The Family Jensen (6 page)

Men leaped to their feet, outlaws and Sioux warriors alike, shouting curses and confused questions. A few were so drunk they continued to snore, even with all the racket going on. Most of those on their feet were disoriented from the whiskey they’d consumed and from being jolted out of sleep.

Before anyone could do much more than look around bleary-eyed, the shrill cry of another panther ripped through the night. It came from a different direction and was followed instantly by a rumble like thunder.

Crazy Bear had slipped among the white men’s horses and the Sioux ponies and removed their pickets and hobbles. Spooked by the animal-like cries, the herd bolted just as Preacher planned. The horses charged through the camp, pounding their hooves on the ground, trampling anything in their way. Men screamed as they were caught in the stampede and knocked down. Hooves slashed and hammered at them, breaking bones and pulping flesh.

Lupton and Red Moccasins leaped aside, barely avoiding the charge. Others scattered and got out of the way, too. Preacher was ready for them. The guns in his hands roared as he thumbed off shot after shot, firing with both hands. Each time flame gouted from the muzzle of a Colt, either an outlaw or a warrior fell, downed by a .44 caliber ball. Preacher tried for head shots, the hardest to make but the most effective. No man was going to get up after one of those .44s bored through his brain and exploded out the other side of his skull.

Preacher emptied both guns, killing eight men with ten shots in approximately six seconds. One man had a shattered shoulder and was out of the fight. He would most likely bleed to death. Another man writhed on the ground and tried to howl in agony, but Preacher’s shot had broken his jaw and torn half of it away. All he could do was make a pathetic, bubbling moan.

There was no time to reload. Preacher jammed the Colts behind his belt and drew his knife. As he sprang forward, he snatched up a tomahawk that had been dropped by one of the trampled Sioux warriors. With the knife in his right hand and the ’hawk in his left, he plunged among the stunned survivors and slashed back and forth. Blood spurted and bone cracked as he laid into them.

Preacher wished Dog could have been there. The big, wolf-like cur had loved a good fight. His shaggy shape would have been tearing through the enemy, sharp teeth flashing as he ripped out throats.

That wasn’t to be. Preacher had to handle the killing himself. Gore splattered both arms to the elbows as he wreaked havoc among the outlaws and the Sioux.

He heard a deep, powerful voice chanting and knew that Crazy Bear had arrived and was singing a death song. Whether it would be death for Crazy Bear or just for his enemies didn’t really matter. Many spirits had already departed the realm, and more were on their way.

Preacher spotted the giant Crow and hacked his way toward him. Several bodies were scattered around Crazy Bear’s feet, the heads twisted at unnatural angles on the necks. As Preacher reached his side, Crazy Bear grabbed two more men and slammed their heads together with such force their skulls split wide open like melons. Crazy Bear tossed the corpses aside.

Shots began to roar. Preacher heard the hum of a lead ball pass his ear. Some of the men had taken cover behind the empty wagons and were shooting from there. The campfire was out having been scattered to glowing embers by the stampeding horses. Nobody could see very well.

“Come on!” Preacher said. “Let’s go!”

“There are more to kill!” Crazy Bear protested.

“You’ll get your chance later, I reckon!”

The gunmen were just as likely to hit their own allies as they were Preacher and Crazy Bear, even more so after the mountain man and the Crow chief turned and ran deeper into the darkness, away from the camp.

Preacher let his instincts guide him. He nearly always knew where he was and which direction he needed to go. Within moments, he and Crazy Bear reached the timber on the slope and began to climb above the camp. A lot of futile shooting and yelling still went on below.

“It will not take them long to discover we are gone,” Crazy Bear said. “Then they will come after us.”

“Yeah, but there ain’t nigh as many of ’em as there was a while ago,” Preacher said. “I reckon we wiped out more’n half of ’em.”

Even so, he knew they were still outnumbered. The survivors wouldn’t let them get away with what they had done. Dawn was less than an hour away. Once it was light enough, the men would come looking for them.

Preacher hoped he could have a warm welcome waiting for them when they did.

They were about a mile away from the camp when Mala suddenly stepped out from some brush and motioned to them. “Preacher!” she called softly. “Crazy Bear! Over here!”

They veered toward her. As they came up to the gypsy woman, Preacher asked, “Are the others all right?”

