The Lakota war party arrived at their campsite to find the village gone. Much to Many Horses and his followers’ alarm, there were signs of a fight there on the banks of the river. Tipis were left standing, although some of them were half burned and most were riddled with bullet holes. Articles of clothing and utensils were scattered about, evidence of a hasty flight. The bodies of several ponies lay dead where the herd had grazed. Near one of the tipis, the body of a cavalry mount gave testimony as to who had raided the village.
“Soldiers,” Many Horses uttered in anger. All about him, his warriors moaned in despair as they searched for any sign that might give them news of their families’ fate. After a careful, though hasty, scout, it was determined that most of the village must have escaped. There were no bodies found, other than those of the horses, although there were some patches of blood on the grass, telling of wounds or possible deaths. The route of escape by the village was easy to determine. The people had fled along the riverbank, the men taking cover in the gullies to hold the soldiers at bay while the women and children crossed over to the other side. All signs indicated that the village had escaped with minimal casualties. The soldiers had evidently stopped short of following the fleeing Lakota across the river. After an attempt to burn the tipis down, they had retreated to the southeast, apparently headed toward Fort Laramie.
Jordan found himself in an uncomfortable position as the lone white man in the midst of an apprehensive war party. He felt compassion for the warriors who had returned to find their families and friends gone. It was difficult for him to decide how he felt about the raid on the Lakota village. Was it in retaliation for a raid on a white farm or settlement? He did not forget that Many Horses and his warriors were just returning from a war party to chase miners from their sacred land in the Black Hills. He had to admit that he could sympathize with the Indians’ attitude on that particular problem. The white man had no business in Paha Sapa. Now he wondered if the friendly attitude exhibited by Many Horses’ warriors might suddenly turn on the lone white man. A man might make friends with a pack of wolves as long as they’re well fed. It might be a different matter if they’re hungry. With that thought in mind, he nudged his rifle slightly to make sure it was riding free and easy in the saddle sling. Then he gave Sweet Pea a gentle kick and guided her toward the riverbank. He had it in his mind to be ready to take a quick swim if the Sioux decided to turn on him.
“This is the second time the soldiers have attacked our village.” Jordan turned to see Red Feather riding toward him. “They want us to live on the reservation and give up our way of life. So they come into our villages to kill our women and children. A Lakota warrior cannot live on the white man’s reservation. My people have hunted this land for many years before the first white man ever set foot on it. How can the white man claim that all the land belongs to him?”
Jordan had no answer for that. He knew in his heart that he could not dispute Red Feather’s words, realizing also that he would feel the same way if he were in his Indian friend’s place. He felt as if he should apologize for the greed of his race, but he was smart enough to know that it was inevitable that civilization, as the white man knew it, would push the red man onto reservations—or wipe him out completely. Like most white men, Jordan had never given the right or wrong of the conflict with the Indians a great deal of thought. This was the first time he was forced to view it from the Indians’ point of view.
Red Feather did not expect an answer to his question. He could see the empathy in Jordan’s eyes and knew that his friend could not answer for the government’s policies. “We must go now to find our people,” he said abruptly. “You, my friend, must go your own way. There may be some in my village who would want to avenge their loss by killing you. They may be in too much grief to understand that you are not our enemy.”
Jordan nodded solemnly. He could not deny a great feeling of relief, now that it appeared he was not going to have to fight his way out. “Much obliged,” he said and turned his horse toward the open prairie.
Red Feather reached over to place a hand on Jordan’s forearm. “I will never forget that you saved my life.”
Jordan nodded and nudged Sweet Pea with his heels. As he started along the riverbank, Many Horses pulled his pony to a halt to watch the white man leave. When Jordan looked his way, the war chief called out something in the Lakota tongue and, knowing Jordan could not understand, made the sign of peace. Jordan again nodded and returned the gesture.
Once he was free of the village, Jordan let Sweet Pea lope along for a distance until he was sure some of the younger hot bloods in the war party didn’t have it in their minds to come after him. If he had been fluent in the Lakota tongue, he would have known that Many Horses had reminded his warriors that Jordan was a friend to the Lakota.
