CHAPTER 32
Oliver and Chessie looked up in surprise from the log where they sat when Preacher stepped out from the trees. Hawk looked like he was expecting his father, though, so Preacher knew the youngster had heard him coming.
Oliver stood up and asked, “Did you find them?”
“Yeah, their camp’s right out in the open,” Preacher said. “With that smoke comin’ up, it wasn’t hard to find.”
“And my father? Did you see him? Is he all right?”
The anxious questions tumbled out of Oliver’s mouth. Preacher answered honestly, “I didn’t see him. I think he must’ve been in the wagon. Ryker climbed out of it while I was watchin’, and he seemed upset about somethin’.”
A stricken look appeared on Oliver’s face. “Father’s dead,” he said in a hollow voice. “Ryker tortured him, and now he’s died from whatever that bastard did.”
“You don’t know that,” Chessie told him as she took hold of his arm with both hands and squeezed it in an effort to comfort and reassure him.
“The gal’s right,” Preacher said. “Somethin’ must be goin’ on, or else Ryker wouldn’t have stopped and pitched camp in the middle of the day like this, but we don’t have any way of knowin’ what it is until I get a look inside the wagon.”
“If he’s there, and if he’s alive, you can rescue him,” Oliver said. Now there was a note of excitement in his words.
“It ain’t gonna be that easy.” Preacher went on to describe the layout of the camp and the surrounding area. “I can’t just waltz in from the front, but that cliff in back of the wagons is rough enough I ought to be able to climb down it once it gets dark.”
“You mean not until nightfall?”
“If I tried to make that climb in broad daylight, anybody who happened to glance up would spot me,” Preacher said. “Then I’d be a sittin’ duck.”
Hawk said, “You should let me climb down the cliff and look in the wagon, Preacher. I am younger.”
Preacher glared at him. “Are you sayin’ I ain’t as spry as I used to be?”
“No, but you are older.”
“Not so old I can’t do what I set out to do.” Preacher looked at Oliver. “Here’s the thing, though. Even if your pa is in the wagon and is all right, relatively speakin’, he won’t be able to climb back up that cliff with me. That just ain’t the sort of thing he can do.”
“You’re saying you’ll have to leave him there?”
“For now,” Preacher said.
“But that doesn’t help us at all!”
“It helps us if we know he ain’t dead,” Preacher said bluntly. “Then we can figure out a way to get him away from Ryker.”
Oliver sighed and said, “I suppose you’re right. But I don’t like the idea of leaving him in Ryker’s hands any longer than we have to.”
“And we won’t. Right now, though, there’s nothing we can do except wait for it to get dark.”
“I can think of one more thing,” Chessie said.
“What’s that?”
“We can pray that Mr. Merton is still alive and well.”
* * *
Oliver was still tense as dusk settled down over the landscape several hours later. He assured Preacher that he understood the situation and would go along with whatever the mountain man decided. But that didn’t stop him from being nervous and eager to learn his father’s current condition.
Preacher gnawed on one of the pieces of venison they had cooked the day before and brought along with them. They would have a cold camp again tonight. They were too close to Ryker’s camp to risk a fire, no matter how welcome it would have been. The light of the flames or the smell of the smoke could have given them away. Even though Ryker’s men were far from experienced frontiersmen, they would be alert for anything like that.
Night had fallen but the moon had not yet risen when Preacher got ready to take his leave. “Dog, stay with Hawk,” he told the big cur. Tonight he would be on his own, as he always was whenever he ventured like this into the enemy’s den.
“You can still send me to make this scout,” Hawk said.
“No, I’ll do it. You stay here with Oliver and Chessie. I’ll be back.”
“If you have not returned by morning, I will come and find out why,” Hawk promised.
“If I ain’t back by mornin’, chances are I ain’t comin’ back. But we ain’t gonna dwell on that, ’cause I don’t intend for it to happen.”
