The crushing weight drove Preacher to the ground. What felt like an iron bar clamped itself across his throat, cutting off his air.

Even under attack like this, he was thinking straight enough to have a hunch that it was Mike Moran who had jumped him. Preacher was convinced that Moran was in on the scheme with Buckhalter. The big man must have been in the crowd of immigrants, heard Preacher’s reference to Beaumont, and figured that he was done for.

He was going to try to kill Preacher first, though, before his own fate caught up to him.

Preacher drove his right elbow up and back and heard an animal-like grunt as it sank into his attacker’s belly. He reached back with his left hand and tangled his fingers in the man’s hair. A hard tug brought a howl of pain as Preacher came away with a handful of hair.

That distracted his opponent enough for Preacher to buck up off the ground and throw the man to the side. Preacher rolled the other way and came up on his feet. He saw that his hunch had been right. It was Mike Moran who clambered upright about ten feet away, blood running down the side of his face from his scalp where Preacher had torn out the clump of hair that he now tossed aside.

Uncle Dan raised a pistol and pointed it at Moran. “Hold it right there, big fella,” the old-timer warned.

“This here fight’s gone on long enough.”

Moran started to curse in a low, monotonous voice, but a muffled scream cut across his profanities. Preacher’s head jerked around. He saw Buckhalter backing toward one of the wagons with an arm looped around Lorraine Donnelly’s throat. His other hand held the muzzle of a pistol pressed against her head.

“Lorraine!” Ned Donnelly cried.

“Stay back!” Buckhalter warned. “I’ll kill her!” Preacher shook his head. “No, he won’t. He knows that if he pulls that trigger, he’ll be shot plumb full o’ holes his own self before Miz Donnelly hits the ground. Might as well go ahead and give up, Buckhalter, because you ain’t gettin’ out of this.”

Preacher started forward, but Donnelly said, “No!” and got in his way. The man put a hand against Preacher’s chest. “I know you’re probably right, Preacher, but I can’t take that chance with Lorraine’s life.” He turned to the renegade wagon master. “What do you want, Buckhalter?”

“Safe passage out of here,” Buckhalter replied. He had such a tight grip on Lorraine that she couldn’t budge. “For me and Moran. And I want the money chest.”

Preacher knew what Buckhalter was talking about. On a lot of these wagon trains, the immigrants pooled their funds and kept most, if not all, of their money in a chest in one of the wagons. That money would help them get started in their new lives when they got to where they were going. Many of the westward-bound pilgrims didn’t have a lot of cash; it was expensive to buy a wagon and outfit it with a team and supplies. It might take most of a family’s life savings to pay for such an epic journey.

But take those small amounts and multiply them by the number of families in a wagon train, and it could add up to a tidy little sum. Plus there were usually a few folks who were more well-to-do than the rest, and that would swell the total in the money chest even more.

“That’s insane,” Donnelly said in response to Buckhalter’s demand. “We’ll need that money when we get to Oregon. You can’t expect us to give it up.” He took a deep breath. “We’ll let the two of you go, though.”

Buckhalter shook his head. “Not good enough. After all we’ve risked, you can’t expect us to ride away without a payoff.” His mouth twisted in a sneer under the bushy beard. “Anyway, Donnelly, what will you need more in Oregon, the money or your wife?”

Donnelly didn’t have an answer for that. He stood there, obviously tortured by fear for Lorraine, as well as the responsibility he felt toward the other members of the wagon train. He looked toward them, and one of the men said, “We’re sorry, Ned, but we can’t—”

“I know,” Donnelly broke in. “I can’t ask you to give up everything.” He faced Buckhalter again. “Safe passage. That’s all.”

Several seconds crept by, the time drawing out painfully. Preacher heard a couple of owls hoot back and forth in the tense silence. Then Buckhalter jerked his head in a nod and said, “All right. Safe passage. Now tell that old man to stop pointing his gun at Moran.”

Preacher motioned for Uncle Dan to put down his pistol. The old-timer complied with obvious reluctance. Grinning smugly—the only real expression Preacher had seen on the granite-faced renegade—Moran moved over to join Buckhalter.

“There’s one more thing,” Buckhalter went on. “Mrs. Donnelly goes with us.”

Lorraine’s eyes widened even more. Donnelly exclaimed, “You’re mad!”

“Not at all. She’ll be our guarantee of safety. Otherwise, what’s to stop Preacher from coming after us as soon as we leave?” Buckhalter laughed. “You didn’t know it, Donnelly, but you had a famous man in your midst. Preacher is known from one end of the Rockies to the other. In fact, my employer has placed a bounty on his head. I’m passing up a nice chunk of coin by letting him live.”

Donnelly frowned over at Preacher. “Who’s this employer he’s talking about?”

“Fella name of Beaumont,” Preacher drawled. “He planned this whole thing so Buckhalter, Moran, and those other fellas could loot your wagon train. He did his best to get rid of me so I wouldn’t ruin the plan, but it didn’t work.”

Donnelly looked over at the other three guides, Stallworth, Jennings, and MacKenzie, who stood together at the edge of the crowd. Stallworth and Jennings appeared to have minor injuries from the battle.

