Free The Family Jensen by William W. Johnstone, J. A. Johnstone Page A

as we can. I seem to remember there’s a canyon up there that might be a good place to hide ’em. It’s narrow, and one man could hold off quite a few.”
    “I know the place,” Crazy Bear said. “I will come there when I have killed as many of the enemy as I can.”
    “Don’t be too stubborn about it and stay too long,” Preacher said. “We’ll have a better chance of gettin’ those gals outta here if we’re both still alive.”
    Crazy Bear turned to Mala. “May the spirits smile on you, valiant one,” he told her.
    “What did he say?” she asked Preacher.
    “He was wishin’ you luck.”
    “Oh.” She looked at the Crow chief. “Good luck to you, too, Crazy Bear.”
    He gave her a curt nod, then crawled off into the grass, disappearing quickly.
    “He is big,” Mala said, “but not really that ugly.”
    “You ain’t seen him in broad daylight yet,” Preacher said.
    He motioned for her to follow him and started crawling to his left. He didn’t hurry, but he didn’t waste any time, either. When they reached the trees that covered the slope, Preacher stood up in the thick shadows and reached down to take Mala’s arm. He helped her to her feet and put his mouth next to her ear.
    “As much as you can, try to step where I step. Let your weight down easy. Keep your balance all the time, and don’t let that pigsticker bang against anything.”
    “I will be careful,” she promised. Her breath was warm against his ear as she spoke. He felt the warmth of her body near his, as well, but didn’t think anything about it. She was an ally in a desperate fight, that was all. The fact that she was also a beautiful young woman didn’t even enter his thoughts, the way it might have if he had been twenty years younger.
    Like the ghost the Blackfeet considered him, Preacher glided silently through the shadows under the trees. Each of his senses was operating at peak efficiency. He heard a faint movement up ahead at the same time he smelled unwashed flesh.
    A sentry leaned against a tree trunk. In the darkness, Preacher’s cat-like eyes were able to make out his shape. He had his hand wrapped around the barrel of his rifle and the weapon’s butt rested on the ground beside his feet. At that late hour of his shift, the guard was struggling to stay awake.
    Preacher drew the long-bladed hunting knife at his waist. Striking with the swift, silent deadliness of a viper, he slid his left arm around the sentry’s neck, jerked him back, forced his head up, and slashed the blade across the luckless outlaw’s throat, slicing deep into it. Hot blood spurted from the severed artery. The man let go of his rifle and started to struggle, even though he was already doomed. Preacher didn’t want him thrashing around and making a racket, so he drove the heavy brass ball at the end of the knife’s grip against the man’s temple. The blow was enough to stun him. He sagged in Preacher’s grip and finished bleeding to death in silence.
    Carefully, Preacher lowered the corpse to the ground. He wiped the blade on the man’s shirt and straightened. Touching Mala’s arm to let her know she should follow him he catfooted his way toward the wagons again.
    She moved more quietly than he had expected her to. She seemed to have a natural talent for that sort of thing, he thought. Gypsies had a reputation for being sneaky. In Mala’s case it seemed to be deserved, at least as far as being able to slip unnoticed through the shadows.
    Another guard stood near the wagons. Preacher waited for a long moment, studying the camp. The fire had burned down some, but still provided enough light for him to see Lupton and Red Moccasins sitting beside it, talking. Most of the Sioux warriors were sprawled around the camp, snoring in their whiskey-induced slumber. Some of the white men were asleep, too. A few were still passing a jug back and forth. None of them seemed to think they were in any danger whatsoever. Their confidence bordered on