CHAPTER 22
Preacher’s diminutive friend Audie could recite much of Shakespeare’s work, and Preacher had spent many an evening around a campfire listening to the former professor spout lines from the plays written by the man Audie called the Bard of Avon.
It seemed like all those plays were packed full of treachery and sneaking around and folks carrying on shamelessly with people they weren’t married to, even the ones that were supposed to be comedies.
The whole situation on the Sentinel was starting to remind Preacher of one of those plays.
The atmosphere on board the riverboat was tense the next day. Allingham and the count stayed well clear of each other. Any time one of them was in the salon, the other wasn’t.
Margaret Allingham stayed in her cabin all day, as did Gretchen Ritter. Gretchen must have heard about what had happened and was embarrassed to show her face after it had been revealed to everyone on board that her fiancé was a philanderer. And Margaret, Preacher thought, was just embarrassed, period. One of the female servants took meals to both women.
Preacher, Russell, and Captain Warner were in the pilot house late that afternoon when they heard someone climbing the stairs. A moment later the door opened and Josiah Allingham lumbered in, a gloomy expression on his face.
Preacher wasn’t too happy to see the senator. He had come up here to get away from the drama and trouble going on down on the passenger deck.
“Gentlemen, is it all right if I join you?” Allingham asked.
The pilot house wasn’t very big, but having four people in it wouldn’t be too crowded. Without that to use as an excuse, Preacher supposed the captain couldn’t deny Allingham entrance.
“Sure, come on in, Senator,” Warner said gruffly. “You haven’t been up here yet, have you?”
“No, I haven’t,” Allingham replied as he stepped inside and closed the door behind him. He looked around through the open windows and went on, “You really have a spectacular view from up here, don’t you?”
“Best on the river,” Warner agreed. “You take one of those bigger boats, the side-wheelers that go up and down the Mississippi to New Orleans, and they have an extra deck on ’em that puts the pilot house up even higher. You can really see from one of those. But I like this boat, myself.” He chuckled. “She and I seem to understand each other.”
“Like in a good marriage,” Allingham said, and that cast an immediate pall on the conversation. He hurried on, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
Russell told him, “Don’t worry about it, Senator. I reckon all of us have had our share of personal problems at one time or another.”
“I just wish mine hadn’t ruined this journey for everyone.”
“The journey’s not ruined,” Warner said. “We’re still going to the mouth of the Yellowstone, and when we get there we’ll be trading with trappers who come from a hundred miles or more all around. I expect we’ll take on a mighty fine load of pelts, just as planned. No offense, Senator, but that’s all the American Fur Company really cares about.”
“I don’t suppose, then, that there’s any chance we could turn around and go back now?”
The other three men in the pilot house stared at the senator. Preacher was as surprised as Russell and Warner, but he didn’t figure this discussion was really any of his business, so he kept his mouth shut.
Warner finally answered the senator’s question by saying, “I reckon I’d probably lose my job as the captain of this boat if I did that.”
“And I’d be out of a job, too,” Russell added. “The company’s counting on me to deliver that load of pelts.”
Allingham sighed and nodded.
“I shouldn’t have even asked,” he said. “I just thought, if there was some way to put a stop to this misery . . .”
“We’re all mighty sorry for your troubles, Senator,” Russell told him, “but we have our own responsibilities.”
“Of course you do. Please, just forget I said anything.” Allingham turned to go, then paused. “If I could just . . . talk to someone about what happened . . .”
Preacher, Russell, and Warner glanced at each other like they all wished they were somewhere else right now. Just about anywhere else, in fact.
“You don’t want to do that, Senator,” Russell said after a few seconds. “It’ll just make you feel worse.”
“You’re probably right. Are you married, Simon?”
“No, sir. Never have been.”
“What about you, Captain?”
“Going on thirty years,” Warner replied. “Six children and nine grandchildren so far.”
Allingham smiled. “That’s wonderful. I hope to have grandchildren some day.”
Considering how hot-blooded the senator’s daughter seemed to be, Preacher figured that was pretty well inevitable. He kept that thought to himself.
“Of course, it’s going to be different now,” Allingham went on. “Everything will be different when we get back to Washington. I’ll probably have to resign my seat in the Senate and move back to Vermont. I suppose I can work in the store again. Margaret will hate that . . . will hate me . . . but given that she already does . . .” He sighed. “I should have just let her continue. Confronting her certainly hasn’t helped matters between us. My suspicions just ate away at me until I had to do something—”
He grunted and stumbled, bumping into Preacher. The mountain man grabbed Allingham to steady him and saw the arrow protruding from the man’s upper right arm.