Chessie stepped up to the mountain man, put her arms around him, and gave him a hug. “Be careful, Preacher,” she said.
He gave her an awkward pat on the back and said, “Don’t worry, I will be.”
“Do not believe him,” Hawk said. “He has never been careful in all the time I have known him.”
“Which ain’t been all that long,” Preacher reminded his son. He slapped Hawk on the back, then shook hands with Oliver.
“Find my father,” the young man said.
“I intend to.”
Preacher nodded, even though they weren’t able to see him very well in the darkness, and faded away into the shadows.
Even though a thick blackness cloaked the hills, he had no trouble finding where he was going. His sense of direction was unerring, as always. Nor was it long before he had the light of Ryker’s campfire to steer by. The orange flames leaped high and cast a glow into the sky above the camp.
Preacher hoped that glow didn’t reach all the way to the cliff looming behind the wagons. If they spotted him climbing down, it would be the same as if he had a giant target painted on him.
Reaching the top of the cliff behind the camp proved to be a long, difficult task. Earlier, Preacher had scouted out some possible routes, but he didn’t know which ones would take him where he wanted to go until he tried following them, so he had to backtrack several times when trails played out and the slope was too sheer for him to keep going.
Finally, long after night had fallen, he stretched out on his belly and peered over the brink at the camp below. The fire had burned down, and most of the men had rolled up in blankets and gone to sleep. At least one guard was posted; Preacher spotted a tiny coal in the bowl of a pipe clamped between the teeth of a man sitting with his back against a wheel on one of the supply wagons. Preacher saw the coal brighten and dim and knew the man was puffing on the pipe. The fella probably had a rifle across his lap, too.
Preacher waited to make sure the camp was going to remain quiet. While he did, he studied the face of the cliff as best he could in the poor light. Earlier, when he had looked at it in daylight, he had seen how rough and seamed it was. Climbing down in darkness would require him to feel around for hand- and footholds, but he was confident he could find plenty.
Satisfied that the time had come to make his move, he swung over the edge and began his descent.
It was slow, treacherous going. In some places the rock crumbled in his hand when he tried to put his weight on it, which left him clinging to the cliff face with his other hand while he searched for a more secure hold. When that happened, gravel clattered down and the sound made Preacher’s jaw tighten grimly, but there were enough night noises that it seemed to blend in. No cries of alarm came from the camp below.
Time was deceptive in such a situation. Preacher wasn’t sure how long he had been on the cliff when he realized the ground was just a few feet below him. He let go and dropped the rest of the way, landing as lightly as a big cat. His knees flexed, and he bent to put a hand on the ground and steady himself.
He saw the covered wagon twenty yards away, silhouetted against the faint glow from the campfire’s remaining embers.
With all the considerable stealth at his command, Preacher moved toward the vehicle. The tailgate was raised and fastened in place. He paused beside it and listened intently. The sound of deep, somewhat irregular breathing came from inside. The wagon’s interior was absolutely stygian. Preacher could tell someone was inside, but there was no way to be certain who it was.
Then as he listened, he heard the occupant let out a low moan. It was difficult to tell from such a sound, but he thought it came from Edgar Merton. Whoever it was shifted around and moaned again, as if in pain and trying to find a more comfortable position. That also made Preacher think it was Merton in the wagon.
He crouched and peered underneath the heavy vehicle. Men often slept underneath wagons when they were camped. Enough light from the coals filtered under this one for him to see that nobody was there.
Straightening, he listened to the man’s breathing for a moment longer, then grasped the tailgate, put a foot on the wagon’s frame, and pulled himself up and over. There was only one way to make sure the man was Edgar Merton.
He waited to see if there was any reaction from the sleeper. The man shifted again and muttered something. Preacher eased closer and drew his knife. He had been in situations like this many times before, drifting through the darkness like a phantom, knife in hand, but in those cases he had been bent on killing an enemy, not rescuing a friend. He let the sound of the man’s breathing guide him as he weaved noiselessly through the supplies and other goods stored inside the wagon until he was kneeling beside the bunk where the man slept.
