preacher leaned close, smelled garlic, onions and rancid, unwashed body, and whispered in one ear.

“You want to live, keep quiet and do as you are told.”

The head nodded feebly. Preacher went on. “How many are there up here?”

“Two,” Elijah mouthed. Sudden pain erupted under his left ear, and he felt the prick of a knife point.

“Don't lie to me. I counted six men earlier.” Preacher eased the pressure to allow for a reply.

“Four are sleeping. There's the messenger down below. Didn't you . . .?”

“He's tied up,” Preacher answered with part of the truth.

Preacher and Duke had closed on the unsuspecting messenger, to find out he was a mere boy, hardly older than fourteen or fifteen. Preacher clapped a big hand over the lad's mouth and yanked him off his feet. They had quickly tied him up, carted him away from the tower and strung him up, head down, in a tree. He prodded again.

“What time is your relief?”

“I don't know. In another hour, maybe.”

“What's you name?”

“Elijah Morton.”

“You don't have a Roman name, Elijah?”

“Yeah. It's Virgo. I hate it.”

“All right, Elijah, if you want to live, you'll answer everything, and then you'll be tied up and gagged. We won't kill you.”

“I'll do what I can.”

“Good. What's going on in New Rome?”

Elijah talked freely about the preparations for war. He detailed the training exercises of the legions and spoke of the firearms. That came as a nasty surprise to Preacher. They would have to hit at night, spike those cannons and move right into the city. Somehow the idea did not sit well with him.

“Anything else?”

“Oh, sure. The watch towers were built, and we've been in them ever since. Once a week we are supposed to be rotated back to our legion. So far that hasn't happened, and we're gettin' fed up with it.”

“Now, that's right interestin'. Well, we're gonna leave those other boys to snooze, lock 'em in that room over there and wait to see what comes of that. I'm gonna turn you loose now. Don't fight me, turn around and put your hands behind your back.”

“I hate this place. Can't I come with you?”

“Nope. We've got more of this kinda thing to do. But if you want to ride away from it when you get loose, head due south. When you come to some folks, ask for Philadelphia Braddock.”

“I knew some Braddocks back home.”

“Where's that?”

“Philadelphia,” Elijah answered simply.

Preacher considered that a moment. “Now ain't that interestin'? Turn around.”

Elijah complied in silence. After trussing him up, Preacher lowered Elijah to the platform floor. Then he and Duke eased over to the shelter that housed the slumbering sentries. Preacher located a loose piece of wood and used it to wedge the door tightly shut. With that accomplished, they stole off into the night to visit yet another tower.

* * *

They completed their jaunt uneasily close to first light. A soft, silver-gray glow hung along the eastern ridge when they rejoined the Cheyennes. Both of them had big grins and six fresh scalps tied to their belts.

“That ain't gonna do them Romans any good when they think about spendin' time out here. Might be we can raise a little more ruckus tomorrow night.”

22

A considerable uproar followed Preacher's excursion. The fourteen deaths were attributed to the red savages, and any who had been spared by Preacher and Duke kept their own counsel. It worked so well, Preacher decided, that they would try it on two or three of the other towers the next night. In order to avoid the patrols that had been sent out at first light to search for the perpetrators, he, Duke and the Cheyenne had withdrawn beyond the second ridge out of the city.

“Heck of a thing,” Preacher announced when they returned after nightfall. “Looks like our funnin' with them has backfired on us.” He referred to the neat rows of cooking fires that spread around the meadow outside the walled city.

“What's that?” Duke Morrison asked.

Preacher gave a short, sharp grunt. “That's the legions. They've taken to the field. Changes our plans somewhat. But that can wait until the rest git here. Now's the time to shake them up a bit more.”

Things had changed on the final rim also. Two sentries guarded the base of the first tower Preacher and Duke approached. It took them only slightly greater stealth to close on the alert guards than it had the unsuspecting messengers of the previous night. From the moment he had learned that the towers operated independently, Preacher had been working on fateful decisions for those who occupied the ones they would visit tonight.

No more sparing of lives. To create the maximum of fear and terror, all would die. It didn't make a problem for the Cheyennes, albeit he and Duke went to it grimly, taking no pleasure from the task. The two guards died swiftly and without a sound. The slumbering messenger awakened in time to see the blade of a war hawk descending toward his head. His scream died along with himself. The moccasins of the two mountain men made only the softest of whispers as they ascended the ladder to the platform.

* * *

One of the watchmen, more attentive than his partner, sensed more than heard the silent approach. He turned, his hand going to the heft of his
gladius.
Preacher bounded up onto the boards of the platform and turned off the source of such commands with his tomahawk. The blade sank to the hilt in the soldier's forehead. Before he could wrench it free, Duke joined him and finished off the other sentry.

Preacher spoke softly. “There's two more in there, most likely.”

