CHAPTER 24
Some of the horses had been wounded but not killed, something Preacher hadn’t realized earlier. There were eight animals either unharmed or in good enough shape to ride, including his own stallion. That limited the size of the rescue party even more, because they had to be mounted.
Not only that, but if they succeeded in freeing the captives, some of the party would have to ride double as they made their escape. That would slow them down.
So, Preacher mused, he was going after a hundred or more Pawnee warriors with a politician, a German youth barely out of his teens, and a couple of servants who had no experience fighting Indians or anybody else. At least the two crewmen who would be going along were both big and strong from their work, even if they weren’t veteran Indian fighters. And of course he and Russell had been to see the elephant, many times.
Yeah, the odds against them were pretty overwhelming, he decided. But they had no choice in the matter. As long as those prisoners were out there and in danger, Preacher had to try to help them.
Captain Warner came up to him as he was saddling Horse and said, “I can come along with you, Preacher. I’m not wounded, and I can shoot.”
“You can also handle that dang riverboat,” the mountain man said. “You’re gonna be in charge here, Cap’n. If anything else happens, you’ll have to deal with it.”
“You think that’s possible?” Warner asked with a frown. “You mean those Indians might come back?”
“They acted like they got what they were after. But there’s no tellin’ what else might come along. You have enough crewmen to get up steam if you need to?”
Warner nodded.
“Yeah, some of them are hurt, of course, but we can get the boat moving. We can’t go on upriver, though, because then you wouldn’t know where to find us when you get back with those folks.”
Preacher liked the way the captain just assumed he would succeed in freeing the prisoners. He hoped Warner was right about that.
“If you have to leave, you can always turn around and come back later. And if you’re gone when we get back here, we’ll just follow the river north until we catch up with you.”
“All right. But I plan on being right here,” Warner said with a determined nod.
A short time later, the horses were saddled. The members of the rescue party, some with bloody bandages tied here and there, came ashore with rifles, pistols, and all the powder and shot they could carry. Enough weapons and ammunition had been left on the Sentinel so the crewmen who were staying behind could put up a fight if they needed to.
“We’ll take care of burying those who were killed,” Warner promised as the men mounted up. “Good luck to you.”
“We’ll see you when we get back,” Preacher said. He lifted a hand and waved the rescue party into motion.
Since the terrain was generally flat in this region, it wasn’t long before they could no longer see the river behind them, just a low line of green that marked the vegetation along the stream. The prairie was covered with thick grass that waved slightly in the breeze blowing across it.
Preacher had no trouble following the trail left by the Indians and their white companions. Other people might not see the signs, but they were clear as a map to his experienced eyes. Broken stalks of grass lying in a different direction than the others around them, overturned rocks, the occasional partial print of the unshod hoof of an Indian pony . . . and the tracks of some shod horses as well, further proof that the mountain man’s eyes hadn’t deceived him. There really had been white men working with the Indians.
The rescue party had Dog with them, too, and no creature on the face of the earth was better at following a scent than the big cur. He bounded ahead of the group, nose to the ground.
As they rode, Allingham asked Preacher, “Did I hear you say that the Indians who did this are normally peaceful?” He sounded like he couldn’t believe that, and with plenty of justification for feeling that way, thought Preacher.
“More often than not they are. The Pawnee have fought many a war against other tribes, usually the Sioux, but mostly they get along with the whites. They farm as much as they hunt and they live in permanent villages they don’t leave except to go on buffalo hunts every year. Then they come back to the same place. In a lot of ways they’re like white folks, so I guess that’s how come they get along.” Preacher shook his head. “When they get their dander up about somethin’, though, you don’t want to cross ’em. I reckon you saw that today.”
“You sound almost as though you admire them.”
“I admire most of the tribes in one way or another,” Preacher said. “They live their lives in the way that suits ’em, and they’re happy about it. Now, there are a few bunches that are too ornery even for me to get along with, mind you. Me and the Blackfeet won’t never see eye to eye about nothin’, I don’t expect. They’ve tried to kill me a heap of times, and I’ve returned the favor. Never lost any sleep over it, neither.” He rubbed his bristly jaw and frowned. “Can’t say the same about the Pawnee. I’m sorry for those warriors I had to kill today. I want to know what drove ’em to it.”
“They’re savages,” Allingham said. “Isn’t that a good enough reason?”
“No, sir, it’s not.” Preacher told the senator the same thing he had discussed with Russell. “There were white men among ’em. Somehow, they convinced the Pawnee to help them do their dirty work.”
Allingham stared at Preacher.
“That’s insane. Who would do such a thing?”
“They grabbed the count and his brother. That’s got to have something to do with it. Can you think of any reason somebody would want to kidnap Stahlmaske? Maybe something to do with the negotiations he came over here to carry on with our government?”
Allingham looked baffled. He said, “All the count is doing is discussing a minor trade agreement between the United States and the Kingdom of Prussia. The agreement is important to a number of people in Washington because they’ve come out in favor of it, so they want everything to go smoothly. But in the big scheme of things, I can’t see that it’ll really make that much difference. As much as anything else, I think this whole trip and its diplomatic trappings were just an excuse for Count Stahlmaske to come over here to America and have an adventure. He’s a great favorite of King Friedrich Wilhelm.”
“I reckon he’s probably havin’ more of an adventure than he ever wanted,” Preacher said.
