CHAPTER 20
The daring leap wasn’t as foolhardy as it might have appeared. In a lot of places, jumping into the Missouri River from that height would mean a pair of broken legs, at the very least.
But since the river narrowed considerably as it passed through Cougar Bluffs, that meant it deepened as well. Preacher knew that and knew there was enough water for his dive. His feet hit the river and he went deep under the surface, all the way to the bottom, in fact. He kicked against it and shot back up.
He had grabbed a big breath as he fell, but as his head broke back out into the open he was glad to haul in some more air. He started swimming toward the Sentinel with strong strokes. The riverboat wasn’t far away, and it didn’t take Preacher long to reach it.
With water streaming from his buckskins he pulled himself onto the cargo deck and looked toward the stairs. Gunther had appeared from somewhere and met the charge of the pirates. Like two bulls, he and the huge cutthroat with the ax had locked horns, only in this case they were struggling over the blood-smeared weapon, straining and heaving like a couple of primitive titans. Their swaying forms blocked the narrow stairs halfway up to the passenger deck.
Preacher hit the pirates from behind, striking like a whirlwind. He drove his knife deep into the back of one man, ripped the blade free, and flung the corpse to the side. He kicked another man off the boat, slashed the knife across the throat of yet another so that hot blood fountained redly into the air.
The embattled crewmen, inspired by Preacher’s leap from the bluff and his furious attack on the pirates, charged from their hiding places and joined in the fray. In close quarters like this, it was mostly knives and fists and clubs.
The knot of men fighting for their lives surged back and forth across the deck at the foot of the stairs. Above them, Gunther and the big pirate with the ax continued their desperate struggle as well.
Preacher broke free of the melee and started up the stairs just as the big pirate finally succeeded in wrenching his ax back away from Gunther. The blade flashed in the sun as the ax rose and fell twice.
Gunther sagged back on the stairs, a crimson flood springing from the hideous wounds the blows from the weapon had opened on the side of his neck. He pawed weakly at the pirate but couldn’t stop him as the man bounded over him and headed for the passenger deck.
Preacher saw there was nothing he could do for Gunther. The big Prussian was going to bleed to death in a matter of moments. The stairs were already awash with gore around him.
Gunther looked up and met Preacher’s eyes for a second, and the mountain man realized there was something he could do for him after all. He reached down and squeezed Gunther’s shoulder as the light went out of the servant’s eyes.
Then Preacher raced on up the stairs after the killer with the ax.
As he reached the passenger deck, he saw that the pirate had set his sights on Roderick Stahlmaske. Roaring, the man held the ax above his head and thundered toward Roderick, who was still fumbling with his pistol.
Preacher had lost his knife in the battle at the bottom of the stairs, and his tomahawk was still lodged in the skull of the man he had killed on top of the bluff. So he had only his bare hands as he went after the man with the ax.
Suddenly Roderick lifted the pistol with both hands and pulled back the hammer. He aimed it at the charging giant and pulled the trigger. The pistol roared as smoke and flame spouted from its muzzle.
Preacher didn’t know if Roderick had tried to aim or had just fired blind, but either way luck was with him. The ball struck the pirate in the right thigh and knocked that leg out from under him. He fell and hit the deck so hard that the impact jolted the ax out of his hands.
Preacher lunged after the ax as it slid across the deck. He scooped it up and whirled, figuring to use the weapon against its former owner.
The pirate was already back on his feet, though, hobbling toward the edge of the deck as fast as his wounded leg would take him. All the fight had gone out of him. He vaulted over the railing and dropped to the cargo deck.
The injured leg folded up underneath him again when he landed, but this time he just rolled off the boat and disappeared into the river. Preacher didn’t know what was going to happen to the pirate—he hoped the son of a bitch either bled to death or drowned—but he didn’t feel like going after him.
“Are you all right?” he asked Roderick, who was pale and shaking.
“J-ja, I think so,” the young man answered. “That . . . that man . . . he was a behemoth!”
“I reckon,” Preacher agreed.
Roderick stared at the bloody ax in Preacher’s hand.
“He was going to chop me up into small pieces!”
“More than likely. You better reload that gun if you can.”
Roderick swallowed and bobbed his head up and down.
“Yes, I . . . I think I’m getting the hang of it now!”
Preacher went over to the railing and looked down to see that the surviving pirates were fleeing. They must have encountered a lot more resistance than they expected, and when Preacher and Count Stahlmaske had killed the bushwhackers posted on top of the bluffs, that had changed the odds. Those riflemen hadn’t been able to pick off the defenders from above, as the pirates had probably been counting on.
Roderick followed the mountain man to the railing and pointed the pistol at the canoes.
“Should I try to shoot one of them?” he asked.
Preacher shook his head. That might just draw some return fire, and Roderick had already had one narrow escape today. No need for the youngster to push his luck.
“No, let ’em go,” Preacher said. “We bloodied ’em pretty good. They’ll probably be holed up somewhere lickin’ their wounds for a long time.”
A few final shots from the crew members hurried the pirates on their way. The canoes disappeared around the next bend, going as fast as their occupants could paddle them. Preacher didn’t see the ax-wielding giant among them and hoped the bastard was at the bottom of the Missouri River by now.