Duke nodded, and they moved cat-footed to the door. Duke pointed to his chest and then the closed portal, indicating he would go through first. Preacher dipped his chin a fraction of an inch and yanked open the crudely made panel. Duke went through with Preacher at his heels. The scuffing motions of their moccasins awakened a light sleeper. Duke's big Hudson's Bay Company knife sank into the unfortunate legionnaire's chest and trashed his heart.

He died with a soft sigh. Preacher swung to split the skull of the dead man's companion, only to find his wrist in a grasp like iron. The big man grunted, but did not cry out. The coppery tang of blood in the air told him there would be no one to hear. He tried to rear up, but Preacher's weight bore down on him and pinned him to the straw mattress. Preacher used his free hand to draw his Green River knife and plunge it into soft tissue below the rib cage. He was aware of the amazing rubbery tension of skin for a brief moment, before the tip sank into muscle and angled upward.

The soldier convulsed as the blade pierced his diaphragm and sped on to his heart. His tremors became more violent, and then he went rigid and lay still. Preacher took a deep breath.

“Time to get movin',” he told Duke.

* * *

Cassius Varo stared into the night. Had he seen slight movement in Tower Seven? If so, it could only be the men on watch, he told himself. Bored by long, fruitless hours of this static activity, he paced the two sides of the plank square for which he was responsible. Time went by so slowly. Varo's eyelids had started to droop when a sudden, very wet
thok!
came from below.

Suddenly alert, he touched his partner on one shoulder, then leaned over the railing to call softly to the guards on the ground. “Titus, Vindix, what's going on?”

His answer came in the form of a broad-head arrow that drove into his forehead. His single, violent convulsion sent him crashing over the rail. By then, Preacher had ascended the ladder and had only to swing smoothly to smash the brains from the other sentry with his war hawk.

Duke quickly joined him, and they finished off the sleeping pair without even a stir. Outside, Preacher nodded to the tall, black bulk of another tower, standing out against the starlight. “Two down, one more to go.”

* * *

At mid-morning the next day, the mountain-man-and-Indian army arrived beyond the third ridge from New Rome. Preacher and Duke greeted them and called for a parlay of all leaders. Bold Pony, Blind Beaver and Philadelphia attended. Terry Tucker hovered at Preacher's elbow. Most of the former fur trappers stood around in a loose circle. Their long lives of independence gave them license to eavesdrop, or so they believed. Having done it enough times himself, Preacher made no further notice of them.

He got right down to business. “Things have changed. We shook 'em up a little an' they put their legions out in the field. They's camped all around the city. So we'll not be scalin' any walls right off. Put your men to makin' ladders fer it, anyway. We'll need 'em after we deal with the soldiers, I reckon.”

“How do we do that?” Philadelphia inquired.

Preacher gave him a smile. “I thought you'd never ask. First thing is we've got to draw them out. I see you brought along a couple dozen more than we had at our last camp together. That's good.”

“We're more than a hunderd an' fifty strong now, Preacher,” Philadelphia announced. “An' that could git bigger by tomorrow.”

“Even better. Cold camp tonight. We don't want our Roman friends knowin' we're here. I know it'll be hard not gettin' in some drummin' an' singin', Bold Pony, Blind Beaver, but you've both done some war trail sneaks before, I'm sure. We can all dance up a storm oncest this is over.” The war leaders nodded solemnly. “Now here's how we get them to come to us. First off we have to get rid of all those watch towers they've built. Then, the morning after that's done, we show up in a double line on the last ridge. That'll make us ringtailers and the Cheyenne.”

“Vhat about the Arapaho?” Karl Kreuger asked nastily from the sidelines. “You goin' soft on dem vor a purpose.”

“Nope. Not at all. Matter of fact, they've got the hardest part of all. Before we show ourselves to the Romans, they've got to sneak down into that valley durin' the night . . .” Preacher went on to describe where the Arapaho warriors would go and what they would be doing.

“Sounds complicated,” Philadelphia Braddock observed.

“It ain't. Not if ever'one does what he's supposed to. If all of us keeps our place and not act on our own, we can have this over before nightfall.”

“You said they had cannons,” a voice came from a mountain man Preacher did not know.

“Those we take care of the same time we empty the watch towers. Which reminds me. Duke an' me learned a whole lot about how they are run. After the soldiers are tooken care of, we leave two men in each tower to make the morning signal. Then those boys can join the rest of us. As far as the cannons go, I found these little things in one of the towers we hit last night. Must be used for holdin' somethin' together. Thing is, they'll serve our purpose.” Preacher unwound from his squat on the ground and went to his saddlebags.

From them he took a buckskin bag about six inches long. From it, he removed three dull, grayish objects. They had been flattened on one end, and the opposite one tapered to a fine point. He raised his arm to show them around.

“While the towers are being silenced, Duke an' me and a couple others will slip in among the Romans and spike the touch holes of those big guns.”

