The First Mountain Man (8 page)

“Don't no one stray from camp!” Preacher yelled. “You got to relieve yourself, you just step behind the nearest tree. You stray from camp in this, and you'll get lost sure as shootin'. You'll be froze to death 'fore we could find you.”

For once, no one argued with him. The pilgrims were scared, and looked it.

About midnight, the lean-to that Richard and Edmond built gave up and collapsed. Preacher, wrapped up in a ground sheet and buffalo robe, his back to a tree and his hat brim tied over his ears with a scarf he fastened under his chin, opened one eye and chuckled at the antics of the men as they thrashed around in the cold and snow.

One thing about it, the mountain man thought, all four of these people will be a sight smarter about the wilderness when this is over. If they survive, he added. Then he closed his eye and went back to sleep, snug in his robe.

Neither Richard nor Edmond was in a real good mood come the morning.

“I have a head cold,” Edmond complained. “I am in dire need of a plaster for my chester and some hot lemonade.”

“Jesus Christ!” Preacher muttered.

“I simply must have a cup of hot tea,” Richard said. “Do you have any left, Penelope?”

“I'll make us some. I have a few leaves left.”

Preacher had been ruminating on their situation. “Y'all don't need to hurry none,” he told them. “We shore ain't goin' nowheres. We'd leave a trail a drunk blind man could follow.”

“That means the hooligans behind us will gain on us,” Richard said.

“They'll gain,” Preacher admitted. “But I left the trail and turned gradual north early yesterday mornin'. I didn't figure none of you would notice, and you didn't. Then I cut back south for a few miles, then headed west again about noon. That's when I led y'all into that little crick. If y'all had paid attention, you'd have noticed that crick cut back south. A lot of cricks and rivers do flow that way,” he added drily. “Howsomever, Goose Crick does run north. It's a weird crick. But that ain't got nothin' to do with us.” He pointed. “That mountain right there, it's got about fifteen different names, but the Injuns call it Mountain That Takes Life. They say it's evil. I 'magine what happened was some sort of sickness killed a bunch of them years back and they just figure the mountain is evil and won't go near it. That's where we're goin' soon as the sun melts this snow. Reason I'm tellin' you all this, is that I took us 'way, 'way off the trail. Now with the snow, if we just sit tight and don't build no big fires, Bum and them others won't have no idea where we is. They'll just think we kept on the trail westward and that's the way they'll go. They might even make the fort—if it's still there—two or three days ahead of us.”

“Well, what would be the advantage of them doing that?” Richard asked.

Preacher smiled. “'Cause we ain't gonna go to the fort. Soon as the snow melts, I'm takin' y'all southwest to Fort Hall.”

8

Bum and his party of no-goods pressed on, never leaving the westward trail. They had lost the trail, but were all convinced that Preacher was heading for Fort Henry on the Yellowstone. It was the only logical thing for him to do. South was very rugged country.

A dozen miles to the south, Preacher and his pilgrims sat it out until the snow was completely gone. By that time, everyone was well rested, including the horses. Preacher had listened to Edmond bitch about his head cold until he knew if they didn't get on the trail, he was really gonna give Edmond something to complain about. Like maybe a poke on the snoot.

“Pack it up,” Preacher told them. “We got about a hundred miles to go.”

Preacher led them straight south, toward Teton Pass. His plan was to take them through the pass, then cut more to the west, leading them through the Caribou Range, staying north of the great dry lake some called Gray's Lake, cross the Blackfoot Mountains, then on into Fort Hall. That was his plan, but in Indian country, plans were subject to change.

Once clear of Teton Pass, Preacher cut southwest and pushed his party hard. They were becoming used to the trail, and Richard had become a fair hand. Preacher began ranging far out in front of them whenever he felt it safe to do so—safe was his being fairly sure Richard would say on the trail Preacher forged and not get the others lost. He tried to stay apart from the group as much as possible, for Melody had once more begun speaking to him and batting her blues and shaking her bottom at him. Damn woman was about to drive him nuts.

Bum and his bunch had found themselves smack in the middle of a Blackfoot uprising. A friendly Bannock had told them the Army was warning all people to leave the area north of the upper curve of the Snake. And the Bannock also had told them, that everybody was gone from Fort Henry until the Blackfoot had been settled down. They'd been gone for several weeks. He knew that for a fact, 'cause he'd been there.

“Tricked us,” bum said. “He cut south during the snow, and holed up until it melted 'fore pullin' out. That has to be it.”

“Then we're out of luck on this run,” Jack said. “No way we can make Fort Hall 'fore they do.”

Bum thought about that while he was warming his hands over a small fire. “You know where Red Hand is?”

“Yeah. But you ain't thinkin' of trustin' that crazy renegade, is you?”

“I don't see that we got a whole lot of choice in the matter. With his bunch, and with us maybe pickin' up eight or ten other ol' boys, we could take on any wagon train. We could hit them anywheres between Fort Hall and Oregon Territory.”

