Absaroka Ambush (23 page)

The sword of justice has no scabbard.

Joseph De Maistre

It was several weeks before Preacher caught up with the wagons, and all could sense the change in him. And not just because he was riding a beautiful gray rump-spotted Appaloosa. The spotted horse was bigger than most of his breed, and had a mean look to his eyes, although he was gentle with Preacher and seemed devoted to him, which he was.

“What's his name, Preacher?” Rupert asked.

“Thunder.”

“You've changed,” the young officer said.

“I reckon I have.”

“Why?”

“I got to get these ladies to the coast, and then I got Bedell and his bunch to deal with.”

“Vengeance is mine, sayest the Lord.”

“Not this time, Rupert. Not this time.” Preacher rode on ahead.

He kept mostly to himself, ranging miles ahead of the wagons.

“I can't believe a man would love an animal so much that he would be obsessed with revenge over it,” Faith remarked to Steals Pony one evening.

“There have been more men killed over horses and dogs than over women, lady,” the Delaware replied. “Long years ago, Preacher found a little wolf pup whose mother had been killed. Preacher raised that wolf. Some whites say a wolf cannot be tamed. Whites say many foolish things. A wolf cannot be tamed like a dog, but if you gain that wolf's trust, in that respect the wildness within can be tempered. Preacher and that wolf were inseparable for several years. Then, a man named Ben Parsons killed the wolf. Killed it because he didn't like Preacher. This was back in, oh, I just don't remember. Preacher finally caught up with Parsons at the rendezvous of '28, on the south end of Bear Lake. Walked up to him, called him out, leveled a pistol, and shot the man dead. Preacher is not a man you want to cross.”

“Preacher killed a man over his
wolf?”

Steals Pony shook his head. “No. Preacher didn't own the wolf. You can't own another living thing. You can take care of it, love it, be a friend, but you can't
own
it. Preacher and the wolf were friends. Like that young man who lives down in the Colorado Rockies with a cougar and a wolf. Jamie Ian MacCallister.”

“What do you mean, he lives with them?” Eudora asked. “You mean, they stay in the
house
with him?”

“If they want to, yes. His wife doesn't seem to mind. His young son sleeps with the puma. Rest assured, no one is going to bother the child when that puma is near,” Steals Pony added very dryly. “That cat weighs about a hundred and fifty pounds. Very impressive animal.”

Faith shook her head, sensing a story here for her father's paper and for her own fledgling publication. “Where have I heard the name MacCallister?”

“The lone survivor of the Alamo,” Blackjack said. “Jamie came out here right after the Alamo fell. He married up with the gal who helped nurse his wounds and they come west soon as they could. I understand it took her a few months to get used to the way certain dangerous animals flocked to Jamie, but she soon settled right in. She don't allow bears in the cabin though. She do draw the line there.”

“Imagine that,” Faith said, the sarcasm thick in her voice.

“What happened after Preacher shot that man?” April asked.

“Nothing,” Steals Pony said. “Nobody liked Ben much anyway.”

“It's finally getting through to me,” Rupert said, refilling his coffee cup. “And I don't mean any ugliness or criticism in what I'm about to say. You people have brought it all back to the basics. Your laws are so simple that they are difficult to understand. You have taken your laws from the ways of the animals, in a manner of speaking.”

“You're right to a degree,” the Delaware agreed. “Back when we were actively trapping, a man would see another person's traps, but you never bothered them. Stealing from a man's traps could get you killed, and rightly so. Same with a man's cabin. If you were in need, you could use it, but if at all possible, replace what you used. Steal a man's horse, kill his horse or dog, and you get killed. Respect is the key. I respect your way of life, you respect mine. I respect what is yours, you respect what is mine. If a person chooses to disrespect the rights and property of others, well, we don't see the point of keeping that person alive. Because he isn't worth much. He takes more than he gives.”

“But among civilized people, that way of thinking went out centuries ago,” Faith pointed out.

The Delaware smiled. “Civilized people, you say?” He chuckled. “On this journey, dear lady, you have seen many Indian tepees. But you have yet to see one with a lock on the entrance.”