That didn't sound too good to Philadelphia. “Won't they hear you doin' that?”

Preacher gave him a confident smile. “Not if we use padded wooden mallets. A couple of pops on each, then break them off. Those tired soldier-boys will think it's just horses stompin' in the night.”

“If you say so,” Philadelphia relented, still unconvinced.

“I want to go with you, Preacher,” Terry pleaded.

“No. You'll stay on the ridge with them towers. An' that's final.”

“When do we get all this started?” another mountain man asked.

Preacher swept his arm in an inclusive gesture. “We'll git us a little rest now. Then, when it is good and dark tonight, it all begins. Them Romans will never know what hit them.”

* * *

Prudence, as much as good luck, guarded Preacher and the five mountain men with him as they glided across the tall grass of the central meadow. For some reason, he had noted, the cannons had been left outside the temporary palisades of the nightly encampments of each cohort. He had no way of knowing that the cause was ignorance and laziness—twelve—pound Napoleons weighed over a ton, and were hard to move around.

The generals had decided where they would fight the enemy when he came, and so the long guns had been laid to provide the maximum effect. There they would stay. Coincidentally, that put three cannons on each flank of the supposed Roman main line of resistance. Well and good, Preacher figured. Shortly before sundown, Haymaker Norris, who claimed to have put his trapping aside for two years to serve in the Mexican War as an artilleryman, instructed the sabotage party in the proper way to spike a cannon. Along with the mountain men who were to take out the watch towers, they set out on foot at midnight.

Leaving a cold camp, their night vision was not affected in the least. Those who used tobacco chewed on sweetened leaf or, like Preacher, chomped on the butt of an unlighted cigar. They moved with astonishing speed and silence. No one spoke; not a loose item of equipment or clothing clattered or rattled. Not even a clink came from the Roman plumb bobs—for that's what the lead spikes were identified as by Four-Eyes Finney, who had been an apprentice carpenter before he ran away to the Big Empty. It seemed no time until they had crested the first of three ridges that separated them from New Rome. Preacher called a short halt there to catch their wind. Funny, neither he nor any of them had needed to do that in the past, even packing around some respectable wounds.

He eased over to each of the men with him and repeated whispered advice.

“We'd best be givin' some time for those boys up ahead to do their dirty work.”

“Another ridge to cross,” Four-Eyes Finney reminded him.

“Then we'd best be gettin' there,” Preacher declared as he set off along the trail. The others followed at once without having to be told.

* * *

When Preacher and his companions reached the watch tower beside the main southern trail, not a living person remained there. The other force of mountain men had done their work well and vanished into the night to their next objective. Preacher again ordered they take a breather. They had made it this far without another stop, which pleased him. Now the hard part would begin.

“We'll take the cannons on the right flank first. That's our left,” he added for the benefit of Blue Nose Herkimer.

“I know that,” Blue Nose whispered back in mock irritation.

“You do
now,”
Preacher responded through a low chuckle.

They began their descent five minutes later. Avoiding the roadway in order not to be seen, the mountain men angled across the basin, through the tall grass nearly invisible even to one another. Preacher's long, meticulous survey of the valley paid off. He had a fairly accurate map of the terrain in his head. It took not the least effort to direct the spiking party to a wide, deep ravine that cut diagonally across to the Roman right flank.

At five minutes after three in the morning, they arrived at their objective. The perfect hour, when the circadian rhythm of human life ebbed lowest. It was the time of deepest sleep, when dreams formed and the body became sodden with relaxation. Working two to each gun, the mountain men placed the spikes, then rapped on them with padded mallets. The soft thuds that accompanied each blow did indeed sound like the stomp of a hoof. Preacher had insisted that they not strike together or too rapidly.

His precaution paid unexpected dividends. When the last spike had been broken off, they entered a small gully on hands and knees. Preacher's keen hearing picked up soft voices speaking in English from the main gate to the camp as they passed it.

“Lazy cavalry. Picketed their horses outside the camp,” came a scornful remark.

“All right with me,” the other sentry answered. “I don't like the smell of horse crap at breakfast.”

A soft chuckle rose for a moment. “Considering what they feed us, how can you tell the difference?”

Like soldiers anywhere,
Preacher thought as he crawled away.

They reached the second trio of cannons without incident. Preacher squared off on the flattened top of a lead plumb bob and gave it a whack. Ice shot down his spine a second later when an inquiring voice came from behind the palisade.

“What'cha doin' out there with horses?”

Preacher thought fast. He'd have to make some response. Fortunately the question had been in English. “Early patrol. The generals are getting nervous.” He could speak as correctly as any man when he chose to do so.

“You horse soldiers have it made,” came an envious response.

“Don't we though?” Preacher hoped the man would shut up with that. He did not like the idea of chatting away with the enemy when there were so many so close.