“I don't like it. Why would Red Hand even want to join up with us?” Bull asked.

“For prisoners and booty. We could make a deal with him. He will keep his word on certain things. I've worked with him before and always been careful not to try to rook him. We can pick our spot once they leave Fort Hall, 'cause there ain't no Army forts along the way until you get to Oregon Territory, and I think them's all British, far as I know. And them silly people don't worry me none. Hell, they'll stop and drink tea right in the middle of a damn battle.”

“Them women we been chasin' might get killed,” Keyes pointed out.

“And they might not. 'Sides, all the gold them Bible-toters is carryin' will make up for the women.”

“True,” Moses said.

“So what do we do?” Slug asked.

“Git our butts outta Blackfoot country first thing. When that's done, we head south to find Red Hand and his bunch and to find us some more ol' boys that we can trust. When we talk to him, we don't mention nothin' 'bout the gold or the women we're after. Luke, do Preacher know you?”

“No. I ain't never laid eyes on the man.”

“Then you'll be the one to ride into Fort Hall and find out what wagon train them pilgrims is leavin' with. We'll be camped 'bout fifteen miles southeast of the fort, down close to the Portneufs. That's where Red Hand hangs out. Let's get the hell gone from here. I don't wanna tangle with no damn Blackfeet.”

* * *

“Two days from the fort,” Preacher told the group.
And then I'll be shut of you,
he silently added.
Praise be!
“We'll stop at a crick just 'fore we make the fort and you ladies can bathe and whatever and change back into them dresses you toted along. Howsomever, it's gonna be right difficult for y'all to ride properlike in them saddles.”

“We want to pay you for all your troubles,” Edmond said.

Preacher fixed him with a bleak look. “I did what I done cause it was the right thing to do. So don't you be tryin' to hand me no money. I don't want your damn money.”
I just want to get shut of you and I hope I don't never see none of you again.
“I feel bounden to see you hooked up with a wagon train, and I'll do that. Then I'm gone.”

“Where will you go, Preacher?” Penelope asked. Now that salvation—in the form of less cretinous people—was near, she felt it wouldn't hurt to be at least cordial to the man. To a degree.

“Don't know. Furrin's about played out. I can see that while most of the others can't. But I'll tell you what I ain't a-gonna do. I ain't a-gonna guide no gawddamn wagon trains full of pilgrims.”

He would live to eat those words. Without benefit of salt, pepper, or anything else. And a lot sooner than he could possibly know.

Preacher had tucked them all in a natural depression off the trail. The fire was built against a huge rock so the rock would reflect the heat back to the group. They were running out of supplies, and Preacher had not wanted to risk a shot bringing down a deer, and had not been able to get close enough to one to use an arrow. He had managed to snare a few rabbits, and that was what they were having this evening.

“A pate would be wonderful,” Penelope said, holding a rabbit's leg.

“Yes,” Edmond agreed. “Or one of your mother's wonderful meat pies.”

Preacher rocked back on his heels and gnawed at his meat.

“I dream of being warm again,” Melody said. “The luxury of sitting in a chair, snug and warm by the stove, and reading poetry, while the elements rage outside the window.”

“Stimulating conversation over tea and cookies,” Richard said.

“Luxuriating long in a hot, soapy bath,” Penelope said. She gingerly took a dainty little bite of rabbit.

Preacher broke the bone and sucked out the marrow. He muttered under his breath.

“I beg your pardon?” Edmond inquired.

“Nothin',” Preacher said, reaching over and slicing off a hunk of rabbit. He tensed only slightly as an alien sound came to him. He shifted position and continued to eat. But he had moved closer to his saddle and the extra brace of pistols. The move also put his back to a large rock. The others did not seem to notice.

Preacher glanced over at the horses. They had stopped grazing and were standing very still, their ears all perked up.

Preacher ate the last of his meat and then picked up a handful of snow that remained on the shady side of the small boulder. He rubbed the snow on his hands to clear away the grease and used more snow to wipe the grease from his mouth. He dried his hands on his britches and wiped his mouth with his jacket sleeve. Free of the odor of grease, he took a deep breath. He picked out the tangy odor of old woodsmoke. There was no way he could tell by smell what tribe the Indians were from, but he'd bet ten dollars they were Blackfeet. And there wasn't no fiercer fighters anywhere—unless it was Red Hand and that bunch of half-crazy renegades that run with him. But this was just a tad north for Red Hand, although Preacher had once run into Red Hand a hell of a lot further north than this.

This bunch was slipping up from behind Preacher. To the front was clear, as was to his left. He stretched and scooted back another foot or so, putting himself in the shadows. Using as little movement as possible, he slowly eased both his pistols from his sash and cocked them. The pilgrims were busy discussing poetry and the latest fashions back East.

