Authors: William W. Johnstone

Preacher's Journey (5 page)

BOOK: Preacher's Journey

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Preacher nodded. He was going to be mighty glad when they got to Garvey's Fort....

“Someone's coming!” Jonathan Galloway shouted.

SEVEN

Preacher had one of his rifles in his hand as he talked to Angela. At Jonathan's shout, he wheeled around and trotted toward the lead wagon, priming the Hawken as he went. Roger and Geoffrey joined him. The four of them gathered by the mule team hitched to Jonathan's wagon and looked to the north, where Jonathan was pointing.

Two men on horseback, leading a pack mule, rode toward the wagons. There was a little draw not far behind them, and Preacher figured that was where they had come from. He hadn't seen them earlier, which meant they had probably stayed out of sight in the draw until they got close enough to take a good look at the wagons. Then they had emerged, figuring that these immigrants didn't represent any threat. The evident wariness told Preacher that the newcomers had at least some experience on the frontier.

As they came closer and Preacher could make out more details, he decided that they were both mountain men. One wore a broad-brimmed hat, the other a fur cap with flaps that came down over the ears. Both were swathed in heavy capotes and buffalo robes, and they had rifles balanced across their saddles. Their bearded features looked vaguely familiar, which meant Preacher had probably seen them at Rendezvous or some trading post, but he didn't know them personally.

He said to the others, “Stay here,” then moved out in front of the group to stand there patiently, the Hawken cradled in the crook of his arm. The two riders reined to a halt about forty feet from him. “Howdy,” one of them called. “All right to come into your camp?”

“Ain't really a camp,” Preacher replied. “We're just noonin' a mite late today. But you're welcome if you ain't lookin' for trouble.”

“Farthest thing from it, mister.” The two men walked their horses slowly forward.

The one wearing the hat was heavyset, with a round face and a ginger-colored beard. The one with the cap was leaner, and his black beard was shot through with gray. They dismounted, and Ginger-beard nodded to Preacher and said, “Mart Hawley's my name. This here's my partner, Ed Watson.”

“They call me Preacher.”

Hawley and Watson exchanged a quick look. Hawley said, “I told Ed it was you. We seen you at Rendezvous, back in the spring. Never got introduced, though.” He thrust out a gloved hand.

Preacher shook it, then shook hands with Watson, who seemed to be the quiet type. Some men acted like they forgot they ever knew how to talk after they'd spent some time in the mountains. The high country just had that effect now and then.

“Where you boys headed?” Preacher asked.

Hawley scratched at his beard. “Well, now, that's a mighty good question. We been debatin' whether to go south, east, or west. Got to go somewheres, though, 'cause winter is nigh upon us.”

“It surely is,” Preacher agreed.

“I got to say, we didn't expect to run across no wagon train at this time of year, even a little one like this.”

Preacher waved a hand at the immigrants behind him. “These are the Galloways. They didn't make it through the mountains in time, so I'm helpin' them get back to Garvey's Fort.”

“That'll be a hard run, what with them wagons,” Hawley said. “Closest place for some pilgrims to winter, though. They's a few cabins up in the mountains, but none big enough for a whole flock of folks like this.”

“That was my thought.”

Hawley looked at his partner again. “What do you say, Ed? Want to head for Garvey's, spend the winter there?”

Watson gnawed at the thick mustache that hung over his lips for a moment, shrugged, and then nodded.

“Sounds good to us,” Hawley said to Preacher. “Onliest thing is, I just now realized you didn't ask us to come along. We ain't in the habit o' pushin' in where we ain't wanted.”

The same thought had occurred to Preacher: These two men hadn't been invited to join their party. He didn't know them, didn't know what sort of fellas they were. On the other hand, both Hawley and Watson were armed and were probably good shots. If they ran into any more Arikara warriors out for blood and scalps, two men might make the difference. For now, at least, Preacher was willing to run that risk.

“You can ride along with us,” he said. “You got to know, though, that there's a chance we got trouble followin' us. There was a ruckus yesterday. 'Ree war party jumped these folks just as I came along. The Injuns wound up dead.”

“How many of them?” Hawley asked with a frown.