* * *
The lone dark figure that lay flat on the top of a hill, his massive body hidden by the sage and the new spring grass, watched the warriors as they searched through the ruins of their village. For two days, he had followed the war party, sleeping very little each night as he slinked around the perimeter of their camps, searching for the opportunity he prayed for. But there had been no occasion when Jordan Gray was apart from his Indian friends. The blood that pumped through his veins was filled with his bitter hatred for the white man who had slain his sons. His frustration grew daily while he had followed the party’s trail. The few hours at night when he closed his eyes were filled with visions of his sons and, most often, Zeb’s ragged scalp. Out of the mountains and over the hills, he had trailed them, lagging far enough behind to escape their detection. Each mile intensified his anger to the point he had now reached. He demanded vengeance. His tormented mind insisted that God deliver his enemy unto him. And just as he was set to admonish God Himself for protecting the Philistine, the Lord yielded to his demands. Jordan Gray parted from his heathen friends and rode off alone.
Knowing that vengeance was his at last, Preacher backed away from the brow of the hill and hurried down into the ravine where he had left his horse. Once mounted, he rode along the ravine to its lower end, paralleling the route Jordan had taken. By the time he emerged from the mouth of the ravine, his quarry had turned toward the south. Heading straight for Fort Laramie, Preacher thought, a satisfied smile spreading across his face. I’ll have him long before he gets there. Taking a cautious glance over his shoulder to make sure the Lakota war party was riding west, he set out after his prey.
Preacher, sure of himself now, was content to trail Jordan at a distance. The open prairie made it difficult to catch up without being discovered, so he took care not to get too close. He would claim his vengeance in the black of night, striking out of the darkness with the swiftness of the Lord’s mighty sword. His tortured mind told him that the Lord was pleased that he was going to slay this Philistine. I will cut off his head and mount it on a stake in the ground as a monument to the wrath of the Lord.
* * *
Jordan let Sweet Pea set the pace as he set out across the rolling hills of grass. The Niobrara River was perhaps a day’s ride, maybe more. He was in no particular hurry. The more he delayed in reaching Fort Laramie, the longer he could entertain the possibility that Kathleen might have changed her mind about marrying Lieutenant Wallace. As the afternoon wore on, and the sun settled lower and lower, he turned his attention toward finding a place to camp. There was going to be a full moon that night. He could already see it hanging large and ghostly silver in the afternoon sky.
Just at dusk, he came upon a deep ravine and a small stream that ran down the center. Probably runs down to the Niobrara, he thought, figuring that he could not be that far from the river. Right here is about as good as I’ll find. Sweet Pea, making a decision on her own, walked down to the water and stopped. She tossed her head back to give Jordan a look that told him this was as far as she intended to go.
With flint and steel, he started a fire in the crook of a gully, where he was protected from the cool breeze. Feeding the flames with dead grass and pine twigs, he soon kindled a healthy blaze. It was going to soon be a cold camp, he figured, because the branches were not plentiful. Since there had been no opportunity to kill any game, he was also going to have another supper of hard jerky. Even that was going to be lacking, for upon rummaging through his saddlebags, he found he was down to his last two strips of the tough meat. Tomorrow, I hunt, he promised himself.
* * *
Like the unblinking eye of God, a full moon rode low over the lonely prairie. Bathed in its light, the rocks and ridges stood out in stark relief, casting deep shadows that filled the draws and gullies with deep pools of darkness. Aided by the moon, and knowing in his mind that it was sent to light his way, Preacher guided his horse down into a shallow ravine and dismounted. With the unhurried calm of an executioner, he checked his rifle to make sure it was fully loaded, then cranked a cartridge into the chamber. Satisfied that all was ready, he climbed the side of the ravine and stood at the top, staring out across the moonlit prairie. His intense gaze sweeping slowly across the rolling hills, he searched for the clue that would pinpoint his prey. Patiently, he scanned the prairie before him, firm in the knowledge that Jordan Gray was close, too close to proceed on horseback, so he started walking, leaving his horse to graze in the ravine.
All afternoon, the trail had not wavered in its direction. It had been easy for Preacher to determine that Jordan was following a line of distant hills. That much was obvious. Once, he had topped a ridge and caught sight of Jordan, causing him to quickly back down the slope lest his prey happened to turn to look behind him. Now, as he stepped cautiously forward, avoiding the patches of sage scattered carelessly along the rim, he constantly searched back and forth, stopping every few seconds to listen. After listening for a moment, he started to step again when he was stopped cold by a sound off to his right. He waited, straining to hear. There it was again, and he was sure now. It was a horse whinnying. He stared in the direction whence it had come, seeing nothing for a few seconds. Then he caught sight of what he was searching for: a thin, dark wisp of smoke barely discernable in the bright moonlight. A smug sinister smile spread slowly across his dark face. Vengeance is mine, he thought and started toward the ravine, each foot carefully placed so as not to make a sound that might announce his presence.