 

 

Five and a half months after leaving Missouri, the wagons were at last within sight of their destination. Since the aborted ambush of Bedell, there had not been a single shot fired in anger, and very few other mishaps for the ladies on the train.

Madeline Hornbuckle said, “Perhaps God, in His Wisdom, decided we had been punished enough.”

The women had forded rivers, struggled over mountain ranges, fought Indians, outlaws, and the elements, seen their numbers cut by a third, and now they were within an easy day's ride to the valley.

Eudora abruptly halted the wagons.

“What the hell's goin' on?” Preacher demanded, riding up to the lead wagon. “Yonder's the damn valley!”

“We camp here,” Eudora told him.

“We camp here,” she repeated.

“Why?”

“So the ladies can bathe and fix their hair and change into proper attire,” Rupert said. “It will do you no good to protest, Preacher. Believe me.”

Preacher opened his mouth, then closed it shut after taking a good look at the set features of Eudora and Faith. He slowly nodded his head and swung down off of Thunder. “I reckon we'll camp here for the night.”

The men were quickly ordered to stay the hell out of the circle of wagons. Eudora pointed to a grove of trees about a hundred yards or so from the wagons and the mountain men needed no other instructions. They dutifully trudged over to the trees and made their own camp. Young Louis thought he might be exempt. Eudora gave him a swift kick in the butt with her boot and Louis quickly joined the men.

Some of the men from the Willamette Valley decided they'd ride over to check out the ladies. It took them about fifteen seconds to realize they had made a ghastly mistake. Looking at the muzzles of fifty rifles will do that to a man. They joined the other men under the trees.

And it was then that Preacher realized he had been wrong about the man from Washington. The ladies were expected, and they were spoken for. It made him feel some better about politicians ... but not much.

“This is becoming a regular yearly visit for you, Preacher,” the chief banker of the post said to him, accepting a cup of coffee.

“Not no more,” Preacher told him. “This is my last run. Somebody else can look out after them poor pilgrims from here on in. You got my money?”

The banker handed Preacher a thick envelope. Preacher thanked him and took his friends aside to divvy up.

“More money than I've seen in many a year,” Blackjack said. “I think I'll leave the mountains and head on down to Californey and buy me a little business of some sort.”

“You lie,” Steals Pony told him.

“Shore, I do,” Blackjack replied indignantly. “You didn't expect me to tell the truth, did you?”

“That would be a novel experience, to say the least,” Steals Pony replied.

“What you gonna do, Delaware?” Blackjack asked.

Steals Pony cut his eyes to him. “Ride with Preacher if he wishes.”

“Yeah,” Blackjack said brightly. “I think that there's a right good idea.”

But Preacher shook his head. “No, I 'ppreciate it. I truly do. But it's my fight, boys. And mine alone. It's a personal thing with me. I lost good friends on this run. They'd still be alive if it wasn't for me. Now they lay moulderin' in the ground. Them that we could find, that is,” he added bitterly. “Y'all lay around the post and enjoy yourselves. After I say my goodbyes, I'll be pullin' out 'fore the dawnin'.”

Preacher walked away.

“I don't feel a bit sorry for Bedell and them scum that ride with him,” Blackjack said. “But I'd shore hate to have Preacher on my trail.”

Faith had walked up while Preacher was stating his intentions of going it alone. She had just washed her hair and was toweling it dry. “Don't tell me,” she said. “Let me guess. He's going after those men, but the reason for his doing so, other than they killed some of his friends, is mainly because they killed his horse.”

“You're learning lady,” Steals Pony told her. “You're learning.”

“I never will understand that man!” she said, stamping her little foot.

That night, long after the wagons and most of the tents had gone dark and nearly everyone was sleeping, Preacher pushed back the flap on Faith's tent and stood for a moment.

She lay in her blankets, the lone lit candle highlighting the sheen of her strawberry blonde hair. Her shoulders were bare, and it wasn't hard for Preacher to see that under the blankets, everything else about her was bare, too.

“I thought you'd come by to say farewell,” she said.

“I'm here.”

“And?”