“Six.”

“You kill 'em?”

“Me and Dog,” Preacher replied as he jerked a thumb at the big wolflike animal, who sat nearby watching the humans, his face as inscrutable as ever.

Hawley grinned. “Yeah, you're Preacher, all right. Folks say you're a dangerous man.”

“All o' them tall tales you hear about me ain't true.”

“But some of them are?” Hawley persisted.

Preacher shrugged and turned away. “We got a few johnnycakes left. You boys hungry?”

“As b'ars,” Hawley said.

That morning the war party led by Swift Arrow had backtracked Nah Ka Wan to the creek. The young warrior had walked for a long way before collapsing and becoming prey for the curious bear that had ultimately provided his death shroud. The Sahnish then followed the creek to the west, as Nah Ka Wan had indicated. It was the middle of the afternoon before they reached the spot where the whites had camped the night before.

“Look at the size of the fire the foolish white men built,” Badger's Den said as he pointed at the large pile of ashes and partially burned wood. “No wonder Nah Ka Wan and his companions were able to find them.”

“They left here and headed east,” Swift Arrow mused. “Are they fleeing back to their homes?”

“And why did we not meet them on our way here?” the medicine man asked. “Our paths should have crossed.”

“Unless they left the creek,” Swift Arrow said. He waved a hand as if brushing away worry. “We will follow them. Their wagons are slow. They cannot escape from us.”

“So far they have,” one of the warriors said. Like most of the others, he was young and his blood ran hot in his veins. He was called Runs Far, because he never seemed to tire.

Swift Arrow scowled at this show of disrespect, slight though it was. “We will find the whites, and their scalps will be ours,” he declared, glaring around at the other members of the war party as if daring any one of them to disagree with him. None did, and Runs Far looked worried that he had invoked the war chief's displeasure.

“Good,” Swift Arrow went on after a moment. “We go now.” He started trotting along the creek, following the double lines of tracks left by the wagon wheels. The others fell in behind him.

Only when the others could not see his expression did Swift Arrow allow any doubt to show on his face. He glanced at the sky, which was covered with gray clouds scudding down from the north. The wind was biting cold. There would be snow by nightfall. Swift Arrow was sure of it.

But he was equally sure that he and the warriors with him would stay on the trail of the white men until justice was done, until the blood debt had been paid and the scalps of the transgressors hung from the lances of the Sahnish.

Now that he had some experienced men to side with him, Preacher was able to stop spreading himself so thin. When the wagon train got under way again, he told Hawley and Watson to scout out ahead while he covered their back trail.

“You know the way to Garvey's, don't you?” he asked before they started.

“Yeah, we been there,” Hawley confirmed. “We keep hittin' due east till we get out o' these foothills, then we angle just a mite south.”

Preacher nodded. “That'll get us there. You see any signs of trouble developin', one of you light a shuck back here and fetch me while the other one gets the wagons ready.”

“In a circle, you mean?” Hawley asked.

“If that's what it needs.” Different sorts of trouble called for different responses.

Hawley nodded and he and Watson rode off. Preacher went the other direction, trotting the dun alongside the wagons as he headed for the rear. As he passed Peter Galloway's wagon, the three youngsters called to him from inside the canvas-covered vehicle and waved. Nate was riding in that wagon with his cousins, since his mama was in such a delicate condition in the wagon just ahead.

With Dog loping along beside him, Preacher dropped back a good half a mile behind the wagons and then rode a ways both north and south, looking for any sign that the Arikara were pursuing them. He didn't see anything, but even though they were getting out of the mountains now, this was still pretty rugged country. He reined the dun to a halt and let his keen eyes scan the landscape, knowing even as he did so that there were dozens of hiding places where the Indian warriors could be concealed.

He didn't see anything out of the ordinary. As he turned the horse, intending to close up the gap a little between him and the wagons, something touched his face. It turned instantly to moisture, only a tiny drop but enough to let Preacher know what was going on. He tipped his head back and looked up to see several more snowflakes swirling down out of the gloomy sky. They were small, and he saw only a few of them. But where there was one snowflake, there were usually millions more, just waiting to grow heavy enough to fall.