Mala nodded. “A few tripped and turned their ankles or scratched themselves on the brush while they were running in the dark, and a few are still in bad shape from what happened to them earlier, but we can all move quickly if we need to.”

“Did you find that canyon I told you about?”

Mala turned and pointed toward the Big Horns. Although the sun was still below the horizon, the first reddish-gold rays of the new day were starting to touch the mountaintops. There was enough light to see the black mouth of the canyon about a hundred yards away.

“Is that the one you mean?”

“Yeah,” Preacher said. “Are the others hidden inside it?”

“Yes. I stayed out here to wait for you and Crazy Bear.”

It hadn’t been necessary for her to do that, but Preacher didn’t say anything except, “All right, you can head back there now.” He added in Crow, “Crazy Bear, you go with her.”

Crazy Bear nodded, but as Preacher started off in a different direction, Mala said, “Wait! Where are you going?”

“I need to get our horses,” Preacher explained. “There’s not much time. We’re liable to need the ammunition that’s on my pack horse.”

“Then Crazy Bear should go with you, to help you.”

Preacher shook his head. “Nope, I’d rather he stayed here with you ladies. If anything happens to me, he’ll get you out of this mess.”

“But I cannot even talk to him!”

“He savvies a few words of English. I reckon you can make him understand if you work at it. Anyway, I won’t be gone long.”

Without looking back, Preacher loped off in the direction of where he and Crazy Bear had left their horses the night before. He didn’t see any sign of the enemy as he moved swiftly through the timber. It took him only fifteen minutes to find the horses, which were right where they’d been left. He moved slowly as he led the animals back toward the canyon, making as little noise as possible. He didn’t want to increase the odds of drawing unwanted attention.

A little less than an hour after leaving Crazy Bear and Mala, he reached the canyon. He made a bird call, knowing that Crazy Bear would recognize it. An answering signal came back indicating that everything was all right and Preacher should come ahead.

The mouth of the canyon was narrow—about fifty feet wide—and its sides were sheer. It opened up a little as he went deeper into it, until the walls were a hundred yards apart. The canyon penetrated about a quarter mile into the mountainside before it took a sharp turn and ended abruptly against a rock wall. The floor of the canyon was littered with rocks and brush and scrubby trees, which provided cover for anyone trying to defend it.

The women and girls were gathered just around the bend. Crazy Bear and Mala came out to meet Preacher.

“Any trouble?” the mountain man asked.

Crazy Bear shook his head. “The men who are left have not found us yet, but they will. These women gave no thought to concealing their trail.”

“Don’t reckon most of ’em would know how to, even if they’d thought about it,” Preacher said. “That’s all right. Let those sons o’ bitches follow us. We’ll be ready for ’em when they get here.”

“What do you plan to do?”

The sun flooded the canyon with light as Preacher pointed up to a narrow ledge that ran along one wall all the way to the canyon mouth, ending at a tall, narrow spire of rock. “I’m gonna climb up there and be waitin’ for ’em when they come chargin’ in. You and Mala will be down here with rifles, puttin’ up just enough of a fight so they’ll think you and I are both trapped in here with the women. As soon as they’re right under me, I’m gonna drop that tall rock on ’em. The ones it don’t get, I’ll introduce to Mr. Samuel Colt.” He patted the butts of the two Dragoons.

Crazy Bear thought for a moment, then nodded. “This plan might work. But how will you budge that rock?”

“I figure I can snap it off at the base if I get my feet on it and my back against the canyon wall.”

“I hope so. I am not sure we can kill all of them otherwise.”

“We’ll kill as many as we have to,” Preacher said.

Mala looked puzzled and was starting to look impatient. Preacher explained the plan to her in English. As soon as she heard it, she shook her head.

“What’s wrong?” Preacher asked.

“You cannot move that rock by yourself. It’s mad!”

“I don’t see any other way to do it.”

“You and Crazy Bear both go up there,” she suggested.

“I need Crazy Bear down here to handle one of the rifles. I’m countin’ on you to use the other one.”

Mala turned and pointed to the women. “One of them can use the other rifle. I’m sure that someone among them can fire a gun.”