Preacher figured this was a mightly small bunch of Injuns. If they'd had any size to them a-tall, they'd have already attacked and done the deed. These were probably young bucks, out to take some hair so's they could impress the girls back at the village.

“Richard,” Preacher said in a soft whisper.

The man cut his eyes to Preacher while the others kept talking, unaware of any trouble.

“Real easy like, now, without you sayin' a word, you put your hand on the butt of your pistol and be ready to jerk and cock and fire.”

“What? What?” Edmond said. “What's this about discharging a weapon?”

Penelope jumped up. “Are we under attack?” she screamed.

Melody looked up just as braves came leaping into the camp. She jumped to her feet and let out a shriek that would put a mountain lion to shame.

Preacher put two bucks on the ground and crippled a third when he fired his pistols, both of them double-shotted. He grabbed up his second brace and let them roar. His left hand gun was a clean miss and his right hand gun misfired.

Richard fired, the ball catching a brave in the stomach and stopping them cold. The missionary stood rock still for a second, looking at the gore he'd caused, then vomited down the front of his coat.

Preacher was on his feet, his long blade knife at the ready when a buck came screaming at him, a war axe in his hand.

Preacher side-stepped the blow from the axe and cut the buck across the back, from his shoulder down to his buttocks, the big blade slicing deep. The Indian screamed and rolled on the ground, coming to rest near Penelope. He reached out and clamped one hand around her ankle. Edmond picked up a rock about the size of a grapefruit and smashed the buck on the head, cracking his skull.

Preacher jumped for his Hawken and cocked it, leveling the .54 caliber rifle just as a brave leaped at him. At point-blank range, he fired. The ball struck the Indian in the center of his chest and turned him in mid-air. He was dead when he hit the ground.

“Reload, goddammit!” Preacher yelled, dropping the rifle and hurriedly trying to charge his pistols. “Edmond, see to the horses.”

A brave leveled his bow and Melody screamed at Preacher. Preacher threw himself to one side and the arrow whizzed past him, embedding into a tree. Preacher charged the lone brave and clubbed him with his pistol, smashing his head on the way down.

Edmond never made it to the horses. He was on the ground, unconscious, and a Blackfoot was grappling with Richard. Richard was holding onto the buck's wrists.

“Kick him in the parts, Richard!” Preacher yelled.

The Blackfoot kneed Richard in his groin and the man went down, moaning.

Melody grabbed up a burning brand from the fire and jammed it against the Indian's arm. He screamed in pain and slapped her in the face, knocking her down. Preacher leveled his pistol and fired, the ball striking the brave in the head and doing terrible damage to the man's face, tearing away part of his jaw and slamming the man to the ground.

A young buck, armed with only a war axe, took a vicious swing at Preacher. Preacher clubbed him with the butt of his Hawken just as another brave jumped onto Preacher's back, screaming his defiance. He tried to ride Preacher down. Preacher flipped the brave off his back. The buck hit the ground, rolled, and came to his feet just in time to receive the full length of Preacher's knife in his belly, the cutting edge up. Preacher jerked the knife upward, the heavy blade ripping through stomach and into lung and heart. The Blackfoot was dead before he stretched out on the cold ground.

The fight was over. If there were any more Blackfeet, they decided their medicine was bad this night and vanished back into the timber.

Edmond was getting to his feet with the help of Penelope, and Melody was trying to get Richard to his feet. Richard wasn't having any part of that. He lay on the ground in a fetal position, moaning, both hands holding his privates.

Preacher reloaded his pistols, then his rifle. He walked over to Edmond and looked at the man. The missionary had a lump on his noggin but other than that was unhurt. Melody's face was red and swelling where the brave had smacked her. She'd have a pretty good bruise there come the morning.

Penelope pointed to the dead Indians. “What are we going to do with them?”

“We're not doin' nothin' with them,” Preacher told her. “We're packin' up and getting' the hell gone from here. Injuns will come back for them.” He shook his head. “Injuns must really have their dander up to attack at night. They don't usually do that.”

“Why?” Edmond asked, fingering the knot on his head.

“Most tribes believe that if they're killed at night, the spirit wanders forever. Some believe that if the body is not recovered and properly buried the spirit wanders.” Preacher inspected each of the dead braves. All young men. “Mosquitoes,” he said.

“I beg your pardon?” Richard said, finally able to get to his feet. He was still all hunched over.

“Pack up. I'll tell you while we pack. We got to get gone from here, people. Them Blackfeet'll be back. Bet on that. Get busy. Move.” Preacher began rolling his blankets. He said, “Each tribe has several warrior societies. These here Blackfeet are in the middle society. That's reserved for young men between the age of nineteen and twenty-three. They're called Mosquitoes. The one they're in before that is called the Doves. Them's all boys between fifteen and eighteen. That's how they learn to be warriors. These bucks got so excited about attackin' us, they forgot their teachin's.”

Preacher started saddling up, leaving the others to finish packing.