Preacher said, “Come on, Dog,” and heeled the dun into a trot again. He rode after the wagons, watching as the snowflakes fell more frequently. They were still light, and this was a long way from a blizzard, but it was a start.

The wind was blowing harder by the time he came in sight of the wagons, still a good quarter of a mile in front of him. The tiny white flakes danced and darted in the air now, instead of drifting down slowly to the earth. Here and there, small patches of white had already begun to appear on the ground. If the snow didn't get any heavier than this, there would be only a dusting of it, but Preacher knew they couldn't count on that.

The thick clouds meant that darkness would fall very early on this night. It wasn't too soon to start looking for a place to stop. They would need at least a little shelter. Maybe the lee of a bluff, or even better, a cave. Preacher hoped that Hawley and Watson had the sense to keep their eyes open and call a halt if they found such a place.

A short time later, the wagons rolled around a hill and went out of sight. Preacher increased the dun's pace, not liking it now that he couldn't see the wagons anymore. But when he rounded the shoulder of the hill a few minutes later, he saw that the wagons had been driven down into a hollow. A cliff overhung it at an outward angle, providing some shelter. The place wasn't a cave, but it would have to do. They weren't likely to find anything better between now and nightfall.

Hawley walked over as Preacher dismounted. “Figured you'd want us to stop, since it's started to snow. It'll be dark 'fore much longer too.”

Preacher nodded. “That's fine. I don't reckon I could've done any better myself.”

Hawley grinned, exposing worn-down brown teeth. “That's mighty high praise comin' from the famous Preacher.”

“Why don't we forget about that famous business? Just call me Preacher.”

“Sure.”

Preacher walked among the wagons, checking on the pilgrims. Everybody seemed to be all right, cold and worn-out but otherwise none the worse for the long day on the trail. Angela Galloway smiled at him, and her husband Peter scowled, so that hadn't changed since the morning.

“Is this that blizzard you warned us about?” Angela asked as she held out a hand and let a couple of snowflakes fall on her palm.

“It might be by mornin',” Preacher said.

“I hope not.”

Preacher just grunted noncommittally. He didn't know what to hope for anymore. A high country blizzard could be a killer, but on the other hand, if the storm dumped a few feet of snow on the ground, it would sure cover up their tracks if the Arikara were looking for them. Preacher supposed that was what they called a mixed blessing.

One thing was certain: The weather would do whatever it wanted to, and there wasn't a blessed thing this puny group of humans could do about it.

EIGHT

Preacher built a bigger fire tonight than he had the night before. For one thing, the temperature was considerably colder, and they needed the warmth. For another, the overhang of the cliff would disperse the smoke to a certain extent, so there was less of a threat that someone could track them by it.

Mart Hawley had the wagons parked in a half circle at the base of the cliff. Preacher built the fire inside that circle. The heat rose and was radiated back from the rocky face of the cliff. After a while the camp was almost warm, and everyone was grateful for that after spending the day in that biting, frigid wind.

Night fell suddenly while the camp was being set up, and as darkness mantled the sky, the snowfall increased. Preacher looked at it and shook his head. Maybe not a sure-enough blizzard, it was too soon to tell about that, but for damn certain, more than a dusting was due.

He went over to Roger Galloway's wagon and called softly, “Miz Angela?”

A moment later, she parted the canvas flap at the rear of the wagon and looked out at him. “What is it, Preacher?” Her cheeks were rosy from the cold, but other than that her face was pale and drawn.

“How's Miz Dorothy doin'?” As Preacher asked the question, it occurred to him that so far he hadn't even laid eyes on Dorothy Galloway. If not for the fact that he had heard her yelling her head off when she was going through that false labor, she might as well not have been a member of the party, at least as far as you could prove it by him.

Angela shook her head wearily. “Not very good, I'm afraid. She's even weaker tonight. She doesn't want anything to eat or drink, and I'm worried that she might be coming down with a fever.”

“What'll you do if she is?” Preacher asked with a frown.

“The best I can,” Angela said. “But there won't be much anyone can do for her.”

Preacher lowered his voice. “Does her husband know about this?”