Instinctively, Preacher took note of the markings and fletching on the arrow. It was Pawnee, a tribe that was peaceful for the most part—but their warriors were excellent fighters when they decided to go on the warpath, as they obviously were now.
“Good Lord!” Russell exclaimed as he realized that Allingham had been shot. “Better pour on the steam, Captain!”
Warner had already grabbed the speaking tube.
“Give me all you got!” he shouted into it. “We’ve got Indians up here!”
The question was how many, Preacher thought as he lowered Allingham to the floor of the pilot house. The senator sat with his back propped against the wall. He had gone pale from the pain radiating from the arrow in his arm.
Preacher knelt beside him and said, “You’ll be all right, Senator. It probably hurts like blazes, but I can tell it ain’t a bad wound. You just sit right there and we’ll tend to it later.”
“We’re . . . we’re under attack,” Allingham said unnecessarily. He seemed to be having a hard time believing it.
“Yep.” Preacher raised himself higher but remained in a crouch as he scanned the landscape on both sides of the Missouri.
So far no other arrows had struck the pilot house. He hoped the one that had hit Allingham had been fired by a lone brave who happened to be on shore when the riverboat passed by and thought it would be good medicine to shoot an arrow at the smoking, rumbling monster.
Russell was on the other side of the pilot house, looking out the window warily. “See anything?” he asked Preacher.
“Not yet.”
“That’s a Pawnee arrow.”
“Yeah, I know. Last I heard the Pawnee were pretty peaceful.”
“You never know when something’ll get them stirred up,” Russell said. “I—Look out!”
This time it was a veritable storm of arrows descending on the riverboat, not just one. Preacher tackled Warner and knocked him to the floor as the missiles began to thud against the pilot house. Some of them came through the open windows and landed on the floor. One even stuck in the wheel.
“It’s like those damned pirates all over again!” Warner yelled.
Actually, it was worse than that, thought Preacher. Less than two dozen pirates had attacked the Sentinel back at Cougar Bluffs. There was no telling how many Pawnee warriors were out there.
Another difference worked in their favor, though. They were in a fairly wide, straight stretch of the river. They didn’t have to worry about crashing into a bluff.
“Keep us in the middle of the stream,” Preacher snapped at the captain.
Warner nodded as he reached up to steady the wheel. He said, “I should be able to do that.”
Preacher had his rifle with him. The first volley of arrows seemed to be over, so he cautiously lifted his head above the window. He bit back a curse as he saw Pawnee pouring out of the trees on both sides of the river. There had to be fifty or sixty of the warriors on each bank, maybe more. They pulled canoes out of the brush, shoved the lightweight craft toward the riverboat, hopped in and started to paddle.
This was a full-fledged attack, Preacher realized, not some isolated incident. And that didn’t make any sense. The Pawnee didn’t have any reason to come after the riverboat like this.
Guns blasted down below as the crew began to mount a defense, but they had to dive for cover as more arrows slashed through the air at the boat. Preacher slid his rifle over the window sill and drew a bead on the warrior in the front of the canoe closest to the Sentinel. He fired and saw the lead ball drive the Pawnee backward into the man behind him.
The canoe didn’t slow down, though. None of them did.
On the other side of the pilot house, Russell’s pistol roared. He cursed and said, “Why are they doing this?”
“Don’t know,” Preacher said as he reloaded, “but I reckon we’d better get down there. They’re gonna be swarmin’ all over the boat in a minute.”
As he stood up, a desperate tactic occurred to him. He grabbed the wheel, said, “Sorry, Cap’n,” and spun it. The Sentinel veered sharply to the right.
“What the devil are you doing?” Warner demanded. “You’ll wreck us!”
“I’m gonna wreck some of them canoes first,” Preacher said.
It was true. As the paddle wheel dug in the muddy water and sent the boat surging ahead, now its prow was aimed at the closest canoes. The Pawnee paddlers tried to get out of the way, but they didn’t have time. The boat struck them, overturning some and splintering others. Warriors had to dive frantically into the river or were dumped in the water and trapped as the riverboat passed over them if they were too slow. Preacher figured some of them wouldn’t survive being caught in the paddlewheel.
He spun the wheel back the other way to try to straighten the boat. Earlier in the journey, Warner had offered to let him try his hand at steering, but Preacher figured the captain hadn’t meant like this!
He let go of the wheel, grabbed the rifle he had leaned against the wall, and plunged out of the pilot house with Russell right behind him. Down below, some of the Pawnee warriors who’d been in the river were now clambering onto the cargo deck.
From here on out it would be a hand-to-hand fight, with no quarter asked or given.