Preacher rubbed his jaw. “Well, it’d be easier with both of us up there, I reckon—”

“Wait here,” Mala interrupted. She went to talk to the women.

Crazy Bear said, “She likes to give orders.”

“You understood what she said?”

The Crow chief smiled. “No, but I know when a woman is telling a man what to do.”

“Yeah, yeah, I guess,” Preacher muttered. He had seen the open admiration in the eyes of Crazy Bear and Mala as they looked at each other, and he thought it was a good thing. Evidently she didn’t care that the big galoot was ugly as sin. But if it was going to amount to anything, they all had to get out of there safely first.

Mala returned with a middle-aged woman who had a weathered face and strands of gray in her brown hair. “This is Mrs. Harris,” Mala said. “She can shoot a rifle.”

“I was raised on a farm in Ohio,” the woman said. “I could knock a squirrel out of a tree at fifty yards by the time I was ten years old.”

Preacher grinned. “I don’t doubt it a bit, ma’am.” He got Crazy Bear’s flintlock from where it was slung on the back of the chief’s pony and handed it to her, along with powder horn and shot pouch. “There you go.”

He gave Mala his rifle and ammunition, then reloaded his Colts and stuffed his pockets full of caps, balls, and powder charges. Crazy Bear slung a bow and a quiver of arrows on his back. The two of them waited until Mala and Mrs. Harris had taken positions behind some rocks where they could cover the canyon mouth, then Preacher and Crazy Bear began to climb the rugged wall that formed the back end of the canyon.

It wasn’t an easy ascent, and became harder when they reached the level of the ledge. They moved sideways along the canyon wall toward the ledge, searching out handholds and footholds that sometimes were nothing more than narrow cracks in the rock. Preacher wondered if Crazy Bear’s fingers would support the weight of his massive body, but somehow Crazy Bear managed to cling to the rock and keep moving.

Preacher reached the ledge first. After hauling himself onto the ledge he stretched out a hand to grasp Crazy Bear’s wrist and pulled the chief onto it. When they both had solid rock under their feet again, they worked their way along the ledge toward the canyon mouth and the rock spire.

Once there, they hid behind the towering rock and waited. The sun was high enough to heat up the ledge and sweat trickled down Preacher’s face and back.

They didn’t have to wait very long. Preacher spotted movement on the hillside below the canyon and silently pointed it out to Crazy Bear. The chief nodded. Men were working their way through the trees. He and Preacher crouched lower and didn’t move again.

With eyes narrowed against the sun’s glare, Preacher recognized Clint Mayhew, one of his brothers, the outlaw called Lupton, and Red Moccasins. The four of them were accompanied by four more outlaws and half a dozen of Red Moccasins’ warriors. Fourteen in all, Preacher thought as a grim smile touched his lips. The stampede and the battle the night before had wiped out more of the enemy than he had realized.

When the men were hidden behind trees close to the canyon mouth, Red Moccasins called sharply to two of his warriors. They hurried forward, carrying flintlock rifles, and started through the opening.

A rifle cracked from inside the canyon, and one of the warriors stumbled and clutched at his side. That was good shooting, Preacher thought. A second shot roared, but that bullet whined off harmlessly.

“Go!” Lupton shouted. “Get in there before they can reload!”

The men sprang out of cover and charged toward the canyon opening, confident they could overwhelm the defenders.

It was time to spring the trap.

Preacher and Crazy Bear lodged their backs against the stone wall and lifted their feet so they were braced against the rock spire. They put all their muscles into the task of toppling the rock.

As Preacher felt how unbudging the rock was, he knew he never could have broken it off by himself. Mala had been right. With Crazy Bear’s incredible strength coming into play, they at least had a chance. Grunting with the effort, the two men continued to push, pitting their strength against the timeless majesty of the rock.

Down below, the howling warriors were almost at the canyon mouth. Right behind them came Lupton, Mayhew, and the other white killers.

Preacher heard a crack and felt the rock shift slightly under his feet. That inspired him to even greater efforts. Although he didn’t have the immense strength of Crazy Bear, his rangy form packed plenty of power. Together, the two men pushed against the rock…

And suddenly the spire was gone.

Like a tree toppling in the forest, it fell away from them, causing both of them to drop to the ledge. Preacher grabbed hold quickly to keep from falling off. Beside him, Crazy Bear scrambled for purchase as well.

