T
WO
“Easy!” Preacher said sharply as everyone reached for weapons. “If they'd wanted us dead, we would be. Just stand quiet and ready.” He walked to the open door and stood there looking at the dozen or so Cheyenne who had silently walked their ponies up the slope and onto the flat of the settlement. Preacher breathed easier. He knew the subchief leading this band. “Lone Man moves as silently as ever.” Preacher spoke the words in Cheyenne as he made the sign of peace. “It is good to see that he is too great a warrior to make war against women, children, and peace-seeking men.”
A smile flitted across the Cheyenne's face. He grunted and spoke in rapid-fire Cheyenne. What he said, loosely translated, was that while Preacher was still as full of buffalo turds as ever, it was good to see him.
Preacher was quick to notice the many hands painted on the Cheyenne horses. Each hand represented an enemy killed in hand-to-hand combat. The paintings were fresh and so were the scalps hanging from lances and tied into the manes of the horses. All were Indian scalps.
Lone Man had followed Preacher's eyes and said, “Crow. They have been warned many times to stay out of our land. Now these will â forever. I have not seen Preacher in two seasons. Have you now decided to scratch into the earth?”
Preacher laughed at that and a twinkle appeared in the Cheyenne's eyes. He knew Preacher better than that. “I visit friends of mine here. These are good people who wish only to work the land and get along with all things of this earth. They cause no trouble.”
“We shall see,” Lone Man said. He turned his horse and rode out, the others following him.
“My God!” A man introduced as Charles Nelson had finally found his voice. “Did you see all the scalps?”
“Crow hair,” Preacher told them. “They made one-too-many raids into Lone Man's territory. It's usually the Dakota â Sioux to you â that don't much get on with the Crow. But you get the Cheyenne all stirred up and you got yourselves a world of hurt comin' at you.”
“What did they want here?” a woman asked.
“Curious. Injuns is mighty curious folks. They were just checkin' you out. Now, I told Lone Man that you all was friends of mine. He may or may not believe that, and it may or may not have some bearin' with him. But I've wintered with the Cheyenne and get along right good with them. They may leave you be. But they's renegades in every tribe. The Crow gets along fair to middlin' with the white man; but you always keep a gun handy. You be on the lookout at all times.”
Buffalo Butt puffed up and haughtily announced, “We shall tell them all that we are God-fearing people and mean them no harm. We shall be perfectly safe here. It's people like you stir up all the trouble.”
“Yeah,” Preacher said dryly. “Well, I'll be long gone time you folks roll out of the bed come the mornin'. I'll be back this way from time to time to check on you and partake of your cookin'. Good night.”
The next morning, as the sky was beginning to silver before dawning, when Robbie made his bleary-eyed way to the outhouse, Preacher was gone.
* * *
“Damn fool people,” Preacher said, as he rode toward the trading post located near the Laramie and North Platte rivers. “Bringin'all them kids out here to the wilderness. Bunch of igits is what they is.”
He was following the trail of Malachi Pardee and his gang, for as long as they rode toward the post, and while making good time, he was riding with caution. Malachi despised Preacher. They'd locked horns in the past a couple of times and Preacher had always come out on top. Preacher was no saint â far from it. But like most of his time, he operated under a strict code of conduct. And Malachi Pardee and his followers violated all the codes Preacher lived by. They were brigands and worse. As he rode, Preacher pondered what all he knew about Malachi, and none of it was good.
Pardee sometimes hooked up with a worthless bunch of Injuns who roamed about up in the Medicine Bow country. These particular Injuns were from all tribes, and they'd banded together after their tribes had kicked them out for one reason or another. But this time Preacher hadn't seen any Injuns in Pardee's pack. Just no-good whites.
The last time Preacher locked up with Malachi, Preacher should have killed him. He knew it then and knew it even better now. But Malachi had yielded and Preacher had stepped back and let him live. Big mistake.