Simon Russell hurried along the deck toward Preacher and Roderick. He called, “Preacher! Are you all right?”
“Better than I got any right to be, I reckon,” Preacher replied with a nod.
“I saw that dive from the bluff. You’re right, you ought to be dead after doing something that crazy!” Russell looked at the younger man and added, “How about you, Herr Stahlmaske?”
Roderick nodded.
“I’m fine, thanks to Preacher.”
“No thanks to me,” the mountain man said. “You winged that big varmint on your own.”
“Pure luck, I assure you.”
“We all need some on our side now and then.” Preacher turned back to Russell. “Have you seen the captain?”
Before Russell could answer, the boat’s whistle blew. Preacher looked up to see Warner standing in the pilot house, evidently unharmed. The captain waved down at them and called, “I’ll put in to shore as soon as we’re clear of the bluffs!”
“That’s a good idea,” Preacher said. “We’ll need to see just how badly everybody’s hurt.”
Two members of the crew had been killed in the fighting. Gunther was the only servant to be killed or even wounded. All three men were laid to rest that evening in graves dug on a hillside overlooking the river.
The half-dozen dead pirates had been shoved over the side into the Big Muddy. The fish could dispose of them, and good riddance, thought Preacher. He had taken a tomahawk off one of the corpses to replace the one he’d lost in the river.
Leading Horse, Count Stahlmaske had ridden along the bluffs until he could get back down to the river and rendezvous with the Sentinel. If he was relieved that his brother, uncle, and fiancée had come through the attack all right, he didn’t really show it. He was, however, upset that Gunther had been killed.
“True, he was a thick-headed brute with a bad temper,” the count said as he talked with Preacher, Russell, Allingham, and Warner on the passenger deck that evening after the burials, “but he was quite useful at times.”
“There’s a good chance he saved your brother’s life by slowin’ down that fella with the ax,” Preacher said. “That gave Roderick time to get his gun loaded. Then he was lucky enough to actually hit the varmint.”
“Luck indeed. Roderick has never been a good shot.”
Allingham said, “I’m told you made an incredible leap from the bluff, Preacher.”
“Just figured I’d better get down to the boat as fast as I could,” the mountain man said with a shrug. “I knew you folks could use my help.”
“Now, now, no false modesty. Everyone came through with flying colors today. Those pirates were whipped so thoroughly I wager they’ll think twice before attacking us or any other riverboat ever again.”
Preacher hoped the senator was right about that. The Sentinel still had to get the rest of the way to the Yellowstone River—and back.
Claude Binnion listened to the curses of angry men and the moans of wounded ones. The only one who wasn’t carrying on was Big Wedge, who maintained a stoic silence as Binnion cleaned the hole in his leg with corn liquor and then bandaged it tightly.
“You’ll be able to get around a little, Wedge,” Binnion said as he sat back from the chore. “You probably ought to stay off the leg as much as you can for a few days, though.”
“All right, Claude. Thanks for helpin’ me. I thought I was a goner.”
“You damn near were. If we hadn’t spotted you and pulled you out of the river, you might’ve drowned.”
The remaining pirates were several miles upstream from Cougar Bluffs. They had pulled their canoes ashore, hidden them in some brush, and then made camp several hundred yards away from the river. They weren’t in any shape to fight again so soon, so Binnion hoped the riverboat would just steam on past without anyone noticing them.
From where he hunkered near a small fire, glaring into the flames like a greenhorn, Hackney said bitterly, “We should’ve jumped the sons o’ bitches yesterday. We could’ve taken over the boat then. They wouldn’t have been able to stop us.”
Binnion stood up and walked over to the fire. He said, “If you’ve got something to say to me, Jed, you better say it to my face. Otherwise I might not hear it.”
“Sorry, Claude,” Hackney muttered, still without looking up. “Forget it.”
“No, I mean it,” Binnion went on. “If you think somebody besides me can do a better job of leading this bunch, I want to know about it. Maybe you?”
As he spoke, Binnion let his hand rest on the bone grips of the big knife sheathed at his waist. The camp had gone quiet. Even the wounded men had stopped moaning.
“Hell, no,” Hackney replied hastily. “I never said I was any kind of leader.”
“That’s right, you didn’t.” Binnion looked around at the other men. “Anybody else here want to speak up?”
No one did.
“I know things didn’t work out today like I planned,” Binnion went on after a moment. “I’ve led you boys to plenty of good loot in the past, though, and I damn sure will again. Today was just bad luck all around.”
Wedge said, “What happened today was that Preacher was there.”
Binnion turned to stare at him and repeated, “Preacher?”
“He was there, Claude, I swear it. I seen him once in St. Louis. Somebody pointed him out to me that day, and I ain’t never forgot. He was the fella who killed our men on the bluff and then jumped into the river from up there.”
“Wedge is right, Claude,” Bracknell said. “I saw him, too, and now that Wedge mentioned his name, I know why he looked familiar. That was Preacher, sure enough. He killed more of our men than the rest of that bunch put together.”
“Well, that just means we’ve got a score to settle with this Preacher fella,” Binnion said with soft menace. “Mark my words, there’ll come a time when we see Preacher again, and it’ll be sooner than he thinks. And this time . . . he’ll be the one who dies.”