CHAPTER 25
Preacher called a halt after the rescue party had traveled several miles from the Missouri River.
“Why are we stopping?” Allingham wanted to know. “We can’t afford to let them get any farther ahead of us, can we?”
“I got to take a look at this,” Preacher said. He swung down from the saddle and walked around on the prairie for a few minutes, hunkering on his heels now and then to study the ground more closely.
Simon Russell said, “I think I’m seeing the same thing you are, Preacher. They split up, didn’t they?”
Preacher straightened and nodded.
“Yeah. The biggest bunch headed that way.” He pointed south. “The rest of ’em kept goin’ northwest.”
“Why would they do that?” Allingham asked. “And how will we know which group the prisoners are with?” He groaned briefly in dismay. “For that matter, how will we know that the prisoners weren’t separated, too?”
Preacher waved a hand toward the south and said, “The ones who went that way are all on Indian ponies. There’s a Pawnee village ten, fifteen miles in that direction, I recollect. I visited it once and smoked a pipe with ’em. All the shod horses went the other way, along with about a dozen of the Pawnee. My guess is that those white men and all the captives are with that bunch.”
“You can’t know that for sure,” Allingham said.
Preacher shook his head.
“No, sir, I can’t. You’re right. But I’m convinced of it.”
“That’s good enough for me,” Russell said. “I’d trust my own life to Preacher’s instincts, Senator.”
“I may well be trusting the lives of my wife and daughter to you, Preacher,” Allingham said. “They mean more to me than my own life.”
“I understand,” the mountain man said. “If they went to all the trouble to take those prisoners, though, it makes sense that the men behind the raid would want to keep them with ’em.”
Allingham sighed and nodded.
“You’re right. Besides, we have a much better chance of rescuing them from a smaller group, don’t we?”
“Yep. We might still be able to get ’em out of a Pawnee town, if that’s where they were, but I’m hopin’ this’ll be easier.”
Preacher mounted up and heeled Horse into motion again. Dog ran ahead of him through the tall grass. Russell and Allingham flanked the mountain man, while the other five men trailed out behind.
Preacher could tell that the group they were pursuing was moving pretty fast, not wasting any time in putting some distance between themselves and the Big Muddy. If they kept going in the same direction, eventually they would come to the river again after it took its big curve to the west.
Before that they would have to cross a range of low, sandy hills. Those hills weren’t rugged enough to slow anybody down very much, but they provided lots of good places for an ambush. Preacher knew he would have to keep that in mind if they hadn’t caught up to the kidnappers before then.
Kidnappers was how he had come to think of them. The attack on the boat wasn’t just a raid to do as much damage to the white men as the Pawnee could. Preacher’s instincts told him it had been aimed specifically at grabbing the count. They had probably taken Roderick along thinking that they could use him as leverage against Stahlmaske if necessary.
Obviously, they weren’t aware of just how cold and arrogant Albert Stahlmaske really was. Preacher wasn’t sure if threatening his brother would have any effect on the count.
The possibility that he was ignoring something nagged at him. He said, “Senator, earlier I asked you if there was any reason for somebody to kidnap Count Stahlmaske. What about your wife and daughter? Could somebody with a grudge against you be tryin’ to get back at you through them?”
“Good Lord, I have political enemies, of course, but no one who would do such a thing as that!”
“Are you sure? There’ve been duels fought over what happened in Congress, and fistfights on the floor of the Capitol, too, I recollect.”
“Well, it’s true that things have gotten out of hand at times,” Allingham admitted, “but I still say no one in Washington would have done this. Not over politics.”
“Are you a rich man? Maybe somebody figures on makin’ you pay a big ransom to get Mrs. Allingham and Sarah back.”
“If they are, they’re going to be disappointed.” Allingham’s voice choked a little on the words as he went on, “I could raise some money, I suppose, but not enough to make it worthwhile threatening my family.”
“That brings us back to the count—and his lady.”
