CHAPTER 19
Claude Binnion waited in the middle of the lead canoe, his hands wrapped tightly around the flintlock rifle he held. Behind him was Big Wedge, the most powerful paddler in the gang. In the front of the canoe sat a man named Hiram Bracknell, also a strong paddler and a good shot with both rifle and pistol.
The other canoes bobbed on the river just behind the spot where Binnion’s canoe floated. A few yards away, the rocky bluff jutted out into the Missouri, forming one of the sharp bends that the stream took as it passed through Cougar Bluffs. Because of that bend, Binnion couldn’t see the approaching riverboat but he could sure hear it, both the rumbling engine and the splashing paddle wheel at the back of the vessel.
Binnion looked around at his men and grinned in anticipation. Some of them had been a little surly since the day before when he had vetoed the idea of attacking the riverboat while some of the male passengers were gone. Binnion had stuck stubbornly to his plan, though, and now they were all going to see that he had made the right decision.
He looked up at the bluff on the near side of the river. Two riflemen were posted up there, good marksmen who would pepper the pilot house with shots. A third man was on the far bluff, charged with the same task. If any of them got a clear shot at whoever was handling the wheel, Binnion had told them to go ahead and kill him. At the very least their shots would make the pilot dive for cover.
That wouldn’t make the engine quit, of course, but with no one at the wheel the Sentinel would have to come to a halt. The river was too narrow here—no more than fifty yards across—and had too many bends to risk steaming on blindly. The boat would crash into the bluff on one side or the other unless it stopped.
As soon as the boat began to slow, the men waiting in the canoes would spring into action. Wedge and the other paddlers could drive the sleek, lightweight craft across the river’s surface at a fast rate of speed. They would pull alongside the Sentinel before the crew could mount a defense and leap aboard to wipe them out.
Then would come the best part: gathering up the loot.
Which in this case included women.
Binnion’s heart slugged heavily in his chest at the thought. It had been a while since he’d had a woman. He intended to claim the best-looking one for himself, and none of the others would dare to argue with him.
Anyway, they all knew they could have her when he was done with her. They would just have to be careful not to kill her. She would be worth money when Binnion got around to selling her. Any white woman was, out here on the frontier.
The boat’s engine was loud enough now that he knew it would be only a matter of minutes, maybe even seconds, before it rounded the bend. He could even see the black smoke from its stacks rising above the bluff.
Binnion glanced back at Wedge and asked, “Ready?”
The big man grinned and nodded.
The Sentinel’s bow came into view, followed by the passenger deck and pilot house and the twin stacks.
From atop the bluffs, shots boomed, echoing back from the limestone cliffs. Binnion saw the figure in the pilot house disappear. The man was either hit or had dropped to the floor to get out of the line of fire. The paddle wheel began to slow down.
“Go!” Binnion shouted to Wedge and Bracknell. “Get us out there!”
Powerful muscles drove paddles into the water, and the canoe sprang forward. The others were right behind.
Shots banged from the riverboat’s cargo deck. The crew was ready to do battle, Binnion realized. They hadn’t been taken by surprise after all. Somebody on board had suspected that they might be steaming into an ambush.
But it didn’t make any difference. Everything in life carried risks. As far as Binnion was concerned, a man had never really lived until he had put his own life on the line and seized whatever he wanted.
Rifle balls plunked into the muddy water not far from the canoes, raising little splashes. The lightweight bark craft were moving so fast, though, that it was difficult to draw a bead on them. Binnion always launched his attacks at an angle, too, so the man in the middle in each boat who wasn’t paddling had an unobstructed line of fire at the defenders.
Binnion spotted a man kneeling behind one of the crates on the cargo deck. He lifted his rifle to his shoulder, smoothly earing back the hammer as he did so. He settled his sights on the little bit of the man’s head he could see and pressed the trigger. The rifle boomed and kicked back against his shoulder.
When the smoke from the exploding powder cleared a second later, Binnion saw the man sprawled on the deck next to the crate, his head a gory mess where the heavy lead ball had blown away a good chunk of it. He started reloading as more shots came from the other canoes.
By the time Binnion had his rifle ready to fire again, Wedge and Bracknell expertly brought the canoe alongside the riverboat. With the ease of long experience, Binnion stood up and leaped from the canoe onto the Sentinel’s deck. Wedge was right behind him, wielding his favorite weapon, a double-bitted ax. The big man handled the ax as easily as anyone else would a tomahawk.
Blood and slaughter, Binnion thought as his lips drew back from his teeth in a grimace. Two of his favorite things in the world. The only things he liked better were money and women.
And soon he would have those prizes as well.
Preacher didn’t know how many riflemen were hidden in the trees on top of the bluff. If there was just one, the varmint would have to reload before he could fire again.
Unless, of course, he had a second rifle. Or some pistols.
