The First Mountain Man (18 page)

“Beg pardon?” Richard asked him.

The Indian sat his pony and stared at the missionary.

“He don't say much,” Beartooth said. “But he'll come when you call him to eat. How you been, Preacher?”

“Tolerably well, thankee. You lookin' prosperous.”

“Looks don't always tell the story. Furs about played out, Preacher. We didn't make enough to write home about. If I had a home to write to, that is.”

“When did you learn to write?” Dupre asked. “I been readin' what newspapers we could find to you for years.”

Beartooth said, “Yeah, but you read 'em in French, you igit. I don't know what the hell's goin' on. I think you do it deliberate.” He looked back at Precher. “You a-guidin' wagon trains now, Preacher?”

“Just this one. I sorta got roped into it, you might say. After the fight at Fort Hall.”

“What fight?” Dupre asked.

“Y'all heard about the epidemic?”

“Naw,” Beartooth said. “We've been clear to the Cascades this winter. Sold our pelts over to Fort Vancouver and then headed east.”

“Pox wiped out the Blackfeet, near'bouts. Y'all light and set. We'll palaver later. We got to start gettin' these wagons of pilgrims acrost this stream here. If you was a mind to, you could help me.”

“What fight?” Dupre asked.

“What's in it fer us ifn we do hep out?” Beartooth asked.

“Food cooked by a woman's hand.”

“That's good enough for me,” Dupre said. He looked at Richard's nubby ear. “What happened to you, pilgrim?”

“It's a long story,” Richard replied.

“Ummm,” Nighthawk said. “East first. Talk later.”

3

While they waited for the first wagon, aided by raft and ropes, to begin the crossing, Beartooth said, “You watch when you get up close to the Blues. Them damn Cayuses is on the prod for some reason. We had us a good fight a couple of weeks ago. Seems like of late, when the Injuns we been friendly with for years has turned meaner 'an a grizzly. Them Cayuses is all riled up about that new mission that was built last year, I think it was.”

“I heard about it,” Preacher said. “It's really there on the Oregon Trail?”

“Just north of it. Right where the Walla Walla forks. Man by the name of Whitman built him a church there and is preachin' the gospel to the savages. But them Cayuses ain't takin' to it real well.”

“Wagon coming!” Edmond shouted across the water.

“What the hell's he expect us to do?” Dupre asked. “Swim out there and pull it in? How do you put up with these pilgrims, Preacher? They don't 'pear to know nothin'.”

“I'm a patient man, boys,” Preacher said with a straight face. “I come upon these poor lost children and the Lord told me to help them . . . in a roundabout way. And you all know that I have the disposition of a saint and have never turned my back on a child of God in need of help.”

Richard was listening, pure astonishment on his face.

“Ummm!” Nighthawk said, and rose to his feet, wandering off into the bushes.

“What you is is a lie,” Beartooth told him. “You the most cantankerous, ornery, sulled-up, and mean-spirited man I ever met. I bet you got you a skirt on that train, that's what I think.”

“Wagon coming
!” Edmond shrieked, panic in his voice.

Preacher looked up. “Crap!” he said, for the raft had broken free of the ropes and was turning round and round in the swirling waters.

The mountain men jumped into the water and grabbed the ropes, straining with all their might to hold the raft. Richard, who was showing more savvy every day on the trail, grabbed the loose end that Dupre tossed him and quickly secured it to a tree.

Preacher, Dupre, and Beartooth muscled the raft around and got the other end secured. Nighthawk jumped his pony into the water and trailed another rope across the small river so the fording could continue.

“This rope's been cut,” Dupre said, after climbing out of the river and shaking himself like a big dog.

The mountain men and Richard gathered around and looked at the rope.

“Cut halfway through and the strain done the rest,” Preacher said. “But who? ...” He lifted his eyes and looked across the river. The young troublemaker, Avery, stood on the other side, smirking at him.

“Everything all right over there?” Swift shouted.

“Yeah,” Preacher called. Up to now, all the kid had done, and that was aplenty, was nonsense stuff. Just pranks, but mean pranks. He hadn't actual hurt anybody. But this was different. This could have resulted in a family losing everything they had and maybe even loss of life.

“Preacher, you know who cut this rope?” Nighthawk said, stringing together more words then than he had all day.

“I got me a pretty good idea. That smart-aleck boy standing right yonder. He's gonna get somebody killed 'fore this trip is over. I got me a good notion to hogtie him and dump him in the back of his daddy's wagon for the ret of the trip.”