Still working by sound rather than sight, Preacher leaned closer and held out his left hand. When he felt warm breath brush against his palm, he dropped the hand and clamped it over the man’s nose and mouth.
The sleeper came awake with a start but didn’t try to fight or bolt up from the bunk. Preacher rested the tip of his knife against the man’s throat and whispered, “Better listen close, mister, and do what I say. I’m gonna ask you a question, and then I’m gonna take this knife away so you can move your head. Are you Edgar Merton?”
Preacher pulled the blade back a little. The man on the bunk nodded rather weakly.
Of course, it was possible he was lying about his identity. Preacher rested the knife against the man’s throat again and went on, “I’m gonna take my hand away from your mouth now so you can talk to me and convince me you’re tellin’ the truth. If you try any tricks, I can cut your throat from ear to ear before you even let out a squawk.”
He kept the knife in place and lifted his hand. In a half sob, half whisper, the man said, “Preacher?”
“That’s right.”
“Oh, thank God, thank God.” It was Edgar Merton’s voice; Preacher was sure of that. “I was sure you and Hawk were dead. I was afraid . . . my son was, too, even though Ryker promised . . . that he would keep Oliver safe. Is . . . is Oliver all right?”
Preacher noted that Merton didn’t say anything about Chessie. The man didn’t sound like he was in good shape, though, so Preacher supposed he could be forgiven for not thinking about the girl. Merton’s hoarse, hesitant words revealed the strain he had been under.
“Oliver’s fine,” Preacher said. “All four of us are. How bad are you hurt?”
“I . . . I don’t know. I’ve been . . . blacking out. When Ryker said . . . we were going on without waiting for you and the others to get back . . . I argued with him, and he got angry. He hit me and told me . . . I was going to tell him my secret . . . and when I refused, he hit me again and again . . .”
An exhausted sigh came from Merton. Just talking a little had worn him out. But even though Preacher felt sorry for the man, there was more he had to know.
“You told him you wanted to go to a place in the Black Hills.”
“Owayásuta . . . I had no choice. He would have killed me. But I was . . . stubborn and . . . wouldn’t tell him anything else. He doesn’t know . . . why we’re going there.”
Preacher would have liked to know that himself, but he didn’t figure this was the time or place to try to convince Merton to tell him. The use of the Sioux name was proof that Merton really had been here in the past, though.
Preacher asked, “How come Ryker stopped and made camp here in the middle of the day?”
“I don’t know . . . I blacked out again . . . for a long time.”
Ryker knew where they were going but not exactly how to get there, Preacher thought. With Merton unconscious and unable to give him specific directions, Ryker had decided it was better to wait, rather than risk getting hopelessly lost in country unfamiliar to him.
“How bad are you hurt? Do you have any wounds?”
“My head . . . bled a lot . . . when Ryker hit me. I haven’t really felt right . . . ever since.”
“But you can walk?”
“I don’t know. I feel . . . awfully weak. I can . . . I can try, though. Are we going to . . . get out of here?”
“Not just yet,” Preacher told him. “I hate to say it, but there ain’t no way to get you out of here right now, Mr. Merton.”
The man groaned softly.
“But that don’t mean we won’t come back for you,” Preacher went on. “We’ll figure out a way to get you loose from Ryker. You just got to hang on until then.”
“All right,” Merton said, although it sounded like it took quite an effort to get the words out. “Not . . . too much longer, though. I’m not sure . . . how much longer I can last . . .”
Preacher wasn’t sure about that, either. He was determined to get father and son back together, though, and to see that Hoyt Ryker got what was coming to him for his treachery and brutality.
A second later, though, that determination hit a rough spot in the trail as a footstep sounded at the back of the wagon and a harsh voice demanded, “What’s goin’ on in there? Merton, who the hell are you talkin’ to?”