Preacher knew he’d just have to risk that. Besides, with Horse running at top speed, it wouldn’t take long to cover the ground between Preacher and the enemy.
Count Stahlmaske pushed his mount into a hard gallop, too, but the valiant animal couldn’t keep up with Horse. Neither could Dog. But all of them headed for the bluff overlooking the river as fast as they could.
Over the thundering hoofbeats, Preacher heard more shots. That meant the rest of the river pirates were attacking the Sentinel. He hoped the folks on the boat could hold out long enough for him to give them a hand.
As he reached the trees, a rifle roared again somewhere close by. This time the ball came close enough that he felt the heat of its breath on his cheek as it went by.
He had the ambusher spotted now, though, and as he dived from the saddle with his rifle in one hand he jerked the tomahawk from behind his belt with the other. He rolled over as he landed and came up throwing at the man who crouched next to a limestone boulder, feverishly trying to reload.
Preacher’s aim was true. With a thunk!, the tomahawk’s blade struck the pirate in the center of the forehead, splitting his skull like a melon and cleaving into his brain. He dropped his rifle and staggered backward, pretty much dead on his feet already, just a creature of spasming nerves and muscles.
He disappeared, plummeting off the edge of the bluff without even a scream.
Preacher ran toward the river with his rifle, his gaze darting among the trees and brush as he searched for more of the pirates. He didn’t see any on this side of the river, but as he reached the edge of the bluff and looked across the stream, he spotted more powder smoke on the opposite side.
He wasn’t surprised to see that the pirates had put marksmen on the other side of the river as well. He saw a rifle flash over there, then lifted his own weapon and fired at the spot.
The brush thrashed for a second, then a man appeared clutching his chest with his left hand. He had a pistol in his right hand, and as he stumbled forward he tried to raise the gun and fire. The range was really too far for a handgun, but the pirate must have realized that Preacher had mortally wounded him and was just trying for one last shot before he died.
He didn’t make it. He went off the edge of the bluff, too, and as he fell the gun in his hand discharged harmlessly into the air. This man still had a scream left in him as he fell the fifty feet to the river’s surface. The big splash when he hit the water swallowed his dying shriek.
Preacher glanced down at the river. He couldn’t see Captain Warner in the pilot house, and the big paddle wheel had come to a stop with water dripping from the blades that weren’t submerged in the river. Canoes full of pirates swarmed on the river on the far side of the boat. Men leaped from the smaller craft onto the cargo deck. Guns blasted and shouted curses filled the air.
A rifle went off to Preacher’s left. When he looked in that direction he saw the count standing there with gray smoke curling from the barrel of his weapon. Across the river, another body rolled out of the brush. This man didn’t fall off the bluff. He died before he could get there, lying on his back with his arms flung out to the side.
“He was drawing a bead on you,” Stahlmaske said.
Preacher nodded and said, “I’m obliged to you. That was a good shot.”
“It would appear that we are even now,” Stahlmaske said coolly.
Preacher wasn’t going to argue the point, but the situations weren’t exactly the same, he thought. The count might well have saved his life, but they couldn’t be completely certain of that. The pirate might have missed.
And Preacher hadn’t been engaged in doing something incredibly stupid at the time, either.
He shoved that out of his mind and looked down at the riverboat as he reloaded. The battle continued on board the Sentinel. Several of the pirates had made it onto the riverboat, but a couple of them lay sprawled on the deck, cut down by pistol fire from the crew.
The crewmen were pinned down at the moment, though, by rifle fire coming from the pirates still in the canoes. Warner’s men had to stay low behind the crates of supplies and couldn’t put up much of a fight anymore.
Simon Russell fired two pistols from the passenger deck, then had to duck back as rifle and pistol balls swarmed around him.
“Mein Gott!” the count exclaimed. “Is that my brother?”
It was Roderick, all right. He had come out onto the passenger deck and had a pistol in his hand. He seemed to be struggling to load it.
“Does he know how to use a gun?” Preacher asked grimly.
“Not well,” Stahlmaske said. “He should be somewhere safe.”
“If those pirates take over the boat, there won’t be nowhere safe down there.” Something else caught Preacher’s eye, and he stiffened as he saw several of the pirates, led by a brown-bearded giant waving an ax around almost like it was a toy, charge toward the stairs leading up to the passenger deck.
If those murderous bastards reached the boat’s second level, there was no telling how much bloody havoc they might wreak.
Preacher muttered, “Oh, hell,” and shoved his empty rifle into the hands of the startled Count Stahlmaske. He took off his powder horn and handed it to the nobleman as well. “Hang on to these for me, would you?”
He pulled his pistols from his belt, dropped them on the ground, and turned toward the edge of the bluff. He leaped off, his hat flying into the air, and plunged toward the river straight as an arrow.