Nighthawk just gave them a grave nod.

  The three men strode over to the bar where Dutch Charley greeted them with a big grin on his ruddy face.

  “Preacher, Audie, Nighthawk! So good to see you again!” The trader’s voice held only a trace of an accent from his upbringing in Germany. “It has been quite a while since you’ve been through this way.”

  Audie climbed up on one of the rough stools so he could see over the bar and said, “Your business has grown, Charley. You must be prospering.”

  “Ja, my business has grown and so has my wife.”

  The Indian woman at the stove turned to beam at them and revealed a rounded belly that proclaimed she was with child.

  “Our heartiest congratulations, madam,” Audie told her.

  “You hopin’ the young’un is a boy or a girl, Charley?” asked Preacher.

  Charley shook his head. “I don’t care, although it would be nice to have a son to carry on this business when I’m gone.”

  “Well, you got our best wishes no matter which way it turns out.” Preacher slapped his hands on the bar. “Now, it’s been a mighty long day, and we could all use some coffee and bowls o’ whatever that delicious-smellin’ concoction your missus is cooking up might be.”

  A few minutes later, they were enjoying strong black coffee from large, earthenware mugs and wooden bowls full of savory stew with chunks of elk meat swimming in the dark broth along with wild onions and carrots and potatoes from Dutch Charley’s garden. They had chunks of freshly baked rye bread to sop up the juices.

  Meanwhile, the old Flathead called Sahale stood up from the table and went over to the fireplace where a quarter of venison was roasting on an iron spit. He took a knife from a fringed and beaded sheath at his waist and carved off several chunks of sizzling, dripping meat, the heat of which didn’t seem to bother him as he carried the venison back to the table where his granddaughter sat waiting. He sat down again and divided the food between them.

  Preacher observed that from the corner of his eye and said quietly to Charley, “You know those two? Have they been here before?”

  Charley leaned forward and said equally quietly, “I never laid eyes on them until they showed up a short time ago. But you know my policy—everyone is welcome as long as they don’t cause trouble.”

  “How about if trouble follows ’em here? We saw ’em ridin’ in. The old-timer kept checkin’ their back trail like he expected to see somebody on it.”

  Charley’s massive shoulders rose and fell. “It does not matter. I would not turn away anyone who seeks the hospitality of my place.”

  “Nor would we want you to do so,” Audie said. “Consider this a simple word of warning.”

  Charley nodded, reached under the bar, and brought out a heavy bungstarter. He placed it on the bar and then retrieved a pair of flintlock pistols that he set down flanking the bungstarter. He reached under the bar a third time and produced a double-barreled shotgun with the stock and barrels sawed off so that it could be aimed and fired with one hand if a man’s arm was strong enough to withstand the recoil—which Charley’s undoubtedly was. Finally, he added a scabbarded cavalry saber to the collection.

  “Yeah, I’d say you’re ready for trouble, all right,” Preacher said with a grin. “Armed for bear, sure enough.”

  Audie said, “Actually, I’m not sure any of those weapons would bring down a bear except perhaps for the shotgun if it was fired at short enough range. But I doubt if you have bears coming into the trading post very often, do you, Charley?”

  “I mind my own business,” Charley rumbled, “but I maintain the peace in here, too.”

  Preacher chuckled and went back to sopping up stew with a big piece of rye bread. That was enjoyable and occupied his attention for the next little while.

  As he was drinking the last of his coffee, Preacher turned slightly on the stool and glanced at the table where the two Indians were. The old man still sat almost bolt upright, which seemed to be his habitual posture, but the young woman had leaned forward across the table and rested her head on her crossed arms. She appeared to be asleep.

  Wherever they had come from, whatever they had gone through, weariness had claimed the young woman named Chimalus.

  Bluebird, Preacher reminded himself. The name meant Bluebird, and he decided that was what he was going to call her. It fit her.

  Although, given her lack of friendliness, he figured it was possible he’d never have occasion to speak to her again. More than likely, it didn’t matter what he decided to call her.

