Read Preacher's Journey Online
Authors: William W. Johnstone
Preacher's Journey (19 page)
“What's wrong with our real names?”
“Not a thing, but out here folks tend to be a mite less formal. You don't reckon I was born with the name Preacher, do you?”
“What is your real name?” Jonathan asked.
Preacher grinned at them. “Arthur.” He didn't give them his last name; he had kept that to himself ever since the night he had sneaked out of his parents' house and gone out to see the world.
“Well, that's a fine name,” Geoffrey said. “Like King Arthur and his knights.”
“I ain't got no fellas in armor followin' me around, though, and I'd just as soon not. The Injuns had trouble sayin' the name when I first come out here, so they called me Artoor. That is, until they started callin' me Preacher like most ever'body else. Ever' now and then, though, I run across one of the old trappers who calls me Art.”
“I think we'll stick with Preacher,” Jonathan said. “What should our nicknames be?”
“Well, I'll have to think on that. It'll come to me, though, and when it does, we'll have a drink on it.”
The older men nodded, and Geoffrey said, “That's a promise.”
TWENTY-NINE
During his time in the Rockies and on the Great Plains, Mart Hawley had seen quite a few snowstorms and even raging blizzards. None like this one. This bastard was one for the ages.
He was glad that he and Swift Arrow had found the other two bunches of the Arikara war party and merged them back together into one group that would continue to pursue Preacher and the Galloways until vengeance was done. He was even more glad that they had come upon a small cave at the edge of the foothills before that blizzard hit. If they had been out in the open, with no shelter at all, they wouldn't have stood a chance.
Hawley's back still hurt like blazes where the tomahawk had lodged in it. Swift Arrow had given one of the members of the war party, a young brave called Corn Man, the job of caring for Hawley's wound. Corn Man didn't speak any English, or if he did he was keeping it to himself. He was surly too, and Hawley could tell that he hated whites. Still, Corn Man's respect forâand fear ofâSwift Arrow was enough to insure that he followed orders. He had cleaned the wound and bound it up again when the blizzard forced them to halt, and now Hawley leaned against the wall of the cave with his right shoulder and felt drowsiness stealing over him. The Injuns had built a fire out of buffalo chips and a little wood, and enough of the heat it gave off was trapped in the cave to make the temperature bearable. It was still cold enough so that Hawley was grateful for the buffalo robe, though.
Swift Arrow came over to him and hunkered down to talk to him. “Where whites go?” he asked.
“Well, it's obvious that kid lied to us, or at least made us think he was lyin' on purpose,” Hawley replied. “Tricky little bastard. The wagons didn't head south. They're still hittin' east, I reckon, makin' for Garvey's Fort. They won't be goin' anywhere in this blizzard, though.”
Swift Arrow grunted. “Sahnish not travel in blizzard either. Whites freeze to death?”
“Hard to say,” Hawley answered with a shrug. “They're bound to be a good ways out on the plains by now, and if they don't have any shelter 'cept those wagons, they might be in a bad fix. You got to be ready, Chief, for the possibility they might be dead already when we catch up to 'em.”
“What good you be then?” Swift Arrow asked, and Hawley thought he saw cruel amusement glinting in the war chief's eyes.
“I been a friend to your people, ain't I? I done ever'thing I could to help you get your vengeance on that bunch. It ain't my fault things ain't worked out so far.”
Swift Arrow didn't say anything, just regarded Hawley intently, as if trying to figure out what to do with him.
Hawley swallowed and went on. “Anyway, I didn't have nothin' to do with whatever it is that's got you folks so het up. You don't have any score to settle with me. 'Twouldn't be honorable to do me any harm.”
Swift Arrow's hand shot out and gripped Hawley's injured shoulder. The war chief's lip curled in a snarl as he twisted Hawley's shoulder and brought a cry of pain from the trapper. The other Indians ignored the cry.
“Speak not of honor,” Swift Arrow growled. “Your skin is white. You know nothing of honor.”
“I . . . I didn't mean nothin' by it,” Hawley gasped, blinking as tears began to roll down his cheeks into his beard. “I just meant that I'm your friend, and I want to stay your friend!”
Swift Arrow brought his face close to Hawley's. “You know why Sahnish kill whites?”
Hawley managed to shake his head mutely.
“Whites kill young Sahnish brave. Go hunting, never come back. Days go by. We look, find young warrior, killed by white man's rifle. Follow tracks that lead to wagons. Wagons that went by Sahnish village days before.”
“I'm sorry,” Hawley said, still struggling to control his pain. “Did they shoot him for no reason?”
“No reason to kill,” Swift Arrow agreed. “Not painted for war.”
“Reckon whoever killed him must not have known anything about that. Those greenhorns are pretty dumb, Chief. They really thought they could get across the mountains to Oregon at this time of year.”
Swift Arrow shook his head at the sheer stupidity of that idea. Finally, he let go of Hawley's shoulder and allowed him to slump back against the rock wall of the cave. Hawley sighed in relief as the pain subsided a little.
“Who was the young fella who got shot?” he asked as an afterthought.
“Name Cloud Seeker.” The war chief's face was as stony as the wall of the cave. “Was son of Swift Arrow.”
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When Preacher climbed out of the back of the wagon the next morning, he stepped down into more than two feet of snow. The stuff immediately worked its way into his high-topped moccasins and made his feet even colder.
The wind had died down some, but it was still blowing and snow still fell thickly from the leaden sky. It was impossible to tell for sure what the time was, but the sun was up; enough light made it through the snowstorm for Preacher to know that. He felt like the hour was pretty early.
Behind him in the wagon, both Jonathan and Geoffrey snored loudly. They had dozed off into a drunken slumber far into the night. Preacher had slept too, rolled in a couple of blankets. Eventually the cold and the racket had roused him.