Below them, the rock spire slammed down in the canyon mouth with a huge crash. Preacher heard snatches of several men screaming before the thunderous roar drowned them out. A cloud of dust billowed into the air as he made it back to his feet and reached down to help Crazy Bear rise as well.

Preacher drew his Colts and waited for the morning breeze to carry the dust away. He saw that the spire had shattered into a thousand pieces when it landed. Men stumbled around the debris in a daze, and as the echoes of the crash rolled across the hills, he heard screams again. Some of the attackers had been caught under the falling rock, just as he’d hoped.

He began firing methodically at the men still on their feet. Beside him, Crazy Bear had the sturdy bow in his hands and sent arrows whistling down into the canyon mouth. Preacher knew it took a lot of strength to pull it, the sort of strength only Crazy Bear possessed. The arrows went all the way through a man to the fletching, the head and nearly a foot of shaft standing out on the other side of the man’s body.

“You son of a bitch!” Lupton bellowed. He had a pair of flintlock pistols in his hands. One of them roared, sending a ball whistling past Preacher’s head to splatter on the canyon wall behind him.

Before Lupton could fire again, Preacher’s right-hand Dragoon blasted. The shot drove into the outlaw’s chest and knocked him back on his ass. Gasping in pain and shock, Lupton tried to raise his second pistol, but he didn’t make it. The weapon slipped out of his fingers, and he toppled sideways as death claimed him.

Red Moccasins threw his lance at Crazy Bear. It was an awkward throw because of the angle, and Crazy Bear knocked the lance aside with his bow. He dropped the bow, let out the gibbering laugh that had given him his name, and leaped off the ledge, as he yanked out a knife. Crazy Bear crashed into Red Moccasins, and both men went down.

Preacher was busy trading shots with Clint Mayhew. “Preacher! You bastard!” Mayhew shouted as he fired a pistol. “I should’ve known it was you!”

Preacher felt the ball’s passage through the air only inches from his ear and ducked in the other direction. Mayhew fired the pistol in his other hand and got lucky. The ball creased Preacher’s upper right arm, ripping the buckskin shirt and plowing a shallow furrow in the flesh. The impact was enough to numb Preacher’s arm and knock him back a step against the canyon wall.

Mayhew grabbed up a pistol that one of the wounded men had dropped and lined the sights on Preacher’s chest. With hate contorting his face, he pressed the trigger, but even as smoke and flame gushed from the barrel, a shot from Preacher’s left-hand gun smashed into Mayhew’s body and threw off his aim.

At the same instant, a rifle cracked behind the man and a ball struck him in the back. The two impacts coming together from opposite directions held him upright for a long moment as blood gushed from both wounds. Then his knees unhinged and he fell straight to the ground. Preacher saw Mala standing behind Mayhew with a rifle at her shoulder. Smoke still curled from the barrel.

Before Preacher could call down his thanks to her, she lowered the rifle and rushed forward. Preacher saw that Red Moccasins was on top of Crazy Bear and about to plunge a knife into the Crow chief’s chest. Preacher couldn’t fire because Mala was in his way.

Mala reversed the rifle and grasping it by the barrel, swung it like a club. The stock slammed into the back of Red Moccasins’ head, knocking him forward. As his knife swept down, the blade dug into the ground next to Crazy Bear’s head instead of burying itself in his chest.

Crazy Bear’s hands shot up and locked around the Sioux chief’s throat. With a heave, Crazy Bear rolled over and put Red Moccasins under him. Red Moccasins flailed and thrashed but was no match for Crazy Bear’s strength. Crazy Bear’s hands twisted one way, then the other, and Red Moccasins’ neck snapped with a crack like that of a breaking branch.

The shooting had stopped. Preacher’s right arm still hung numb at his side, but he tracked his left-hand gun from side to side of the canyon mouth, his eyes searching for more threats. All the attackers were down, either dead or mortally wounded.

Crazy Bear lumbered upright, leaving the body of Red Moccasins at his feet. Mala ran to him. For a second Preacher thought she was going to throw her arms around Crazy Bear, but she stopped herself and stood looking up at him.

“You are all right?” she asked in English.

Somehow he understood. He nodded and smiled. He was still ugly as hell, Preacher thought, but the smile helped a little.