  Audie pushed away his empty bowl, shook his head to the unspoken question from Charley’s wife as to whether he wanted more, and said, “We have business to discuss.”

  “You have brought in pelts?” Charley asked.

  “These two have,” Preacher said as he poked a thumb toward Audie and Nighthawk. “They’re the industrious ones. I’ve been just sort of roamin’ around for a while, too lazy to work at trappin’ or anything else.”

  “We left the packs in the barn,” Audie said. “Would you like for Nighthawk to fetch them in?”

  Charley waved a ham-like hand. “Tomorrow morning will be soon enough to negotiate,” he said. “I will give you the best price I possibly can, Audie, you know that, but the market is not what it once was.”

  “Yes, we’re all too aware of the downturn it’s taken. We were just talking about that earlier.”

  “There’s more to trade,” Preacher said. “We brought in some extra horses, too. They look like decent saddle mounts, and they got saddles to go with them.”

  Charley’s bushy eyebrows rose. “Should I inquire as to how you came by these horses?”

  “It was honest enough. Their owners decided to ambush us. Probably figured on robbin’ us after they killed us. We disabused ’em of the notion.”

  Charley nodded and said solemnly, “I see. You have no need of the horses?”

  “I don’t,” Preacher said. “Already got a fine pack animal.”

  Audie and Nighthawk shook their heads. Audie added, “There’s some other gear to go along with the horses and saddles, a few guns and tools and what have you. We’ll keep the ammunition and supplies.”

  “I’m certain we can make a deal. Where will you go from here? Back to trapping?”

  “Ain’t quite figured that out yet,” said Preacher. “The good thing is, we don’t have to be nowhere at no particular time.” He smiled. “So if you want to draw a mug o’ beer to help wash down that fine grub, I wouldn’t say no.”

  “More coffee for me,” Audie said.

  Nighthawk didn’t ask for anything else.

  For the next half-hour or so, the men sat at the bar chatting pleasantly with Dutch Charley. The trader’s wife had retreated to another part of the building.

  When Preacher glanced over his shoulder, he saw that Sahale had finally given in to his tiredness, as well. He was still sitting up, but his shoulders rested against the log wall behind him and his head drooped forward. His eyes were closed.

  His granddaughter still dozed over the table with her head resting on her arms. Preacher wondered how far they had come today to be so tired.

  A moment later, with no warning, the young woman jerked out of her slumber and bolted to her feet. She let out a wordless cry and twisted back and forth as if looking around for something. Her gaze must have landed on the pack at the end of the table. She stared at it for a second and then heaved a huge sigh of relief.

  Following her startled outburst, her grandfather had leaped to his feet, too, instantly awake. He grabbed the rifle from the table and lifted it to swing the barrel back and forth as if searching for a target. He stood there with his shoulders slightly hunched and a look on his weathered face that was frightened and angry at the same time.

  “My friends, my friends, it is all right,” Charley said in his booming voice as he held out his hands toward them and patted the air calmingly. “Nothing is wrong.” He smiled. “I think you must have had a bad dream, fraulein.”

  Although she probably didn’t understand the German word, Bluebird must have known the trader was talking to her. She gave a little shake of her head and said, “Not a bad dream. An evil dream about evil men.” Her features had relaxed slightly, but now they began to tense again. “They are close by. I can sense them.”

  “We left them far behind, granddaughter—” Sahale began.

  “They have found us.” Bluebird groaned. “They are coming. We cannot escape them.”

  Preacher’s first impulse was to go to her and assure her that she and her grandfather would be all right. He and Audie and Nighthawk were here, and they wouldn’t allow anything to happen to the two Flatheads. Charley Hennenburger’s massive presence just added to that security.

  He hesitated because she had been a mite standoffish earlier and he didn’t want to spook her even more.

  Nighthawk started across the room toward them. That was better, Preacher thought. Even though he was Crow and they were Salish, at least he was another Indian. Bluebird would probably feel more comfortable with him reassuring her.