“Did you men know anything about this?”

Stallworth shook his head and said, “Not a damned thing, Donnelly, and that’s the truth. We just hired on as guides, that’s all. Buckhalter and Moran double-crossed us as much as they did you.”

One of the men spoke up. “I reckon he’s telling the truth, Ned. I saw all three of them fighting those bastards who jumped us.”

“Enough palaver,” Buckhalter snapped. “We’re leaving . . . and like I said, Mrs. Donnelly is coming with us.” He told Moran, “Mike, saddle three horses for us.”

In a choked voice, Lorraine forced out, “Ned, don’t . . . let him . . . take me away . . . from my children!”

Buckhalter chuckled. “He doesn’t have any choice, Mrs. Donnelly. Not if he wants to keep you alive.”

Preacher said, “I hope you ain’t forgot about those Pawnee, Buckhalter. They’re still out there somewhere.”

“That’s why we’re going east instead of west. You see, I believed you about them, Preacher, even though I couldn’t admit that.”

People got out of Moran’s way as he went to saddle horses for him and Buckhalter and Lorraine. He had just lifted a saddle and turned toward the animals when there was a fluttering sound. Moran lurched to the side and dropped the saddle. He yelled in pain and reached up to clutch the shaft of the arrow that protruded from his shoulder.

“Pawnee!” Preacher shouted as he saw the arrow. “Everybody hunt cover!”

More arrows came flying out of the darkness around the camp. Preacher had suspected those owls he’d heard a few moments earlier weren’t the real thing, and now he was sure of it.

Standing Elk and the rest of the war party must have heard all the shooting and come to investigate it. Finding that the immigrants had their attention focused elsewhere, the Indians had decided it would be a good time to attack. Even though they didn’t really like to fight at night, they would seize an advantage any time they could get it.

The Pawnee weren’t Preacher’s only worry, though. Buckhalter still had Lorraine as his hostage. Preacher had to get her away from him before something happened to her. He leaped toward the two of them as Buckhalter turned toward the wagons, hauling Lorraine around with him. The son of a bitch was using her as a human shield if any arrows came flying his way, Preacher realized.

Buckhalter still had the gun to Lorraine’s head. The hammer was cocked, and all it was take was a little pressure on the trigger to send a heavy lead ball smashing into her skull at point-blank range. Preacher could see only one way to prevent that.

He drew his knife and let fly, putting every bit of skill and accuracy he possessed into the throw.

The blade flicked across the intervening space, turning over as it flew, and when it struck Buckhalter’s wrist it landed perfectly, slicing deep into flesh and muscle and slashing the tendons. Buckhalter cried out in surprise and pain as his fingers opened, the digits splaying out instead of contracting. The pistol fell unfired from his hand.

Preacher crashed into Buckhalter’s back a second later, driving the man forward and knocking him loose from Lorraine, who was shoved to the ground by the impact as well. That was a good thing, because arrows began to whip through the space the three of them had occupied a heartbeat earlier.

Preacher snatched up the pistol Buckhalter had dropped and slammed the butt into the back of the renegade wagon master’s head. Buckhalter went limp.

Reversing his grip on the gun, Preacher tilted the barrel upward as a member of the Pawnee war party vaulted through the narrow gap between a couple of wagons. The warrior’s feet had barely touched the ground when Preacher fired from a few yards away. The pistol ball, traveling in an upward path, caught the Indian under the chin and bored on up into his brain, flipping him backward so that he landed on the wagon tongue behind him. Blood gushed from the terrible wound as he lay there draped over the wooden shaft.

Preacher surged to his feet. He lifted Lorraine with him and hustled her toward the nearest wagon. “Stay under cover!” he told her.

Both his pistols were loaded. He pulled them from behind his belt as he swung back toward the fight. The Pawnee war party numbered about twenty men, he recalled, and even with the casualties the immigrants had suffered in the earlier battle, they still outnumbered the Indians. If they were cool-headed and kept their wits about them, they could win this fight.

Preacher was glad to see that the defenders had spread out, seeking cover behind the wagons. Shots roared all around the circle. Women and older children were reloading for the menfolks. It was asking a lot to expect these pilgrims from back east to fight for their lives and the lives of their families twice in one night, but it appeared that for the most part, they were meeting the challenge.

Preacher spotted an empty gap between wagons and knew the Pawnee were likely to realize there weren’t any defenders there. He headed for it and got there just as three of the painted savages rushed the opening. They saw him too late to swerve aside. The brace of pistols in his hands boomed like thunder, spewing flame and smoke from their muzzles. Two of the Indians went down, driven off their feet by the deadly impact of the lead balls.

But that left the third Pawnee, and he came hurdling over the wagon tongue to crash into Preacher and knock him backward. The hard fall jolted the empty guns out of Preacher’s hands. He looked up as the Indian screeched and brought a tomahawk sweeping down toward his head.