Preacher smiled and laid his rifle aside. She watched him kneel down by her bed and take off his shirt. She noted the bullet scars and knife scars and the place where he'd once had an arrow cut out. He was powerfully muscled. He reached out and gently touched her face with a hard and calloused hand.

“Is that the best you can do?” Faith asked.

Preacher chuckled softly and pinched out the candle.

When she awakened the next morning, Preacher had been gone from the camp for several hours. He had left her a note on his pillow.

“I shall, Preacher,” Faith whispered. “Oh, I shall!”

The Appaloosa was a strong horse and loved to roam. Preacher had known when he'd first laid eyes on him he was the first horse he'd seen in a long time that would be a match for Hammer. By the time Faith had awakened, Preacher was miles from the Willamette Valley, heading east.

Preacher knew he had a long way to go and not a whole lot of time in which to do it. He guessed that it was the first week in September, and in the high-up country, light snow would already be dusting the land. What he had to do was talk to some Indians and they'd spread the word about Bedell. Then it wouldn't be long before somebody would have seen something and reported it. He did feel for certain that Bedell and his men would not chance heading back east. To do that would risk a hangman's noose.

Preacher headed straight east, taking the trails that he knew would get him there the fastest. After traveling for days, and speaking with dozens of Indians from many tribes, he got a fix on Bedell's location. A band of friendly Nez Perce did their best to trade him out from under Thunder, giving up when they only realized Preacher was not about to trade away his horse. It was then they told him about the band of white men—not mountain men—who, so they had heard, had been spotted repeatedly in the area of the land that smokes and thunders.

Preacher smiled at the news. He knew exactly where the land was that they were talking about. He'd wintered south of there a time or two, in a place called Jackson's Hole, and knew the area the Indians stayed out of 'cause they considered it to be spirit-haunted. A Frenchy had named the place Roche Jaune. Yellow Stone.

If Bedell and his people wasn't real careful, they'd get lost as a goose in that area, for the place had canyons that were so deep they would boggle the mind and dotting the landscape were holes, from which there were sudden fountain bursts of scalding hot water.

Preacher headed out, a grim smile on his lips. He figured he knew that area 'bout as well as any man and better than most. It was high-up country, in the Absaroka Range, and it was country to Preacher's liking. Bedell figured that the country was so isolated he'd be safe there. He was wrong. Dead wrong. With emphasis on
dead.

Preacher stayed north of Hell's Canyon and rode through the Clearwater Mountains, heading for the Bitterroot Range. The nights grew colder and Thunder's coat began turning shaggy, in preparation for the bitterness of the harsh winter that was only weeks away. Preacher knew he had him a horse that was a stayer and a friend, but there would always be a soft spot in Preacher's heart for Hammer. He hoped that Man Above had allowed Ol' Snake to get together with Hammer, so's they could ride the clouds and the valleys of the Beyond. Ol' Snake would take good care of Hammer until the day come that Preacher would finally meet up with Man Above.

Preacher was not a religious man, not in the sense of a Bible-shouter or them that followed the fiery spoutin' of gospel-thumpers. Preacher had been raised in the Church, but for years now he'd subscribed to the Indian way of thinking. Man Above had created all living things, and all living things that was useful to mankind had them a place up in Heaven. To the Pawnee it was Tirawa that was their principal god. The Cheyenne danced the Massaum, the animal dance, to insure that the earth would remain bountiful—their main god was Wise One Above. To the Cheyenne, the soul was Tasoom. The Sioux, and many other plains tribes, had a dance they called Gazing At The Sun, which they did to help keep troubles from them. The Mandans danced and tortured themselves while doing the O-kee-pa, dressed as animals. To the Indians, and to Preacher, it was stupid to think that animals did not have a place beside Man Above up yonder in the Beyond.

The beaver was an engineer. The horse and the dog was man's friend, protector, and worker. Dogs came from wolves so the wolf certainly had a place Up Yonder. Buffalo kept the plains Indians from starving, kept them dressed, and provided material for their tepees, cooking utensils, and weapons. They, too, had them a place, as did the coyote, the bear, the eagle, and lots of other animals. Preacher did have some doubts about whether the rattlesnake would make it to Up Yonder, but he figured that since Man Above had created it, the damn thing had to be good for something. He just hadn't as yet figured out what that might be. He'd eaten rattlesnake more than once, when pickin's was slim. They were right tasty, but he wouldn't want to maintain a steady diet of it. Damn things was hell to catch.