  Nighthawk was only halfway across the room when the trading post’s front door was flung open with such force that it crashed back against the wall. Men boiled through the opening, bristling with guns, and one of them yelled, “There they are! Get those damn redskins!”

  CHAPTER 4

  Preacher wheeled away from the bar as his hands dropped to the butts of the Colts at his hips. The big revolvers slid smoothly from their holsters. He would have warned the newcomers to stop right where they were, but before he could get the words out of his mouth, one of the men charging into the room whipped up a flintlock pistol and fired at Nighthawk at almost point-blank range.

  Nighthawk’s reactions were lightning-fast, especially for such a big man. As flame gouted from the gun muzzle, he twisted aside and flung his left arm out. The pistol ball stirred the fringe hanging down from the buckskin shirt’s sleeve, but that was as close as it came to the Crow warrior’s flesh.

  An instant later, Nighthawk’s hand closed around the gunman’s wrist and twisted. The man screamed as bones cracked and grinded against each other. The gun dropped from his suddenly useless hand.

  One of the other intruders yelled, “Don’t shoot, you damn fools! You might hit them!”

  So they didn’t want to kill Sahale and Bluebird, but despite that, Preacher felt sure they didn’t have any good intentions for the two Indians. He pouched both irons and stepped up to take on the attackers hand to hand. More than likely, he could have driven them off with the Colts, but that would mean missing out on what might be a good scrap.

  Also, he was curious. He wanted to get his hands on one of the varmints and find out just why the two Salish were so important.

  Still holding the wrist of the man who’d shot at him, Nighthawk bent and grabbed the man’s left leg at the knee, as well. Seemingly effortlessly, he jerked the man off his feet and hoisted him above his head. Nighthawk was so tall the man brushed against one of the hanging lanterns. His homespun shirt ignited, and he screamed and flailed as the flames caught and spread.

  Nighthawk threw him into the faces of the other men.

  That bowled over several of them. They wound up in a writhing mess on the floor, just inside the doorway. Unfortunately, enough room was left for another six or eight men to leap past them and continue the invasion of Dutch Charley’s. In the confusion, Preacher couldn’t get an accurate count of the attackers—not that it was important. He was going to tangle with them no matter how many there were.

  One of the men tried to dart past him toward the corner of the room where Sahale and Bluebird had now retreated so their backs were against the wall. Preacher grabbed the fellow by the arm, swung him around, and slammed a hard right into his face. The man reeled back a step but caught his balance before he went down. With an angry roar, he came at Preacher, fists swinging wildly.

  The punches were uncontrolled and artless, but the mountain man couldn’t block all of them. A blow got through and caught him on the jaw, jolting his head to the side.

  That allowed his opponent to close in and hook a fist into Preacher’s midsection. The man was almost as tall as Preacher and more heavily built. The punch packed plenty of power. The impact bent Preacher forward.

  He went with that and dived at the other man, tackling him around the waist. Both of them crashed to the rough puncheons. Preacher landed on top and rammed a knee at the man’s groin. The man twisted aside, took the knee on his thigh, and grabbed Preacher’s shoulders. Grappling with each other, they rolled over a couple of times before they fetched up against the sturdy legs of a table.

  While they were rolling, Preacher caught glimpses of Nighthawk battling three or four of the intruders at once. The giant Crow was like a grizzly bear standing tall as wolves surrounded him. His massive fists lashed out like mauls and knocked men off their feet, but more instantly took their place.

  Dutch Charley had charged from behind the bar and was swinging the bungstarter, lambasting some of the strangers with it. He had left the other weapons sitting on the bar, probably not wanting to risk using them at close quarters, especially that sawed-off shotgun. Using the bungstarter, he had knocked two men off their feet before another stepped up behind him and struck him in the back of the head with a vicious stroke from a rifle butt. That drove Charley to his knees.

  Preacher didn’t see any more than that because his hands were full with the man he was battling. Growling like an animal, the man pulled his head down between his shoulders and butted Preacher in the chest. It was a smashing blow that momentarily robbed Preacher of his breath. That allowed his burly opponent to get his hands around Preacher’s neck. He pulled the mountain man up a few inches and then slammed his head back down on the floor.