Preacher nooned by a hidden spring â known only to about ten thousand Injuns and several hundred mountain men â and built no fire. He ate a thick sandwich he'd made that morning in the kitchen of the MacGreagor house. Hadn't woke a soul up as he did it. If they slept that sound, Preacher didn't give the pilgrims much chance of living very long out here. But most of them had seemed like real nice people. Except for Buffalo Butt.
Before eating, Preacher had let his horses roll and then picketed them and let them graze. Then he had him a long drink of cold water and his sandwich. He stretched out on the ground and rested. He'd been doing a lot of ruminating of late, and decided this was a dandy time to do some more head thinkin'.
The future just didn't look real bright for men like Preacher. He'd predicted the trapping and the fur trade would play out, and it sure was doing just that. He hadn't done much of it the past couple of years anyway. But he knew he had to think about doing something. He was too proud not to work at something. Many of his friends had packed it in and gone back East. But most of them were coming back faster than they went out, all of them saying they just couldn't live back yonder no more. There wasn't no place for men like Preacher in the civilized East. Po-lite society, some was callin' it.
A mountain man name of Hogjaw had come back to the wilderness with a tale of horror. Seems like he was having him a drink in a tavern and a local called him a son of a bitch. Hogjaw whipped out his good knife and cut that citizen from brisket to breakfast. Damned if the constable didn't put Hogjaw under arrest and tote him off to the hoosegow. Charged him with murder. Hogjaw busted out of jail and lit a shuck for the Big Empty just as fast as he could flee.
After hearing that story, Preacher knew damn well he could never live back East. There was such a thing as being just too civilized.
Laying on the ground, Preacher heard the sounds of horses' hooves and got to his feet, moving to his horses. He calmed them and whispered to them so's they wouldn't whinny when they got the scent of other horses.
The Injuns passed close, and they was painted for war. Preacher made out several Crow, some Blackfeet, Mandan, and some he didn't recognize. A good-sized band of renegades, and they were riding the trail left by Pardee and his kin and trash. Preacher's tracks had blended in with the others and he'd been careful when he left the trail for the spring.
They were all gathering for some reason, and Preacher could guess what that reason might be: more settlers coming in. More damn fools heading this way, bound for the glory land in the Northwest.
Preacher said a very ugly word as he saddled up and pulled out. If there were more wagons coming, they'd more than likely stop at the post for supplies and for talk about the trail ahead of them.
Preacher had had his gutful of pilgrims and decided he'd head the other way and get himself back into the mountains. Then he stopped and, with a sigh, turned Hammer's head toward the post. The folks had a right to know what dangers lay ahead of them, he reckoned.
“Here we go again, Hammer,” he said. “But this time, only part of the way.”
* * *
When Preacher arrived at the post, he was startled by the size of the wagon train and relieved to see an old friend of his was going to be the man to guide the wagons westward. Jack Larrabee was a man to ride the river with. He was about fifteen years older than Preacher, and had been out in the wilderness for nigh on to forty years.
The two men hoo-hawed each other and whacked each other on the back a time or two and then went to the sutler's for a round of drinks.
Preacher nearly swallowed his cup when Jack said, “The movers ain't goin' on to Fort Vancouver, Preacher. They're going to settle just west of the Rockies.”
“Wagh!” Preacher spat the word. He knocked back his whiskey and, when his vision cleared from the hooch, said, “Then they're fools, Jack.”
“Maybe not. Long Hair's done told me personal that he wouldn't bother them.”
“That's Long Hair. He's a Crow. Crows will steal their horses and possessions, but Crows don't kill whites except in self-defense. Usually.” Long Hair got his name because, when measured, his hair â and it was all his own â was almost twelve feet in length. Crows were known to take horse hair and attach it to their own to make it appear longer.
“For a fact,” Jack agreed.
“How about the Cheyenne and the Arapaho and the Shoshoni and the Dakotas? To mention just a few who might lift some hair along the way?”
Jack shrugged his shoulders. “I warned the movers, Preacher. What else can I do?”
Preacher knew the fix the man was in; he'd been there personal. Jack was just trying to make a living and Preacher couldn't fault him for that. “And how about the Pardee boys and that gang of no-counts with them?”