“Wagon coming across!” Swift hollered.

Preacher waved it on then turned to Richard. “Richard, you cross over and you and Edmond keep your eyes on that Avery boy. He's gonna get somebody bad hurt or dead if this keeps up.”

“You don't know that he did it, Preacher. Although I certainly wouldn't put it past him.”

“Let's just say he's a likely candidate. Go on. Let's get some wagons acrost this stream. And tell Swift to send a team over next. We can't muscle these damn wagons up this slope.”

The men worked all the rest of that day and managed to get ten wagons, teams, and personal possessions across the river. As nightfall approached, Preacher called a halt and the mountain men sank wearily to the ground.

“This is too damn much like work to suit me,” Beartooth complained. “I'm so hungry I could eat a raw skunk.”

A woman placed a heaping plate of meat and potatoes and dried apple pie in front of him. Beartooth grinned up at her and fell to eating.

“'Bout the only thing that'll shut his mouth,” Dupre said. “Tell us 'bout the fight and the sickness and them that's after you, Preacher.”

After they finished the first huge plates of food, Preacher told his friends all that had happened, right from the beginning, when he had found the missionaries.

“Mayhaps we could hire on this here train,” Beartooth said later, after thanking the woman for bringing him his third plate of food. She had looked at the bearded, shaggy-headed, and buckskin-clad man and walked away, shaking her head in disbelief. “Tell you the truth, we could use the money.”

“I don't know that they could pay much,” Preacher leveled with him. “These folks are all purt near broke. What money they got, they have to dole it out careful. They got to have a poke to get by in the promised land 'til they get a crop in.”

The three mountain men looked at each other and reached a silent agreement. “Aw, hell, Preacher,” Dupre said. “You know we ain't gonna ride off and leave you in this mess alone. We'll just tag along for the vittles if that's all they can pay.”

“What you gonna do when the grub runs out?” Preacher asked with a grin.

The mountain men had all been observing carefully the silent play between Melody and Preacher. Mostly on Melody's part. She had pitched a fit to get over to be near him. Beartooth said, “Well, we'll be like you, I reckon.”

“How's that?”

“Live on love!”

* * *

They worked for another full day and a half before all the wagons, teams and possessions were across the river. The rest of that day was spent reloading the wagons and getting them trail ready.

“We been lucky that no Injuns ain't fell up here on us,” Dupre said, as the men sat over a small fire on the morning of the pullout from the banks of the river. “Or some of Bum or Red Hand's people. Preacher, you get the idea that someone is a-watchin' us?” Few others were awake except the sentries.

“Yeah. I get me a tingly feelin' in my back when that happens. And I've had one since yesterday.”

“Not Indians,” Nighthawk, the big Crow said. “White man. Wears long coat. Fine thread.”

“Well, damn your mean eyes,” Beartooth told him. “Wasn't you gonna tell us?”

“Am not your mother,” the Crow said.

Preacher grinned at the Crow. “One man, Nighthawk?”

“Yes. Very careful man. Afraid, I think.”

“Now how could you possibly know that?” Edmond said, after listening for a moment.

“By the way he moves,” Dupre told him. “His tracks will show if he's skittish. He's from Bum's bunch, then.”

“Yeah,” Preacher said, slurping at his coffee. “Dupre, you guide these pilgrims on this day. I'm gonna lay back and watch the train go. Then do some huntin' on my own.”

“You take my hat and give me yourn. We'll swap horses too. That ought to throw them off.”

They were both dressed in buckskins and were nearly the same size, Dupre being only slightly taller than Preacher.

When Swift tooted on his bugle, Nighthawk, Dupre, and Beartooth very nearly jumped out of their moccasins.

“Sweet Baby Jesus!” Dupre hollered, grabbing his Hawken and jumping up. “What the hell's that all about?”

Preacher rolled over on his back and busted out laughing. Springing to his feet and wiping his eyes, he said, “That's how they wake people up. He'll toot it again to signal the train's shovin' off.”

“I can think of a place where he can shove it,” the usually taciturn Nighthawk said, settling back down. The Crow spoke perfect English when he wanted to.

“'Fore I joined the train they woke the people up by firin' their rifles in the air,” Preacher informed his friends.

“These folks do have a sight to learn about the wilderness,” Beartooth allowed.

Preacher and Dupre exchanged hats and Preacher slipped away from the campsite and into the woods long before dawn cut the sky. Nighthawk had already led Dupre's horse away and picketed it. Preacher sat on the ground, his back to a tree, and dozed until Swift honked his tooter and the train slowly pulled away.