“Fraulein Ritter,” the senator mused. “Her father actually is quite wealthy. He has a number of shipping interests. Not to be cynical, but I think that was the main reason behind the count’s impending marriage to her. He comes from an old family—Castle Stahlmaske goes back to the Middle Ages, you know—but I don’t think they have as much money as they once did.”
“Well, there you go. Something else to think about.”
“I’m sure we’ll find out the motivation behind this atrocity . . . after we’ve recovered the prisoners and returned them to safety.”
Preacher knew that, but one reason he’d voiced his speculations to Allingham was to take the senator’s mind off the danger his wife and daughter might be in. Brooding about that wouldn’t help anything in the long run.
After a while Preacher held up his hand to signal another halt. Once again he dismounted to take a closer look at the ground. Russell joined him, and after a few minutes he said, “They stopped here for a little while.”
“Yep,” Preacher agreed. He pointed to the footprints he had spotted. “Looks like several folks wearin’ boots and shoes. And from the looks of those tracks, some of ’em were women.”
“Thank God!” Allingham exclaimed. “That proves we’re following the right group, doesn’t it?”
“I reckon it does.”
“Why do you think they stopped?” Russell asked. “Just to let the prisoners stretch their legs?”
“Or maybe to have a talk about somethin’. Hard to say.” Preacher gazed off to the north. “But after a while they mounted up and headed on that way, so I reckon we will, too.”
“At least we know we’re on the right trail now,” Allingham said. “That’s a huge relief.”
The senator was right about that, Preacher thought as he swung up into the saddle. But they still had a big chore facing them. They were outnumbered two to one and had to worry about the safety of the prisoners, to boot. They couldn’t just charge in with all guns blazing.
The sun dropped lower and lower toward the horizon. Allingham got worried again and asked, “Can we keep on trailing them once it gets dark?”
Preacher shook his head.
“No, there’s too big a risk of losin’ the trail. Not only that, if they make camp we might ride right into the big middle of ’em without any warnin’.”
“But what about the kidnappers? Will they push on through the night?”
“They might,” Preacher answered honestly. “Especially if they know where they’re goin’.”
“That means they’ll be even farther ahead of us by morning!”
“It can’t be helped, Senator. We’ll catch up to ’em, even if it takes several days.”
The rescue party had brought along some meager supplies, in case the pursuit lasted for days, and Preacher knew he could always catch a rabbit or a prairie chicken with a snare if he needed to. They might get hungry, but they wouldn’t starve.
The problem was that the longer those women were held prisoner, the greater the chance they might be molested. Preacher didn’t know if that was what the kidnappers had in mind, but with women as attractive as Margaret, Sarah, and Gretchen, that idea had to be in their thoughts.
He put Allingham’s mind at ease the best he could, telling him, “Anyway, Senator, when I say that we’ll have to stop for the night, that doesn’t mean all of us will stop.”
“You mean . . . ?”
“Dog and me might go on the scout,” Preacher said.
They would have a cold camp tonight, Preacher informed the others an hour later as they were unsaddling their horses and picketing the animals so they could graze. The men they were pursuing were bound to know they were back here, but there was no point in announcing their position to the varmints with a fire.
The campsite the mountain man had chosen was beside a tiny creek that flowed through a shallow wash. Once everybody was settled in, Preacher said, “You’ll want to keep a guard posted all night. It ain’t likely any of that bunch we’re after would double back and try to ambush us, but somebody should stay awake all the time anyway.”
“I’ll take the first watch,” one of the crewmen volunteered. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man named Warburton.
“And I’ll take the second,” Russell said. With three shifts, the middle was the most difficult and needed the most experienced man. Softened by town living or not, Russell could still handle it, Preacher was confident of that.
“Allow me to take the third watch,” Egon said. “I am accustomed to rising early. There was always much to do for the count, ja, Ludwig?”
“Jawohl,” Ludwig agreed emphatically, bringing a faint smile to Preacher’s face. He figured working for Count Stahlmaske was pretty close to hell on earth.