Jack's eyes narrowed. “You seen them, Preacher?”
“I seen them.” He told Jack what had happened at the little settlement and what he had seen while resting at the spring.
“Oh, they know about the wagons,” Jack admitted. “But we're too many for them. This is the largest train to ever try to cross the Rockies.”
Preacher looked out the open window at the fifteen-foot-high adobe wall that surrounded the trading post. Beyond it, a wilderness that seemed to stretch endlessly for hundreds and hundreds of miles. Preacher shook his head at the thought. And he had a right to be a doubter: he'd taken a train all the way to the Pacific the year past.
“They'll make it, Preacher.”
“Oh, the hell they will!” Preacher said, pouring another cup from the jug. “They might make it 'crost the Rockies, but they ain't gonna survive alone where you're takin' them, and you know it, Jack. Who the hell do you think you're talkin' to? I know about them folks same as you. Maybe more. They's fleein' the bankrupt eastern part of the country, that's who they is. Hell, I can read. I found me a paper last year. They done sold ever'thing they couldn't pile on them wagons and they can't go back. They got nothin' to go back to. And they got only misery ahead of them. Goddamnit, Jack, they're merchants and clerks and coin counters and the like.”
“You're just upset 'cause the fur's gone and you can't abide crowds noway.”
“That's part of it, yeah. But it's too soon for these folks, Jack. They got no protection from the government. A bunch of that territory's in dispute 'tween England and America. I snooped around, Jack. Them pilgrims just barely got enough shot and powder for their personal needs. What are you gonna do if you're attacked?”
“You know the odds of Injuns attackin' a wagon train of this size is slim, Preacher,” Jack said stubbornly.
“Mayhaps you be right, Jack. Mayhaps you can get them movers 'crost the Rockies. But like I said: what happens
after
you get there and leave them? You know damn well good as me that's when the Injuns will hit them.”
But the scout's jaw was set in determination.
“You know what would be smart on the mover's part, Jack? Huh? If you was to take these pilgrims about twenty-five miles from this post and settle them. Then the next bunch go twenty-five more miles past that, and so forth. Then you'd have, sooner or later, a supply line that ran all the way to the blue waters. But this way, Jack, is dumb!”
Jack stood up and looked down at his old friend. “We'll be leavin' at first light, Preacher. Feel free to tag along. The grub is better than passable.”
Preacher shook his head. “No, thanks, Jack. But I'll wish you luck.” 'Cause you're damn sure gonna need all you can get, he silently added.
The next morning, Preacher stood with several other trappers and watched the long line of wagons stretch out. No one spoke for a long time. Finally, a long, lanky drink of water all dressed in buckskins said, “I got me a bad feelin' about those folks yonder, boys.”
Preacher looked at the man. “So do I, Caleb. So do I.”
The men turned as one and headed for the store. Preacher wanted to get him a jug and get rip-roarin' drunk and try not to think about those pilgrims heading into the raw and dangerous wilderness.
* * *
On a bright and clear spring morning, Preacher rolled out of his blankets and stretched the kinks from his joints and muscles. He was about two days' ride from the post and the whiskey he'd consumed was clear of his system. He had stayed in an alcoholic fog for near'bouts a week. He and Caleb and the other mountain men gathered at the post had swapped lies, jugs, thrown axes and knives at targets, and in general had them a high ol' time. Then, without anyone putting it into words, the men had drifted away, each hearing the silent call of the wilderness beckoning them back to the High Lonesome.
After carefully looking all around him and listening intently for several minutes, to the birds singing and the squirrels chattering, Preacher decided there were no Injuns about and shucked out of his clothes and jumped into a pool created by a cold, clear creek. He washed quickly, before he turned blue, and jumped out, running around the camp naked as a jaybird until he was dry. Then he put on fresh longhandles he'd bought at the post and slipped into buckskins a Mandan squaw had made for him. He fixed coffee over a smokeless fire and set about figuring just what he was going to do with himself and where he wanted to go.