As he approached the rim of the ravine from which the smoke was rising, he dropped to one knee when he heard the horse snort and blow. Damn you, he thought, picturing the homely mount that Jordan Gray rode and fearing that she would alert her master. Rising once more, he hurried over the side of the ravine, and dropped to one knee again. Beyond the dying campfire, he could see the dark outline of the horse standing in the shadows of the ravine, but nothing else. Damn you, he again silently cursed Sweet Pea and raised his rifle to settle with her, but he stopped before pulling the trigger when common sense told him that shooting would give his position away. When I’m done with him, he silently promised her, lowering his rifle. Knowing that Jordan had to be in the gully somewhere, he moved to a better position to cover the narrow opening. Shadows in the gully made it too dark for him to see his target, but he was content to wait for daybreak when the sun would light the ravine for him. He was ideally positioned to trap his quarry when Jordan tried to come out of the gully.
While Preacher knelt, waiting and watching, Jordan crawled up the far side of the ravine, working his way around the dark assassin. He had been sleeping fitfully, trying his best to keep warm by the puny sagebrush fire, when he was awakened by Sweet Pea’s whinny. Accustomed to paying attention to warning noises from the cantankerous horse, he was instantly alert and listening. When the horse snorted, Jordan didn’t hesitate. He grabbed his rifle and rolled over the edge of the gully into the shadows. Something, or someone, was approaching his camp, and whatever it was, it was approaching without announcing its presence. It could be a wolf, he considered, but it was more likely an Indian. Red Feather had told him that there had been other war parties sent out from his village. He hoped this was not the case, having just made friends with Many Horses and the rest of the Lakota war party he had recently left. He didn’t care for the prospect of killing one of Red Feather’s brethren.
Out of the shadow of the ravine now, he kept as low as he could manage. The moon had drifted almost to the opposite horizon since he had fallen asleep, but it still bathed the prairie in its light. Consequently, Jordan judged it safest to make a wide circle around his camp in hopes of getting behind his visitor, still not certain there was anything out there. What if the damn fool horse was just blowing at the wind? He would feel pretty damn silly if that were the case. But Sweet Pea generally did not snort at the wind. Seconds later, Jordan’s doubts were dissolved when he crawled up to the rim of the ravine to discover a dark figure kneeling in a patch of brush some fifty yards down the ravine. He knew at once who his visitor was. Preacher Rix! There could be no mistaking the massive bulk of the self-proclaimed preacher. There was no hesitating on Jordan’s part. He raised his rifle and aimed at the center of the dark mass. In his resolve to rid the world of this evil that preyed upon honest men, Jordan forgot that his rifle was not cocked. He had not wished to alert anyone to his location by throwing the lever of the Winchester while he had crawled out of the ravine, so he had waited until he was ready to fire. Now, having forgotten the chamber was empty, he squeezed the trigger slowly, only to realize his oversight. As quickly as he could, he reached up and cocked the rifle.
Below him on the slope of the steep ravine, Preacher reacted to the metallic sound immediately. His nerves already taunt and anxious, he flung his body to the ground, rolling over and over down the slope amid a hailstorm of forty-five slugs ripping the ground around him. Frustrated after having missed his chance, Jordan cocked and fired as fast as he could, hoping for a lucky shot as Preacher disappeared in the deep shadows of the ravine.
Realizing the dangerous position he was now in, Jordan scrambled to his feet and ran down to the bottom of the dark draw, anxious to escape from the moonlight. As he expected, his flight was spurred on by a barrage of return fire from Preacher. Both men were at the ravine bottom now. Jordan splashed across the tiny stream and knelt to reload his rifle. He guessed Preacher was doing the same thing.
At the far end of the ravine, Preacher snarled in anger as he sought to catch his breath. He had lost his black hat in his desperate roll down the slope, and he could feel the chill of the night wind on his bald dome. The sensation served to make him even more angry. His rifle reloaded, he fired several shots toward the opposite end of the ravine. Jordan watched carefully, noting the muzzle flash in the darkness; then he returned fire. Preacher grunted in pain as one of Jordan’s shots caught him in the shoulder and spun him around. Hearing Preacher grunt, Jordan knew he was hit. He started to advance along the stream toward his adversary, moving carefully, his eyes straining to peer through the darkness. Preacher was wounded, but how seriously? Jordan was not willing to rush headlong into an ambush. A wounded bear was a dangerous bear.