“I’ll leave it up to you fellas to work out the details,” Preacher said. “As soon as it gets a little darker, Dog and me are gonna take a look at what’s ahead of us. Keep your eyes open for us, and don’t shoot us when we come back. Simon, I’ll do a whippoorwill call so you’ll know it’s me.”
“All right, Preacher,” Russell acknowledged with a nod.
Preacher hunkered on his heels next to the creek, ate a biscuit he had brought along from the riverboat’s kitchen, washed it down with a couple of handfuls of water he scooped from the stream. It wasn’t much of a meal, but living on the frontier had taught him how to survive on short rations when he needed to.
By the time he was finished, the last glow of sundown had faded from the western sky. The stars were out but the moon wasn’t up yet, so the night was pretty dark, just the way Preacher wanted it. He picked up his rifle, rose to his feet, and said quietly, “See you boys later.”
He trotted off to the north with Dog padding along beside him, going on foot instead of taking Horse because it would be quieter and he didn’t know how far ahead of them their quarry might be.
Like the Indians, Preacher could travel this way for hours without stopping to rest. He kept track of the time by glancing at the stars now and then. He didn’t want to get so far ahead of the rest of his party that he couldn’t rejoin them by morning.
After a couple of hours, he slowed and then came to a stop as a faint scent of smoke drifted to his nose. He dropped to one knee and put a hand on Dog, who had also halted. He felt as much as heard the big cur’s growl, so he knew Dog had smelled something, too.
“That’s a campfire not far away, I reckon,” he said in a half whisper. “Guess they figured they’re far enough ahead there was no need to push on all night.”
Preacher’s keen eyes scanned the darkness in front of them but didn’t see any sign of a fire. That was no surprise. They were in the southern edge of the sandy, grass-covered hills that stretched on north toward the Missouri River, so there were plenty of little depressions where someone could build a campfire without it being seen very far away.
It didn’t matter whether he could see the fire. He and Dog could follow their noses right to it.
“Come on,” he breathed to the big cur, “but take it slow and easy.”
As they stalked forward carefully, the smell of smoke grew stronger. Preacher went to hands and knees to climb up a rise, and as he did he saw a faint glow on the other side that had to be coming from the campfire.
He bellied down and took off his hat for the last couple of feet. When he reached the crest he lifted his head so he could look over it, down into the shallow valley before the next hill rose.
The fire was small, fueled by dried buffalo chips so it gave off almost no smoke—but almost wasn’t the same as none, so Preacher had been able to smell the fire.
The flames didn’t give off much light, either, but enough for the mountain man to see the figures huddled on the ground nearby. He recognized the count, Roderick, and the three women. From the way they were lying, he knew their hands were tied behind their backs. That had to be pretty uncomfortable, but at least they were all still alive.
One of the white men stood near the prisoners, a long-barreled rifle cradled in his left arm. He was watching over the captives to make sure none of them got loose or tried anything else. The other three whites were on the far side of the fire, talking quietly among themselves.
The Pawnee were off to the left, keeping to themselves. The horses were over there, too, moving around a little on picket ropes as they grazed.
Preacher knew that Dog could stampede the horses without much trouble. He could shoot down the guard next to the prisoners before the man knew what was happened, then kill at least two of the other white men with his pistols. At worst that would leave the fourth man to be disposed of with knife or tomahawk. Preacher was confident he could do that.
And then the Pawnee would kill him and probably slaughter the prisoners, since whatever plan the white men had would collapse with them dead. As strong as the urge was to bust in there and commence to killin’, Preacher knew he couldn’t do it without risking the lives of the people he had come to rescue. Like it or not, he had to bide his time.
Dog rumbled deep in his throat, so quietly that the sound couldn’t have been heard more than a foot or two away. Preacher heard it, though, and recognized it as a warning. At the same time, he counted the Pawnee warriors he could see.
Eleven.
There was a dozen Indian ponies.
That meant one of the warriors was somewhere out here in the darkness with him, and Preacher had no doubt the man was searching for anyone who would be daring enough to sneak up on the camp.
Judging by Dog’s reaction, the Pawnee was close by, too.