Preacher stayed just south of the Salmon River and crossed over into the Beaverhead Mountains. He was camping in the Tendoys when the first big snow of the season came. Preacher knew it wouldn't last, and there would be many more pleasant days before winter locked up the high country, but when he pulled out, he quickened his pace, as much as the terrain would bear.

He crossed the Divide and headed down for the Tetons, after talking with a hunting party who told him that fifteen or so white men were in the Hole. Unfriendly white men. Quarrelsome and not prone to washing very often.

With few exceptions, the Plains Indians felt the white man was dirty most of the time ... and they were right more often than not. An Indian would break the ice in a river or pond to bathe, and do it several times a day.

Preacher was camped along Bitch Creek when he caught the smell of wood smoke, and knew it wasn't coming from his fire. He took his Hawken and went looking. He grinned when he slipped up on the camp and eyeballed the three men around the fire. He started coughing like a puma and watched as the mountain men jumped up, grabbed their rifles, and started looking all around them. Preacher then howled like a wolf.

A man known only as Clapper narrowed his eyes as Preacher attempted, unsuccessfully, to contain his laughter. Clapper lowered his rifle in disgust. “Preacher!” he shouted. “Damn your eyes. Come on in here and sit and eat.”

Clapper's companions were Joe Morris and Dave Nolan. After swapping some highly profane insults about each other's character, the men sat down to drink coffee and eat.

“I heared tell you was surrounded by petticoats earlier this year,” Clapper said.

“I was. Got most of 'em over to the Valley. Now I'm lookin' for the men who ambushed the train and killed my good horse.”

“Hammer's dead?” Joe asked.

“Buried him on the plains. You boys seen any signs of life over to the Hole?”

“Not personal, we ain't,” Dave said. “But some wanderin' Flatheads told us they's a group of damn fools thinkin' 'bout winterin' in the Hole.” He chuckled. “I allow as to how I near'bouts froze my butt off that winter me and Russell spent there. Back in '33, I think it was. We reckoned—without tellin' no lies 'bout it—it got down to close to seventy-five below at times. Joe Meek wintered in there last year, even after me tellin' him it was a frozen hell.”

Preacher nodded his head and was silent. Clapper stared hard at him. “You huntin' these men, Preacher?”

“Yeah. I damn sure am.” Then he told the mountain men about Bedell and what was left of his band, ending with, “On top of everything else, they killed Hammer.”

The trio of mountain men all shook their heads in disgust, Clapper saying, “Me and the boys here would sure be proud to ride along with you, Preacher. Men like that don't need to be out here.”

Preacher shook his head. “No. But I thank you boys. This is my show.”

No one bothered to point out that one against fifteen was really lousy odds. Mountain men had been fighting against odds like that from the first moment a white trapper set foot in the wilderness, sometimes winning, sometimes losing.

Preacher stood up. “I'll go get my gear and bring it over here.”

“Then you can tell us all about what it's like to be surrounded by a hundred and fifty fillies for two thousand miles,” Dave Nolan said.

Preacher's eyes twinkled for a second or two. “Not the good parts, boys. Them's private.”

 

 

Preacher stared out over what was then called Jackson's Hole. The mountains around the valley—approximately eighty miles long and fifteen miles wide—have been referred to as Teewinot by the Shosoni. Others called them Shark's Teeth and Pilot Knobs. But the name a French trapper gave them has topped the list and remained constant over the years: The Grand Tetons. Big Breasts.

Preacher dismounted and squatted down for a time, studying the land below him. He was high-up, just below the timber line to give him some cover. He couldn't spot any smoke from cookfires, but he hadn't expected to see any. Bedell wasn't stupid, just arrogant. And he wasn't at all certain Bedell and his gang were even in the hole. They might have moved north to the land that thunders and smokes.

Preacher figured that's where he'd find most of them. A couple of Shoshoni had told him that the white men had split up, the larger band moving north out of the hole and into the place of haunted spirits.