Cursing the lucky shot that now burned in his shoulder, numbing his right arm, Preacher crossed the stream to seek better cover. Grunting with pain, he tried to hold his rifle up to take aim, but his arm seemed to have lost all feeling, and try as he might, he could not raise it to even grasp the trigger. His brain almost choked with rage, he cursed God for forsaking him, knowing he was doomed if he stood his ground. There was no choice but to run. With his rifle in his left hand and his right arm hanging uselessly, he lumbered toward the gully and the horse standing there. Sweet Pea, having bolted when the shots were fired, had stopped several yards from the dying campfire and now stood there watching the strange man stumble toward her. She remained motionless until it became apparent what Preacher had in mind. Certain in her independent way that she had no desire to be ridden by the desperate man, she promptly turned tail and galloped up the side of the ravine, leaving Preacher to hurl curses after her. With no other option before him, he ran along the stream until he felt it safe to climb up from the ravine and scramble down the other side.
Back in the shadows, Jordan could not see what was happening on the other side of the gully where he had built his fire, but he heard Preacher cursing his horse. Moving carefully along the stream, he was startled by the sudden charge of Sweet Pea out into the moonlight. He would have called out to her, but he was still not certain what he was facing. When he finally spotted Preacher, it was too late to get a clean shot because the huge man was disappearing over the edge of the ravine. Without hesitating, Jordan took off after him, running without regard to safety now. Preacher was wounded, but it was hard to say if the wound was mortal. He was moving pretty fast for a dying man. Jordan could only guess why Preacher chose to run instead of fighting back. It was unlikely the relentless stalker would give up this easily unless he was hurt too badly to fight.
Sprinting up the slope of the ravine, Jordan flung himself on the ground at the top. Panting from the exertion, he lay flat on his belly while he peered over the rim of the ravine, searching for Preacher. There was no sign of the huge man. Jordan scanned the moonlit prairie from horizon to horizon. It lay before his gaze, an endless sea of rolling hills and shadowed gullies and cutbacks. Preacher could be in any of a number of dark channels that ran between the hills. Jordan hesitated before exposing himself in the moonlight. He would be an easy target silhouetted against the rim of the ravine. Gradually his breathing settled down, and he listened for any sound that might lead him to Preacher. There was nothing until a distant pounding of hooves toward the east suddenly caused him to jerk his head in that direction. Preacher was getting away! Still Jordan could not catch sight of him. He sprang to his feet, and ran toward the sound, just in time to catch one final glimpse of the fleeing man as his horse came up from a dark draw and crossed over a ridge several hundred yards away. In that brief second, Jordan couldn’t tell how badly the man was hurt. Preacher was lying low across his horse’s neck. Whether it was because of his wound, or just to present as small a target as possible, Jordan couldn’t say. One thing was certain—he had too great a lead for Jordan to go after him.
“He made his move and got himself shot for his efforts,” Jordan observed aloud. “Maybe that’ll be the end of it.” He stood there, staring at the last place he had glimpsed the murderer. “Maybe he’s draggin’ his ass off somewhere to bleed to death.” He turned around and gazed back toward the narrow gully where he had made his camp. If it wasn’t for that ugly coyote of a horse of mine, I’d probably be lying dead in that gully.
He suddenly felt weary of the killing and fighting that had become his life over the past year. It was not a lifestyle for a man who craved peace as much as he. Yet it seemed that trouble had a way of finding him. “I need to change my life,” he announced to the pale moon now hanging low on the horizon and already fading in submission to the coming sun. Having automatically started thinking about tracking Preacher when daylight allowed, he abruptly made a new decision. “To hell with him!” he blurted. “I’m goin’ to Fort Laramie.” Suddenly he felt an urgency to return to the army post as quickly as possible. There might still be a chance he could persuade Kathleen that he could settle down and raise a family. It might give her pause to consider him. He couldn’t stand the thought of her with that arrogant lieutenant. The decision made, he hurried back down to the gully to round up his horse. It would still be an hour or so before the sun cleared the hills to the east, but he was intent on starting out at once. He was convinced that he had seen the last of Preacher Rix, but it didn’t make sense to remain in a spot where Preacher could find him. He was soon in the saddle and heading south, although his stomach reminded him that there was still the problem of food.