Most of the Indians had peeled away from the group when they were several miles away from the river, leaving the prisoners in the custody of about a dozen warriors and the four white men who obviously had masterminded the attack on the Sentinel. Albert Stahlmaske had never seen any of those men before, but their accents when they spoke among themselves told him they were Englishmen.
Stahlmaske’s head ached abominably from the blow that had struck him down. He had been in the salon when the attack began, but he had rushed out on deck when he heard gunshots, shouts from the crewmen, and war cries from the savages. He seldom went anywhere without being armed, so there was a pistol in the pocket of his coat. He had pulled it out, waited patiently at the railing even though arrows were flying through the air around him, and when one of the canoes had come within range of his weapon, he had shot down the Indian crouched in the front of the craft.
Then, still cool in the face of danger, he had reloaded twice and killed two more of the howling savages before they swarmed onto the passenger deck and overran him. One of them had carried a war club of some kind. Stahlmaske had tried to take the bludgeon away from him, but the Indian had struck him instead, knocking him out.
As consciousness slipped away from him, he had assumed the savages would kill him, probably by cutting his throat. He would never wake up.
A shame he hadn’t had the chance—or hadn’t taken the chances he’d had—to tell Gretchen that he really did feel some honest affection for her. As much as he could feel for anyone, he supposed. He had never been given to any emotions other than pride and an overwhelming sense of his own superiority.
He hadn’t come to until he was on the back of this horse, tied to a saddle. Leaning forward over the animal’s neck the way he was, he couldn’t see much. To his right his brother Roderick rode another horse, lashed onto the beast’s back in much the same way Stahlmaske was. Roderick was awake, his eyes so wide with terror it seemed they might pop right out of their sockets.
“Albert!” Roderick exclaimed in a high-pitched voice that reminded Stahlmaske of a mouse’s frightened squeak. “Thank God you’re alive!”
Stahlmaske didn’t respond to that. He lifted his head and looked around as best he could. He could see that a white man on horseback was leading Roderick’s mount. He assumed the same was true for his horse.
That was . . . interesting. What were such men doing riding with Indians?
Thinking that their captors were probably Americans, Stahlmaske called, “You there! Leading my brother’s horse! Let us go and I’ll see to it that you’re handsomely paid.”
The man turned his head and let out a harsh laugh, but that was his only response.
Being laughed at like that angered Stahlmaske, but tied hand and foot the way he was, there was nothing he could do about it. Not now, anyway.
But somehow he would have his revenge on these men, if it was the last thing he ever did.
Since then some of the Indians had gone their separate ways, and the group had moved around enough for Stahlmaske to see that he and Roderick weren’t the only prisoners. Gretchen had been captured as well, along with the two Allingham women.
Stahlmaske was sorry to see that. He didn’t want Gretchen to come to any harm. He didn’t care as much about Margaret and Sarah, although the senator’s wife certainly had been pleasant enough in bed.
Stahlmaske had given some thought to seducing the younger Allingham as well before this journey was over. Sarah was quite attractive, just the sort who needed an older man with a firm hand to initiate her into womanhood.
Now it was unlikely that would ever happen. The ladies might not survive very long in the hands of these primitive savages. He included the white men in that description. They were Americans, after all.
Only they weren’t, he discovered. When they spoke to each other, the count recognized their accents as British. That made them somewhat more civilized than their former colonists, he supposed . . . but not much.
After what seemed like ages, the group came to a stop in the late afternoon. Up ahead, still a good distance away, was a line of low hills. Stahlmaske wondered if that was their destination.
The Englishman who’d been leading Stahlmaske’s horse dismounted and came back alongside the animal. He was a red-faced man with a sweeping, rust-colored mustache. He pulled a knife from a sheath at his belt.
Stahlmaske waited calmly. If all these men wanted to do was murder him, they would have done it before now.
“If I cut you loose, do you promise not to cause trouble?” the man demanded.
“I promise nothing except to kill you and all your associates as soon as I get the chance,” Stahlmaske said, putting as much cold hatred into his reply as he could.
“That’s what I figured. That’s why we’re not going to give you that chance.”
The Indians had dismounted as well. Several of them nocked arrows to bowstrings and pulled them back, aiming the weapons at the count.
The Englishman cut him loose. Stahlmaske slid to the ground. His balance deserted him for a second when he landed, but he caught hold of the saddle and braced himself until his strength returned.
“You’re not going to allow those savages to kill me,” he told his captor. “If you wanted me dead, I would be already.”
“Maybe so, Count,” the man said, “but don’t push your luck.”
The other prisoners were freed as well. Roderick stumbled over to his brother and threw his arms around him in a clumsy embrace.
“Thank God we’re both still alive!”
Stahlmaske pushed him away, his only concession to fraternity being that he wasn’t too rough about it.
“Are you injured, Roderick?” he asked.
“N-no, I’m all right.”
Stahlmaske turned to Gretchen and took the beautiful auburn-haired woman in his arms.
“My dear,” he said. “I regret that you were abducted along with the rest of us.”
She swallowed hard and said, “The savages . . . they killed my maid, Albert. It was terrible.”
“I’m sure it was.”
Stahlmaske glanced at the Allingham women, who huddled together clutching each other in their fear. There was no comfort he could offer them.
So he turned to their captors instead and demanded, “What is it you want of us?”
“It’s simple, really,” the man with the rust-colored mustache replied. “You’re going to make us all rich men.”