A rifle blasted somewhere close by. Blood and bone sprayed from the Pawnee’s head as a ball smacked into it. Preacher heaved the body aside and rolled over, coming up onto hands and knees. He saw Uncle Dan standing there with smoke curling from the barrel of the rifle the old-timer held. Preacher grabbed the tomahawk the Indian had dropped and threw it as hard as he could.

The ’hawk flew past a startled Uncle Dan, missing him by mere inches. The blade embedded itself in the forehead of the warrior who had been about to fire a rifle at the old-timer from behind. Uncle Dan must have heard the Indian collapse, because he looked around and gaped as he saw how close he had come to death.

Preacher gave him a nod and scrambled to his feet. Just as before, the shooting had begun to become sporadic. Indians were usually pretty quick to realize when they had bitten off more than they could chew, and they didn’t have the same sort of stubborn, foolish pride white men often had that would make them keep fighting a losing battle. They would call off an attack and figure that they could fight again some other day. That appeared to be what was happening now, as the shooting trailed off and then stopped.

Preacher looked toward the spot where he had last seen Buckhalter. The renegade wagon master wasn’t there now. Grimly, Preacher started in that direction, but he hadn’t gotten there when he heard Ned Donnelly shout, “Preacher, look out!”

Twisting around, Preacher saw Mike Moran charging toward him, already practically on top of him. The arrow still stuck out of Moran’s shoulder, but other than that he seemed to be unhurt. Moran yelled, “This is all your fault!” just before he rammed into Preacher.

For the second time tonight, Preacher landed on the ground with Moran’s crushing weight on top of him. This time he was on his back, so he could look up and see the hatred and rage boiling in the man’s eyes. Moran locked his hands around Preacher’s neck and began trying to choke the life out of the mountain man.

Preacher knew that Uncle Dan or Donnelly would likely shoot Moran before Moran could kill him, but he didn’t wait for somebody else to save his life. He reached up, got hold of the arrow sticking out of Moran’s shoulder, and snapped off the shaft. Moran yelled in pain as that caused the arrowhead to shift in his flesh, but the yell dissolved into a gurgle as Preacher rammed the jagged end of the broken shaft into his neck. Blood flooded over Preacher’s hand as he drove the makeshift weapon deep into Moran’s throat.

Moran’s hands came loose from Preacher’s throat. He reached up to paw at the shaft of the arrow, but he didn’t have the strength to pull it loose. By now, it wouldn’t have mattered if he had. A sheet of crimson flowed down over his chest. He swayed back and forth for a second as his eyes rolled back in their sockets, and then he fell to the side. A final spasm went through his body as he died.

Preacher pushed the corpse to the side. Donnelly and Uncle Dan were there, and they both reached down to help him to his feet.

“You all right, Preacher?” the old-timer asked.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Preacher rasped as he rubbed at his throat. Moran hadn’t done any real damage, but Preacher knew he’d have some bruises and soreness in his neck for a day or two. “Where’s Buckhalter?”

“Gone,” Donnelly replied, disgust evident in his tone. “I guess he slipped away during the confusion of the fight with the Pawnee.”

Preacher wasn’t surprised. Buckhalter seemed to have an instinct for self-preservation.

It might not save him this time, though, with the survivors of that war party roaming around. The Pawnee would be mad about what had happened, and while they might be too smart to attack the wagon train again, they wouldn’t hesitate to take their frustrations out on a lone white man if they could get their hands on him.

“What about your wife?” Preacher asked Donnelly. “Was she hurt?”

Donnelly shook his head. “Lorraine is shaken up some, of course, but she’ll be all right.” He paused, then asked, “Do you think we’ll be attacked again tonight, Preacher?”

A grim chuckle came from Preacher. “Doubtful. I reckon you took a big enough toll on both bunches that they won’t be lookin’ for a fight for a while. There’s probably not more than a handful left alive. Buckhalter’s men will likely head back east as fast as their horses can carry ’em. The Pawnee will go back to their regular huntin’ grounds and lick their wounds until they get ready to go raidin’ again, with some young warriors to replace the ones you killed.”

“I’m sorry that so many people had to lose their lives tonight.”

“Better those varmints than you or the folks with you,” Uncle Dan said.

“We lost several men,” Donnelly said with sorrow in his voice. “They were killed during the fighting.”

Preacher nodded. “I saw a couple of them go down. They were good men, fightin’ right to the end.”

“We’ll give them proper burials, and leave markers for them.”

“I reckon that’s fine,” Preacher said. He didn’t mention the fact that in a few months, no one would be able to tell that any graves had been dug here. Chances were, the markers would be gone, too, claimed by the elements. They surely would be in a year or so, unless the words were carved in stone. And even if they were, the sun and the rain and the wind would wear those away in time, too. The memories folks had of a man were the only true legacy he left behind when he crossed the divide.

That was the way it had always been, the way it would always be. As the years passed, there would be hundreds, if not thousands, of forgotten graves on these westward trails, Preacher reflected. Few of those who came after would know or care about the people who had died carrying civilization across the prairie.

But the country would be changed forevermore, anyway. For good or bad . . . ?

Well, Preacher didn’t know about that part of it.