Preacher's Rage by William W. Johnstone

Author:William W. Johnstone
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Kensington
Published: 2018-10-03T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 19

“Charlie!” Preacher called as he ran. “Charlie, sing out!”

“Up here, Preacher!” came the response from up ahead. Preacher angled a little to the right and caught up with Charlie a few moments later. The young trapper was running as hard as he could, but he didn’t have Preacher’s speed. Preacher slowed down to pace him.

“They’re going to . . . come after us . . . aren’t they?” Charlie puffed.

Preacher heard shouts from behind them and said, “They already are. But we’re gonna give ’em the slip!”

“How? There are . . . too many . . .”

Preacher grasped Charlie’s arm and changed his course a little. “See that star low to the horizon right in front of us? Keep headin’ toward it and you’ll get back to our camp. I’m gonna slow those varmints down.”

“Preacher, you can’t . . . They’ll kill you!”

“They’ll have a hell of a time tryin’! Now go!”

Preacher gave Charlie a push to head him in the right direction, then stopped and swung around to face the pursuit. The Blackfeet were too close behind him. He could already see their darting shapes. He didn’t have time to reload his rifle and pistols.

So he knelt, placed his empty rifle on the ground, slid his knife from its sheath, and pulled the tomahawk from behind his belt.

The grass was tall enough that the pursuers would have a hard time spotting him until they were right on top of him. They had to be expecting him to continue fleeing, instead of waiting for them to catch up to him. Only a madman would do that.

A madman . . . or Preacher.

As several Blackfeet raced past him, Preacher exploded up from the ground, swung the tomahawk into the back of one warrior’s neck, and thrust the knife into the side of another. Both men went down in the loose sprawl of death. Preacher whirled, and another man’s skull crunched under the tomahawk’s impact, after which came a slashing knife stroke too swift for the eye to follow, and a warrior stumbled and gagged as blood, black in the moonlight, flooded from the gaping wound in his throat. Preacher ducked under a sweeping tomahawk and swung his with enough force that it almost decapitated the warrior who had struck at him. In three heartbeats, maybe a shade less, Preacher had killed five men.

Those five were the vanguard of the pursuit, but more were coming hard on their heels. Muzzle flame spurted redly from a couple of rifles. Preacher heard the balls hum past his head. He drove hard into the next bunch before they had a chance to reload, and again blood fell like rain as he spun and twisted among them, wielding the knife and tomahawk.

The Blackfeet were at a disadvantage. The poor light made it difficult to tell friend from foe, but Preacher didn’t have that problem. Anywhere he struck, the blow landed on an enemy. Four Blackfoot warriors were in the second group, and they all fell in a matter of seconds, dead or dying.

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