Читать книгу Preacher's Fury - William W. Johnstone - Страница 10

“Madam, please,” Audie protested croakingly, indicating that there was some pressure on his throat. “I’m not a child. And I give you my word that I didn’t intend to touch you in such an indelicate fashion. I was simply trying to determine your circumstances.”

“By pawing me all over?”

“It was too dark to see.”

Preacher didn’t know whether to chuckle or curse. He settled for saying, “Take it easy, ma’am. If you were a prisoner of that Gros Ventre raidin’ party, then we’re your friends. We’re the ones who done for ’em.”

After a moment’s hesitation, the woman asked, “Are they all dead?”

“That’s right,” Preacher told her. “Six of ’em, and I’m pretty sure that was the whole bunch.”

“It was,” she said.

“Audie, I reckon the lady grabbed your knife away from you as soon as you cut her hands loose?”

“Yes, and I’ll thank you not to tell Nighthawk about this. He’d never let me hear the end of it.”

The woman had been speaking English, but the slight accent in her voice told Preacher that it wasn’t her native tongue. He said, “Ma’am, you wouldn’t happen to be Assiniboine, would you? One of Bent Leg’s people?”

“You know Bent Leg?” she asked, sounding surprised.

“For a good many years now,” the mountain man said. “My name’s Preacher.”

“Preacher!” she repeated.

“That’s right.”

“I am sorry.”

Audie said, “Ah, thank you for taking that knife away from my throat, my dear. It was getting a bit nerve-wracking having it there. My Adam’s apple was rather jumpy.”

Preacher heard the woman moving. After a moment, she said, “Here is your knife. Are you sure you are not a child?”

“Quite certain,” Audie told her. “And again, I apologize for any inadvertent improprieties.”

“Someone help me up.”

The gal was good about giving orders, Preacher thought. But he stepped forward and extended a hand.

“Here,” he said.

A second later he felt her fumbling in the darkness for his hand. He wrapped his fingers around her wrist and lifted her effortlessly to her feet. That brought her closer to him, and even in this bad light he could make out the shape of her face and the long wings of dark hair that framed it.

“Thank you,” she murmured. She let go of his hand and tried to take a step, but her balance deserted her and she leaned toward him suddenly. Preacher slipped his arm around her waist to steady her.

That brought her even closer to him. He smelled the bear grease on her hair and the slighty musky but pleasant scent of her skin. Her waist was trim and warm where his arm encircled it.

“You’ve been tied up for a while, haven’t you?” he asked. “Your legs don’t want to work right just yet.”

“I’m fine,” she insisted. “You can let go of me now.”

“Are you sure?”

“I am certain.”

Preacher took his arm away and stepped back. The woman seemed to be steady on her feet now.

“We have a camp down below,” he told her. “You can get some hot food in you and then tell us what happened to you.”

“What will you do with me?” she asked, and he heard worry and suspicion in her voice.

“Why, we’ll return you to your home as soon as it gets light tomorrow, dear lady,” Audie said. “Isn’t that right, Preacher?”

“Yep,” the mountain man said. “We’ll take you back to Bent Leg’s village.”

“Thank you,” she said again, but Preacher couldn’t tell if she completely believed them. She would have to see it for herself.

“Come,” he said. “There’s a path over yonder where we can get down the bluff.”

He led the way, holding the branches aside so the Assiniboine woman could get through the brush easier. Stepping to the edge of the bluff, he called to Nighthawk and Lorenzo, “We’re comin’ down. We found a prisoner up here.”

A few minutes later, the three of them walked into camp. Nighthawk had built up the fire so the flames cast a large circle of light. When the woman stepped into that reddish-gold glow, Preacher got his first good look at her.

She was a sight worth waiting for.

She was medium height and well-shaped in the buckskin dress she wore, with wide hips, muscular calves, and high, firm breasts. Her face was slightly rounded. Long hair the color of midnight surrounded it and flowed down over her shoulders. Her cheekbones weren’t quite as high as those of most Indian woman, and her skin was a slightly lighter shade of copper. Those were indications that she had some white blood in her, and her dark blue eyes confirmed that. Probably her father or grandfather had been white, either an American or a French-Canadian fur trapper, more than likely.

And she was as downright pretty a woman as Preacher had seen in a long time.

As they all stood by the fire, Preacher told her, “You already know who I am. This is Audie, Lorenzo, and Nighthawk.” He nodded to each of the men in turn.

“I am called Raven’s Wing, or simply Raven,” the woman said. Preacher figured she’d been named for the color of her hair. “Thank you for helping me. It might have taken me a long time to get free if you had not found me.”

“Nighthawk, you reckon you can rustle up some grub for Raven?” Preacher asked.

“Umm,” the Crow replied. He went to their supplies and set to work.