If Preacher had his way, and he figured he damn sure would, he'd leave some more spirits up yonder to haunt the place.

He took his time heading down, staying with the timber whenever possible and utilizing every bit of cover he could find. The temperature, he figured, was in the fifties, with nighttime temperatures in the low-thirties, and snow staying in the high country, melting during the day in the valley.

Reaching the valley, Preacher stayed away from the scrubby floor and stayed near the base of the slopes, weaving in and out of the timber. He paused often to swing down from the saddle and view his surroundings through his spyglass. Nothing. Then he left the slopes and headed onto the valley, staying to the west side of the Snake River.

Then he smelled the smoke. He stopped and looked all around him. But he could see no signs of fire. That meant the fire was a small one and built under low branches to dispel the smoke. The men weren't entirely stupid, he thought.

He swung down and picketed Thunder. Then he stood for a moment, sniffing the air. Taking his rifle, he headed out on foot, following the smoke odor as it became stronger.

He almost blundered straight into the small camp, catching himself just in time. The camp was a good one, well-concealed, with a little lean-to built up against the side of a bluff. The lean-to told him it was a one man camp. But he could see no man.

Preacher didn't want to harm some innocent, so he waited for the better part of an hour. He heard one shot, coming from the north, and figured the man had killed him a deer or elk. He made himself more comfortable and waited.

Sure enough, the man soon came trudging back in, toting the whole carcass. Preacher figured he planned on using the hide and didn't want to leave none of it behind for the wolves, coyotes, and bears. Although had it been Preacher who made the kill, he at least would have gutted the animal and spared himself some weight.

The man laid the deer down with a sigh and propped his rifle against the carcass. Then he straightened up, with both hands to the small of his back, and arched backward, sighing with relief, for the deer was not a small one. Preacher stepped out, his Hawken leveled, and the man's eyes widened in shock.

“Just stand easy and raise your hands,” Preacher told him. “And I might decide not to kill you. Start makin' funny moves and I'll blow your kneecap off and leave you here to die.”

“I told Bedell you was a devil,” the man said. “I told him you'd not give up. And I was right,” he added bitterly.

“Where's Bedell?”

“Gone north, up into the Absarokas. Him and most of the gang.”

“How many?”

“Hard to say and I ain't lyin' 'bout that. Half a dozen more finally linked up with us some weeks after the failed ambush in the rocks. They got six of the women with 'em. Lara and Kim died on the trail.”

“Give me a guess.”

“I'd say twelve men and the women. They's five or six others like me who decided to go it alone. Providin' you let me live, what's my chances of makin' the winter here?”

“Poor to none,” Preacher told him. “If Injuns don't get you, a grizzly might. If the bears don't eat you, the weather will more than likely kill you. This ain't no place for a damn pilgrim. Whereabouts in the Absarokas?”

“I don't know, and that's the God's truth. Somewheres along the river is all I know. Them Frenchys with Bedell said they knowed a place.”

Preacher stared at the man for a moment. “When did you join up with Bedell?”

“I didn't leave out from Missouri with him, if that's what you mean. And I didn't have nothin' to do with the ambushin' of the train and the usin' of the women. I ride the dark trails, I'll admit that. But I ain't no rapist.”

“But I only got your word for that.”

“That's true. But I got me a tintype of my mother in my purse. How many outlaws you know would do that?”

Preacher grunted. “You got you two pistols outside your coat. How many you got
inside
your coat?”

“None.”

Preacher leveled the Hawken, the muzzle straight at the man's belly. “If you're lyin' you're dead. Drop them pistols on the ground and open your coat.”

The man did exactly as he was told. He was carrying no other weapon save a knife on his belt.

“Dress out that deer and fix us something to eat,” Preacher told him, sitting down on a large rock. “You cook me a nice meal and I might just go on and leave you be. I'm a man who 'ppreciates good food.”

“I'll fix you a feast!”

“You better.”

He did. After Preacher had eaten enough for two men, he belched and wiped his hands on his buckskins. “You missed your callin', man. You ought to open you a eatin' place.”