“Roger knows. He's trying to keep up a brave front, but he's very frightened.”

Preacher nodded. “Well, if there's anything I can do . . .”

“I'll let you know right away,” Angela promised. “Thank you, Preacher.”

He nodded again and turned away from the wagon. Over by the cliff, the three kids were trying to scrape up enough snow to make snowballs they could fling at each other. Even when they were mighty tired and cold, it was hard to keep a young'un's spirits down for very long.

The mules had been unhitched and herded together, then tied to stakes driven into the ground. Wouldn't be able to do that for much longer, Preacher thought. The ground would be frozen too hard for the stakes to penetrate. Roger, Peter, and their father Simon stood together, talking quietly. Geoffrey and Jonathan were using buckets to water the mules. Hawley and Watson stood apart from the others, apparently unsure what to do.

As Preacher walked over to them, Hawley said, “Ed and me can move outside the circle and have our own campfire if you want.”

Preacher shook his head. “No, that ain't necessary. We asked you to travel with us, and that means you share our fire.”

“We got a mite of grub we'd be glad to throw in. Ain't nothin' but some jerky and pemmican, but these folks are welcome to share in it.”

“Hang on to it for now,” Preacher advised. “Might need it later if rations run short before we get to the fort.”

Hawley nodded. “All right, that makes sense. We feel a little bad, though, like we ain't contributin' anything.”

Watson jogged Hawley's arm with his elbow and gave him a meaningful look.

“We, ah, got some jugs o' whiskey on that pack mule,” Hawley went on. “Be glad to share that too, even if it is just rotgut.”

“Keep it,” Preacher said quickly. If he was right about Simon Galloway, the man already had his own stash of Who-hit-John, and none of the others seemed to need it.

“Well, if the time comes, it's there, and we'd be glad to share.”

Preacher nodded in acknowledgment of the offer, then moved toward the fire. Somebody needed to start getting supper ready, and it looked like he was elected.

He fried more bacon, got some biscuits baking in a Dutch oven he found in the back of one of the wagons, and put a pot of beans on to cook. A skim of ice had formed on the water in which the beans had been soaking all day. Preacher didn't think the water barrels would freeze up overnight, not with the heat of the fire warming the camp, but if it got much colder that was a possibility. They might have to chip ice out of the barrels and melt it, or melt snow for water instead. That might be inconvenient but wouldn't pose a major problem.

When the food was ready he called everyone over and doled it out. For the most part the Galloways ate in silence, and the two mountain men who had joined them were quiet as well. Preacher thought Roger Galloway looked haggard. The strain of worrying about his wife and unborn child was beginning to wear heavily on the man. Preacher figured he wished he had never come west. If anything happened to Dorothy or the baby, Roger would probably blame himself . . . and he'd be more right than wrong in doing so.

When supper was over and everything had been cleaned up, Angela got the children settled down for the night while Roger sat with Dorothy. That left Preacher, Hawley, Watson, Peter, Simon, Jonathan, and Geoffrey sitting around the fire, warming themselves. Hawley said to the group in general, “You fellas ever do any card playin'?”

“You mean poker?” Jonathan asked.

“Yes, sir.” Hawley reached inside his thick coat made of buffalo hide and took out a stack of greasy cards. “I got a deck. I've found that it's relaxin' of an evenin' to play a few hands.”

“I'm more partial to whist myself,” Geoffrey said.

Hawley shook his head. “Don't reckon I know how to play that. But I like a good game o' stud poker.”

“I'll play,” Peter said. “I could use something to keep my mind off the chill that's still in my bones from that wind.”

Jonathan spoke up. “Count me in too. But I'm afraid I'm not very good at cards. I won't give you much of a game.”

“Aw, hell, don't worry about that,” Hawley said. “It's just somethin' to pass the time.”

But even as Hawley spoke, Preacher thought he saw an unpleasant gleam in the man's eyes. Could be Hawley thought these pilgrims were ripe for the pickin' . . . and chances were, he was right. Preacher resolved to keep an eye on the game, even though he didn't plan to take part in it himself.