He wasn't that worried about the Arikara war party right now, he thought as he took a look around the camp. Chances were, the Indians were holed up somewhere, probably back in the foothills. They didn't have even the meager shelter of covered wagons; if they had been out on the plains when the storm hit, they might be done for. That would certainly simplify matters, although Preacher wasn't sure he would wish such a fate even on his enemies.
The mules and the horses were all still alive, having huddled together for warmth during the long, cold night. They were pressed up against the wagon where Simon Galloway's body lay. Preacher moved outside the circle and headed on around to check on the people in the other wagons.
Peter Galloway climbed out in response to Preacher's soft-voiced call. The man's teeth chattered as he rubbed his hands wearily over his reddened face. “The children are all right,” he said in reply to Preacher's question. “Cold, of course. Can we build a fire?”
Preacher nodded. “We'll clear off a space and build a shelter, and then we'll get a fire goin'. That'll make everybody feel a mite better.” He paused for a moment, then said, “I reckon your brother told you . . . ?”
“About our father?” Peter nodded. “He did. Thank you for going out and finding him. Knowing that he's not lost out there is scant comfort, but it's better than nothing.”
“You and Roger ain't gonna go to whalin' on each other again, are you?”
“I'm sure I deserve it,” Peter said stonily, “but I think we've called a truce, at least for the moment. In a situation like this, we can't be trying to kill each other.”
“That's the damned truth. Let me check on everybody else, and then I'll get started on that fire.”
“Let me know if you need any help,” Peter offered.
Preacher went on to the remaining wagon, pulled the canvas flap aside a little, and said quietly, “Roger? You awake?”
A moment later, Angela's face appeared at the opening as she answered the summons. “Roger's asleep,” she whispered. “Do you need me to wake him?”
Preacher shook his head. “Nope. Just checkin' to see how everybody's doin' this mornin'.”
Angela didn't say anything, but she pulled the flap back farther and slid out of the wagon. She stepped over the tailgate and held out a hand to Preacher. He instinctively took it and helped her leap lightly down into the snow. She wore a hooded coat and had a blanket wrapped around her in addition to that. A scarf muffled her throat and the lower part of her face.
“It snowed every winter in Philadelphia, of course,” she said, “but it's been a long time since I've seen this much on the ground. And it's still coming down.”
“May be four or five feet 'fore it's over,” Preacher said.
“How can we travel in that?”
He shook his head. “We can't. We'd be stuck here until some of it melted or blew off. The wagons can manage about three feet, but that's all.”
“Then if it snows the rest of the day and on into the night . . .”
“We likely won't be goin' anywhere for a week or more.”
Angela frowned. “We have enough food. I suppose we could wait it out if we had to. But what about those Indians?”
“They'll be pinned down too, but they'll probably be able to move again quicker'n we will. So we better hope that we ain't stuck.”
“There's no chance that they might just . . . give up? Go home because of the weather?”
Again Preacher shook his head. “It's hard to tell what a Injun will take a notion to do, but as stubborn as this bunch has been so far, I don't reckon they'll give up. They want blood too bad.”
“Killing all of us won't bring back that young man, or any of the men they lost when they attacked us the first time.”
“No, ma'am, it sure won't, and they know it. But that won't stop 'em from liftin' all our scalps if they get a chance to do it.”
Angela shuddered. “I . . . I just don't understand how anyone can be so savage, so heartless.” She glanced at the wagon where her husband was. “But then, there are a lot of things in life that I just don't understand,” she added meaningfully.
“Yes'm, you and me both.” To change the subject, Preacher asked, “How's the mama and the baby this mornin'?”
“John Edward is all right, though I don't think he's getting enough to eat. Dorothy is very low. I . . . I don't think she's going to last much longer.”
“That's a terrible shame,” Preacher said. “Things betwixt her and Roger, did they ever get worked out?”
With sadness on her face, Angela said, “Dorothy was lucid for a time during the night. She and Roger were able to talk for a while. I . . . I tried not to eavesdrop, but I couldn't help overhearing some of what they said. She begged for his forgiveness, and he gave it. He wanted to know if Peter attacked her, and while she wouldn't admit that, wouldn't blame him for what happened, I'm sure that none of it was Dorothy's idea, even if she did cooperate and he didn't have to rape her.”
That was her husband she was talking about, Preacher reminded himself, and it was remarkable that she could stand there and say such things in such a calm, strong voice. The whole messy business had to be tearing her up inside too, but as long as the others needed her, she wasn't going to give in to what she was feeling, wasn't even going to show her pain.
In some ways, he supposed it had simplified things that the one woman he had ever loved was a prostitute. He had been young and inexperienced enough when he first met Jennie that he didn't fully understand what was going on in the back of that wagon owned by the man who had taken her in, but he had caught on quickly enough. It might have bothered some fellas to be in love with a whore, even a reluctant one, but for Preacher, that was just the way things had always been. Jealousy never really entered his mind.
“Well, it's good that they settled things,” Preacher said now, referring to Roger and Dorothy. “Might make things easier . . . later on.”
Angela nodded in solemn agreement.
“I'm gonna clear some ground, get a shelter up, and build a fire,” he went on. “We can have some hot coffee and food in a while.”
“That will be wonderful.” Angela hesitated. “What about Simon?”
“It's cold enough the body'll keep,” Preacher said. “I ain't tryin' to be callous about it, just practical. When the weather gets a mite better, we'll get a grave dug and say some words over him 'fore we move on. That's the best we can do.”
“Yes, I suppose you're right. I just wishâ”
Preacher never found out what she wished, because at that moment, a ragged cry came from inside the wagon. “Dorothy!” Roger Galloway wailed. “Oh, my God, no! Dorothy!”
And Preacher knew that before they left this place, they would have two graves to dig.
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