And you are one arrogant son of a bitch, Preacher thought. He almost muttered it aloud in English but bit back the words in time to prevent them from escaping. He had no way of knowing if Lame Buffalo spoke any of the white man’s tongue. Just because he wasn’t speaking it, didn’t mean he couldn’t savvy it.
Preacher turned slightly in the saddle and waved his left hand toward the wagons behind him. “We wish to take our wagons through your land safely. We mean no harm to the Comanche people. We are peaceful traders.”
“You take white man’s goods to the land of the Mexicans?” Lame Buffalo asked.
He knew good and well that’s what they were doing, Preacher thought. Lame Buffalo had probably seen dozens of freight caravans bound for Santa Fe. He might well have looted some of them.
But Preacher just said, “That’s right. We carry only trade goods. No guns.” The Comanches would be more likely to attack the caravan if they thought they might get their hands on some weapons. A few of the band carried flintlocks, but most were armed with bows and arrows or lances.
Preacher doubted Lame Buffalo would take his word, and sure enough, the leader said curtly, “Show me.”
Preacher nodded. “Come with me.”
Turning his back on the Comanches wasn’t easy, but he did it and acted unconcerned as he rode toward the wagons with Lame Buffalo following him. Preacher saw the nervous faces watching them and made a motion with his hand, hoping they would understand he was telling them to stay calm. He smiled at Casey, Lorenzo, Bartlett, and Roland, who sat together on their horses next to the first wagon.
“This is Lame Buffalo,” he told them in English. “He’s gonna take a look at the goods we’re carryin’.”
“Are you going to offer to pay him to let us pass?” Bartlett asked.
“That’s the idea. Be even better if he sees somethin’ that strikes his fancy and suggests that we bargain with him.”
Preacher glanced at the Comanche. Lame Buffalo’s face was still stonily impassive. He gave no sign that he had understood any of the exchange between Preacher and Bartlett.
Preacher spoke to the bullwhacker in charge of the first wagon’s team of oxen, a man named Fawcett. “Pull that canvas back, would you, Cliff?”
Fawcett went to the rear of the wagon and untied the canvas flaps. He threw them open so Lame Buffalo could look into the wagon. The Comanche leaned forward on his pony and frowned as he peered into the vehicle at the crates and barrels stacked in its bed.
“Hold on a minute,” Preacher told him. He dismounted and climbed into the wagon. He pulled his knife from its sheath and used the blade to pry the top off a barrel of sugar. Scooping up a handful of the stuff, he held it out to Lame Buffalo. “Try this.”
The Comanche frowned. His eyes narrowed in suspicion. But he couldn’t resist the temption. He reached out and took a pinch of the sugar from Preacher’s hand.
Preacher pinched some of it between the fingers of his other hand and lifted it to his mouth. He tasted the sugar and licked his lips to show Lame Buffalo how good it was. Still looking wary, Lame Buffalo tried it as well.
The warrior kept his face carefully impassive, but Preacher saw the pleasure that lit up Lame Buffalo’s eyes for a second. He held out his hand for more of the sugar, and Preacher dumped the whole handful in his palm.
Lame Buffalo turned his pony and kicked it into a run toward the rest of the warriors who blocked the trail. He shared the sugar with them. Preacher heard them laughing.
“What’re you doin’, Preacher?” the bullwhacker asked.
“You’ve heard about catchin’ flies with honey, Cliff?” When the man nodded, Preacher went on, “Well, I’m tryin’ to catch some Comanch’ with sugar.”
Several of the warriors let out shrill yips and thrust their lances into the air. Lame Buffalo turned and rode back to join Preacher by the wagon. He pointed to the barrel and said, “We will take it all and not kill you.”
Preacher shook his head. “One bag.”
Lame Buffalo’s face darkened with anger.
“And a bolt of cloth, your choice,” Preacher added.
Lame Bear appeared to be considering the proposal. After a moment, he said, “Show me.”
That was the beginning of a long, tense negotiation that lasted over an hour. The Indians had them outnumbered two to one, and everybody in the wagon train knew it. Impending violence was thick in the air.
Lame Buffalo had to look in every wagon and decide what he wanted. Every time he made a demand, Preacher made a counteroffer. Finally, they reached an accord. In return for the sugar, the cloth, some salt, a couple women’s hats with bright-colored feathers, and a bag of nails—Preacher had no idea what the Comanches intended to do with those, but he had a brief moment of hesitation when he guessed it might have to do with torturing prisoners—the Comanches agreed not to kill them all and burn their wagons. It seemed like a fair enough deal to Preacher.
Lame Buffalo waved some of his men over to gather up the spoils. The warriors took the goods and galloped back to rejoin the others. Lame Buffalo said, “One more thing, and then you can pass.”
“What’s that?” Preacher asked. He suddenly had a very bad feeling.
Lame Buffalo nudged his horse over next to Casey’s and reached out to grab her arm. “The yellow-haired woman goes with me, too!” he shouted.
Casey let out a frightened cry. Preacher knew Lame Buffalo didn’t really mean it. The Comanche was just playing with them, in the sometimes cruel fashion of his people. Preacher opened his mouth to tell Lame Buffalo he couldn’t have her, figuring the man would demand one more piece of tribute since he had been denied his latest demand. It was one more way of establishing his dominance.
But Roland Bartlett didn’t know that, and Preacher didn’t have time to tell him. The young man yelled, “Take your hands off her, you filthy savage!”
Roland jerked his pistol from his belt, and despite Preacher’s warning shout, he whipped the gun up, cocking it as he did so, and pulled the trigger. Smoke plumed from the muzzle as the pistol boomed.
Lame Buffalo jerked to the side but managed to stay on his pony. Eyes wide with pain and shock, he looked down at his bare chest, where blood welled from the black-rimmed hole made by the pistol ball. He swayed for a second, then toppled from his mount.
The fragile truce that had existed a second earlier was blown to hell, just like Lame Buffalo.
CHAPTER 15
Preacher knew the rest of the Comanches would be startled by what had happened to Lame Buffalo, and it would be a second before they reacted. He used that second to cut down the odds a little more by yanking his rifle from its sheath and snapping it to his shoulder. He fired without aiming, letting instinct guide his shot, and one of the warriors in the trail let out a cry and pitched off his pony to fall in a limp heap.
“Everybody in the wagons!” Preacher bellowed. “In the wagons now!”
The sideboards of the vehicles would stop an arrow and would probably stop a bullet. The thick canvas covers over the wagon beds might stop one of the feathered missiles. They would be better off fighting from inside, rather than underneath.
Preacher slapped Horse on the rump. The stallion took off at a dead run, with Dog following him. Preacher knew he didn’t have to worry about the Comanches catching his trail partners. They were faster than the Indian ponies and wouldn’t let them get close enough to shoot them with arrows. They wouldn’t return to the wagons until Preacher summoned them.
Preacher reloaded the flintlock as the Comanches ki-yipped and charged the caravan. All around him was chaos as frightened men scrambled into the wagons looking for cover. From the corner of his eye he saw Roland Bartlett grab Casey and practically throw her into the lead wagon. Preacher wanted to kick the addle-brained boy six ways from Sunday for what he’d done, but it was too late for that. Survival came first.