“Did the Gros Ventre capture you when they raided your village?” Audie asked.

Raven nodded.

“Yes. I was the only captive they managed to get away with. Even though they took us by surprise, our warriors were able to make them flee. They didn’t even get any of our ponies.”

“Just one woman,” Preacher said.

Raven looked at him with a challenging expression in her dark eyes.

“Yes,” she agreed. “Just one woman.”

“And when they smelled our smoke and decided to have a look, they tied and gagged you and stashed you in that brush?”

“Yes. They warned me that if I tried to escape, they would come back and cut my throat.” With a look of savage satisfaction, she added, “Now they are the ones who are dead.”

“You have Preacher to thank for that,” Audie said. “He did for five of them.”

Preacher said, “Yeah, but I wouldn’t have had the chance to do that if you hadn’t shot that varmint who was about to brain me with a tomahawk.”

“Nighthawk and me helped keep ’em busy,” Lorenzo put in.

Preacher nodded.

“You sure did,” he said, then asked Raven’s Wing, “How come you didn’t make any noise when I first came up there lookin’ for their ponies?”

“I did not know who you were,” she explained. “You might have been someone even worse than the Gros Ventre. I thought I could get loose on my own after you left.” She shrugged. “But then I tried and realized I was tied too tightly. If no one found me and freed me, I might have died of thirst. So I started making noise in hopes that you would return.” She smiled. “And you did, along with this little one … and his hands.”

Audie said hastily, “I told you, Miss Raven’s Wing, how sorry I am that I—”

“I think she’s joshin’ you now, Audie,” Preacher drawled. “She’s got a mischievous look about her.”

“That is right,” Raven admitted. “I know you were just trying to help me. I thank you for that.”

“Oh, well, uh, you’re welcome,” Audie said. For once he wasn’t as glib as he normally was.

Nighthawk fried some salt jowl and heated a couple of biscuits left over from their supper. When he gave Raven the food, she knelt beside the fire and ate hungrily, washing down the food with water from Preacher’s canteen.

“Why are you men in the valley of the Assiniboine?” she asked when she had finished licking the last of the grease from the salt jowl off her fingers.

“We came to see if Bent Leg would be willin’ to let us spend the winter with you folks,” Preacher said. “I know he’s let trappers do that before.”

Raven looked at him with increased interest.

“You have never wintered with the Assiniboine before. I would remember if you had.” She glanced around at the other men. “That is true for all of you.”

“This is my first winter out here,” Lorenzo said, “so I ain’t never stayed with any of the tribes.”

“And Nighthawk and I have spent most winters with his people, the Crow,” Audie said.

“Why do you not go to the Crow this winter?” Raven asked.

Audie shrugged.

“A man likes to do something different now and again.”

Raven snorted and said, “I know what men want different. You want a different squaw to share your blankets every year.”

She wasn’t that far wrong, Preacher thought, but he said, “We’re just lookin’ for a place to get out of the weather. The first snows will fly in a week or two.”

“This is true,” Raven admitted. “My people’s village is less than half a day’s ride from here. You can present your request to Bent Leg and see what he says. If he refuses, you will still have time to look elsewhere.”

“Fair enough,” Preacher said. He hunkered on his heels and picked up the coffeepot to pour a little in his cup. “If you don’t mind my askin’, where’d you learn to speak English? You seem to savvy it pretty good.”

“My father was a trapper who came up the Missouri River to Fort Lisa,” she explained, naming the outpost that the first American fur trappers had founded. “He remained in the mountains for the rest of his life. He married my mother and taught me the white man’s tongue.”

“What was his name?” Preacher asked. “I’ve been out here for a good many years myself. Maybe I ran into him at a rendezvous or somethin’ like that.”

“His name was George Harris.”

Preacher grinned.

“Ol’ Georgie? Shoot, yeah. I never knew him well, but we shook and how died a few times.” He grew more solemn. “You say he’s crossed the divide?”

“Two years ago,” Raven said with a nod. “A fever took him.”

“Well, I’m right sorry to hear that. He was a good man, and I never heard anybody say any different.”

“Thank you.”

“He did a good job teachin’ you white man’s lingo, too.”

“Yes, indeed,” Audie agreed. “Have you ever given any thought to going East to attend a real school, Raven?”

She gave him a look like he had gone mad.

“Everything I need is in these mountains,” she said.

“But with an actual education, you could—”

Preacher silenced Audie with an outstretched hand. He had heard something in the trees. He knew better than to think it was the Gros Ventre raiders come back to life. Noises meant flesh and blood. He reached for his rifle.

As Preacher touched the weapon, a man stepped out of the trees holding a bow and arrow. The bowstring was drawn back tautly, and all it would take to send the arrow driving deep into Preacher’s body was the slightest motion of the man’s fingers.