“I hate to intrude,” he called down to them, “but I’m shot and somebody may have to help me down.”

The feeling came back quickly to Preacher’s wounded arm, so it hurt right smart when Mala used some of the outlaws’ whiskey to clean the furrow and then bound it up.

They gathered up all the rifles, pistols, and ammunition from the dead outlaws and armed the women. “Reckon you could hold off an army for a while now if you needed to,” Preacher told Mala, “but I don’t think you’ll have to worry about that. Shouldn’t be anybody else around to bother you before Crazy Bear and I get back.”

He was glad he could use his right arm when he and Crazy Bear got on their horses and rounded up the animals they had stampeded that morning before dawn. By midday they had driven enough mounts to the canyon so the women could ride instead of walking.

Once they returned with the horses, Preacher and Crazy Bear dragged off the bodies. There was no question about what would be done with them. The scavengers would feast. Some varmints didn’t deserve buryin’, to Preacher’s way of thinking.

They rode out that afternoon, leaving the grisly scene behind them, and made camp that night several miles away.

The question remained: what were they going to do with twenty-five women and girls who no longer had families and found themselves hundreds of miles from civilization?

“Seems to me there’s only one answer,” Preacher said to Crazy Bear and Mala as they sat beside their campfire that evening, having made a meal on the supplies they’d found in the outlaws’ saddlebags. “I’ll take y’all back down to the Oregon Trail. There are wagon trains comin’ along there every week or so at this time of year, so it shouldn’t be long before you can catch on with one of them and head on west. I think you’ll like Oregon better’n you would have Montana, anyway. It’s a lot more settled.”

“You will not guide the women alone,” Crazy Bear replied when Preacher had translated the plan into the Crow tongue. He looked at Mala. “I will come with you.”

Preacher shrugged. Crazy Bear had his own people to lead, back in the Big Horns, but he supposed the village could get by without him for a while longer.

Mala explained everything to the other women, who were happy to go along with the idea. Some of them would have a hard time putting their ordeal behind them, but a new life in Oregon would be a start.

The whole party left the next morning, riding south. Preacher wouldn’t have been surprised if they ran into more trouble along the way, but for once, that didn’t happen. They reached the North Platte River and the landmark known as Independence Rock a week later. Preacher looked at the deep wagon ruts alongside the stream and knew it was only a matter of time until more immigrants came along.

Crazy Bear stayed that night, but the next morning he went to Preacher and said, “It is time for me to go.”

Preacher nodded. “I know. You have responsibilities you need to take care of.”

“But I will not be going alone.”

Preacher glanced toward the spot where Crazy Bear’s pony waited. Another pony stood beside it, with Mala holding the reins.

“She’s goin’ with you, is she?” Preacher grinned. “I can’t say as I’m surprised. I’ve seen the way you two been lookin’ at each other right along. Learnin’ how to communicate, are you?”

“Yes,” Crazy Bear said solemnly. “Very well.”

“She won’t mind livin’ in a Crow village from now on?”

“She says she wants to be with me, and I want to be with her. What more is there in life?”

“I reckon you’re right about that.” Preacher held out his hand. Crazy Bear had saved his life, and they had fought side by side. Those things created a bond that could never be broken. As they clasped hands, Preacher went on, “If you ever need my help, Crazy Bear, let me know and I’ll come a-runnin’.”

“And the same is true for you, my friend,” the Crow chief said.

Mala ran over and threw her arms around Preacher’s neck, hugging him tightly in farewell. “Thank you for everything,” she said. “Without you, none of us would be here.”

“You held your own in that fight,” Preacher told her. “Reckon you did even more’n your share. You’ll make a good wife for a warrior, right enough.” He paused, then added, “I just hope the young’uns take after you when it comes to their looks, not their pa.”

The mention of children brought a blush from Mala, which surprised him a little. He would have thought she was too bold to blush, but he had long since learned that gals were an infinite source of surprises.

“I meant what I said, Crazy Bear,” Preacher called as his friends mounted up. “If you need me, put the word out. It’ll find me.”

Crazy Bear lifted a hand. “Farewell, Preacher.”

“So long.” Preacher stood and watched them as they rode away, adding softly, “Live a happy life.”