Simon and Geoffrey played too, along with Peter, Jonathan, Hawley, and Watson. The six of them sat around a blanket that Jonathan spread on the ground. They used pebbles gathered at the base of the cliff for chips. Hawley dealt first, since the cards were his. Watson could talk after all, Preacher discovered, although the man in the fur cap asked for his cards only in curt grunts. The shuffle of pasteboards, the click of pebbles together, reminded Preacher of the sounds he had heard in many a tavern and trading post. It was comforting in a way. The wind had died down with the coming of night, although the snow still fell, the flakes sizzling into oblivion when they hit the flames of the campfire. The night began to have a peaceful feeling to it.

But Preacher knew how deceptive that could be. They had to remain alert and would need guards posted again tonight. For the time being, he felt like taking a look around. He picked up one of his rifles and said softly, “Dog.” The big wolflike creature followed him, padding through the snow as Preacher walked quietly out of camp, away from the wagons. No one seemed to notice him leaving.

He had been careful not to look directly into the fire too much, so he still had his night vision. He ranged out several hundred yards from the camp, pausing every few moments to listen intently for any telltale sounds of someone moving in the night. Everything was quiet except for the faint hiss of the snow falling. Some folks had tried to tell Preacher that snow didn't make any sound when it fell, but he knew good and well that it did. You just had to know how to listen for it.

When he was satisfied that no Arikara war party was sneaking up on the camp, he turned and walked back to the hollow under the looming cliff. The glow from the fire was partially blocked by the encircling wagons, but it was still visible. If anyone was abroad in the night, they would be able to see it too. All the more reason to keep guards posted all night. With kids and a sick woman in the party, they couldn't do without the fire, though.

When he got back, he found Angela Galloway pouring herself a cup of coffee. “Get the young'uns settled down for the night?” Preacher asked her.

“Yes, they were exhausted. They went right to sleep.”

“You look about done in yourself.”

Angela smiled wearily. “Don't worry about me. I'll be fine.”

Over in the circle of cardplayers around the blanket, Peter laughed triumphantly. Preacher inclined his head in that direction and said, “Sounds like luck's on your husband's side, at least for now.”

Peter Galloway was a damned lucky man, Preacher thought, in more ways than one.

“They seem to be enjoying themselves,” Angela said. “People have away of finding amusement, even in trying circumstances.”

“It don't do no good to sit around moanin' and cryin' and feelin' sorry for yourself. That's just a plumb waste of time.”

Angela smiled at him. “You've probably never felt sorry for yourself in your life, have you, Preacher?”

He thought about Jennie and the pain he had felt when he found out she was dead. He had grieved for her, of course, but part of his sorrow had been for his own sake, for the loss he had suffered.

“I wouldn't say that,” he replied softly. “I just figure it's better to try to do somethin' about whatever's wrong.” In his case, he had taken vengeance on the men responsible for Jennie's death. It hadn't helped much, but it was better than nothing.

“There's an old saying about how it's better to light one candle than to curse the darkness,” Angela said.

Preacher nodded. “Yes, ma'am, I reckon that's just what I'm talkin' about.”

They stood there quietly for a few moments after that while Angela sipped her coffee and Preacher leaned on the rifle, grasping the barrel of the Hawken while its buttstock rested on the ground. He had taken a shine to Angela Galloway as soon as he saw her, but he knew it was wrong and he would never act on the feeling. For one thing, and most importantly, she was a married woman, and Preacher respected the sanctity of marriage. Even though he had left home at an early age, his parents had given him a good moral grounding and the ability to tell right from wrong. For another thing, he didn't want to be disloyal to Jennie's memory, even though it had begun to fade. Someday, Preacher figured, he would be ready to let go of the pain and just remember the good things, but that day wasn't here yet.

A deep chuckle drew his attention to the men playing cards. “Looks like this pot is mine,” Jonathan Galloway declared as he leaned forward to rake in the pile of pebbles in the center of the blanket.

“Not so fast.” The words, surprisingly, came from Ed Watson. “That pot ain't yours.”

“What?” Jonathan exclaimed. “Why not?”

“Because you cheated, you son of a bitch!”

BOOK: Preacher's Journey

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