While the train was getting under way, with people shouting at oxen and mules, mothers squalling for their kids, and the wagons creaking and grumbling and rattling away, Preacher circled and came up on the spot where Nighthawk figured the outlaw to be. The Crow wasn't off by a hundred yards.

Only problem was, he was gone.

Preacher could see that his horse's droppings were still very fresh, so the man—whoever he was—hadn't been gone more than a few minutes. He had made a cold camp, and had eaten some biscuits.

“Sloppy eater,” Preacher muttered.

Preacher ran back to his horse and swung into the saddle. Mounted, he backtracked and picked up the outlaw's trail. The mountain man rode with his rifle across the saddle horn, all senses working hard.

Preacher soon found that the man he was tracking was either very sure of himself, or just downright stupid. At no time did he find where the man had reined up just to listen and look around him. He just plowed on ahead. In the wilderness, that was a damn good way to get captured by Injuns and get slowly and very painfully dead.

Preacher found where the man be tracked watered his horse and himself, propping his rifle up against a tree, some yards from the stream. No way he could reach it with a single jump. This feller was downright ignorant.

The man he tracked left the cover of timber and brush and moved his horse onto the trail the wagons were taking ... and making as they went. Preacher swung in behind him, walking his horse. He was in no hurry to kill the man.

It wouldn't be long before the train would hit the south rim of the Snake River—actually they were already in it, but the going was still relatively easy for the route, though that wouldn't last long. If Bum and his people were going to attack, they would either do it before the train hit the rugged south rim, or wait until they were between the rim and Blues. Preacher figured it would be the latter. Probably in the Blues itself so's any patrol that come up on the ruins would blame it on the Cayuses. Preacher personal knew Chief Tamsuky of the Cayuses, and got along with the tribe for the most part. He couldn't figure why they had turned violent. That Bible-thumper who build the mission must have really riled them up.

Preacher whoaed his horse and studied the tracks. The man he followed had been joined by at least three more riders, all of the horses shod.

“Ain't this sweet,” Preacher said, dismounting and squatting down, the reins in his hand.

The riders had stood and talked for a goodly time. Preacher found where someone had knocked out the remnants from a pipe, and found the butt of a soggy stogy.

The riders resumed their trek west, and Preacher followed, soon discovering that the three new men were just as confident or stupid as the original rider. Their sign told him they never stopped to check their back trail or just to sit their saddles and listen. Stupid. Just plain stupid.

Preacher grew more cautious. He was now up against four outlaws instead of just one. Stupid and careless they might be, but one man against four was lousy odds anyway a feller wanted to cut it.

Preacher found a place to cut a ways south and into the timber, then a game trail that went due west, keeping him several hundred yards to the south of the wagon trail. He walked his horse now, staying in the grass that muffled the sound of his horse's hooves.

He picked up a sound that was not of the wilderness and reined up, sitting very still. He listened hard. There it was again, clearer this time.

Voices came to him. But so faintly he could not make out any of the words. He swung down from the saddle and checked his pistols, then took a third pistol from its saddle holster and stuck that one in his sash, to the rear. He would have to make every shot count, but Preacher was used to doing that. He had left his bow and quiver of arrows back in the wagon that Trapper Jim was driving.

He moved out, walking as silently as a ghost as he made his way through the timber and brush. The voices lost their muffled tone and he could pick out words, now.

“... help me kill that damn Preacher and Bum'd shore welcome you into the gang, for sure.”

“I been hearin' about that man for ten years,” another voice came to him. “I'm sick of it. It'd be worth killin' him just to get folks to shut they fly traps a-talkin' about him.”

Preacher smiled and listened. He held his Hawken in his right hand, hammer back, and a .50 caliber pistol in his left hand, likewise cocked and ready to bang. The pistol was double-shotted, the twin balls capable of inflicting terrible damage upon a human body. The Hawken was a war-hoss of a weapon to fire one-handed, but Preacher was a war-hoss of a man and he'd done just that many times.

“What's so damned important about some lousy wagon train?” another man questioned. “Hell, them folks ain't got nothin' worth stealin'.”

“This one do,” Rod told him. '“Sides, it's got some of the finest-lookin' white women this side of the Muddy. How long's it been since you cast your eyes upon the nekkid flesh of a beautiful woman?”

“Lord, Lord,” yet another man say, “I'm getting' all swole up just thinkin' about that”