  This was getting mighty annoying. A red haze dropped in front of Preacher’s eyes, as if he were looking at his surroundings through a gauzy crimson curtain. That was either rage welling up inside him, or else he was about to pass out.

  Passing out wouldn’t be good. If he did, the big varmint he was wrestling with likely would choke the life out of him. Preacher cupped his hands and clapped them against the man’s ears as hard as he could.

  That made the man howl in pain and loosen his grip. Preacher brought his hands in close and drove them upward. He caught the man under the chin and wrenched his head back. A sharp crack sounded. Preacher’s opponent went limp and collapsed on top of him.

  Muttering curses, Preacher grabbed the dead man’s shoulders and shoved him aside. Preacher rolled the other way and came up on hands and knees.

  As he did, a big gray shape flashed in front of his face. Dog had gotten into the trading post somehow and was eager to join in the fight. He sprang up, sank his teeth into a man’s arm, and the big cur’s weight dragged the startled hombre to the floor. He began to yell in terror as Dog went after him with slashing teeth.

  Preacher spotted Audie scrambling away from the back door and realized that the little man had opened it to let Dog in. Audie scooped up the bungstarter Dutch Charley had dropped when he was knocked out. Audie whirled the bungstarter over his head and swung it in a roundhouse blow. He was just the right height for that blow to land between the legs of an intruder. The man screamed in agony and dropped to the floor, clutching himself and curling up in a tight ball.

  Nighthawk had planted himself between the two Flatheads and the attackers. Several men were sprawled on the floor around the giant Crow, moaning and twitching. But others still had him surrounded and were pummeling him with fists, feet, and gun butts. The attacking force had been even larger than Preacher realized at first. Obviously, more men had poured into the trading post to continue the assault.

  As formidable as Nighthawk was, he hadn’t been able to stop all of them. A few had gotten past him and closed in on Sahale and Bluebird. As one lunged at the young woman, her grandfather lifted his rifle and fired. The ball struck the man and staggered him, but as he fell, two more took his place and tried to grab Bluebird.

  She had pulled a knife from somewhere. She slashed at the nearest man and cut him badly on the hand groping for her. He yelled and jerked back. With his other hand, he yanked a gun from the waistband of his trousers, pointed it at Bluebird, and pulled the trigger.

  After the earlier shouted warning from one of the men not to shoot, the sudden explosion was shocking. But not as shocking as the stunned expression on Bluebird’s face as the pistol ball’s impact drove her back against the log wall. She hung there, mouth open and eyes wide with pain. Blood welled from the black-rimmed hole in her buckskin dress between her breasts. She pitched forward, landing next to the wrapped bundle she had placed on the floor. Even in collapsing, she flung out an arm so that it covered the bundle protectively.

  Brutally gunning down the girl like that changed everything. Even before Bluebird hit the floor, Preacher’s Colts were in his hands, roaring and bucking as he triggered them. The gun-thunder was deafening as flames spewed from the revolvers’ muzzles. A cloud of powdersmoke billowed around the mountain man.

  Preacher’s aim was deadly, but not even his swift volley of lead was in time to stop an attacker who leaped at Sahale and plunged a big-bladed hunting knife into the old man’s chest. Sahale gasped and sagged against the wall. He still had enough strength to grasp the rifle with both hands and slam the breech into the face of the man who had just stabbed him. The blow shattered bone and made the man stagger backward.

  Sahale dropped the rifle, pawed futilely at the bone handle of the knife protruding from his chest, and slowly slid down the wall.

  Preacher emptied the Colts. An intruder fell with each crashing report. The ones still on their feet fled frantically. A couple reached the doorway and dashed out into the night, but Nighthawk caught the other two before they could escape. Grabbing each by the neck from behind, he smashed their heads together with such force that they shattered like melons.

  Nighthawk tossed the dead men aside like discarded rag dolls.