Forty Guns West (16 page)

 

Harry Leon Wilson

“The dirty, rotten, no good . . .” Bones went on a rampage, cussing and jumping up and down and throwing himself about like a spoiled child in the throes of a temper tantrum.

The men had managed to save quite a number of articles from the fires. But their tents were gone as were many of the blankets and spare clothing.

To heap insult upon injury, Preacher had left another note reading:

A dozen men from Lige's bunch exchanged glances and without saying a word, mounted up and rode out. If they had any luck at all, they could catch up with the cooks and servants and ride back east with them. They wanted no more of Preacher.

Bones and Van Eaton and the royalty watched the men leave without comment. They were glad to be rid of them. Lige cussed the deserters and shook his fist at them and shouted dire threats until he was hoarse, but that was all he did.

Unbeknownst to Lige's people, at the orders of the royalty, Bones, Van Eaton, and men had buried a great deal of supplies that were carefully wrapped in oilcloth and canvas.

“That was good thinkin',” Bones said to Sir Elmore after he had calmed down.

“Naturally,” the Englishman replied.

* * *

No man among them had any way of knowing that a small group of settlers and a few missionaries had already left Bent's Fort, heading for the Rockies to establish a settlement and a church. The problem was, they were being guided by a man who was so inept he would have trouble finding the altar in a church.

“I am thrilled beyond words,” Patience Comstock said to her sister, Prudence, as they bounced along in a wagon. “This is such a grand adventure. We'll be doing the work of the Lord by bringing God to the savages.”

“Yes,” Prudence agreed, tying her bonnet strap under her chin. “And won't Father and Mother be surprised to learn about that Preacher man they told us about back at the fort? Just think, Sister, a man of the Cloth so well-known and so devout, so ... so, strong in his faith and loved by all that even the savages call him Preacher.”

“Yes, sister. But I wonder why the Methodist Board of Missions didn't tell us about this man?”

“Well, he might be of another faith, dear.”

“Of course. I'm sure that's it. No matter. We're all doing God's work.” Patience tucked a few strands of auburn hair back under her bonnet. “I'm sure he's a fine gentleman.”

* * *

“That dirty son!” Bones muttered, looking at the scorched boots he'd managed to pull from the smoldering mess. “I paid good money for these back in St. Louis.” He tossed the ruined boots aside. “Preacher.
Preacher?
How did a man like that ever get the name of Preacher?” he questioned with a snarl.

As it turns out, early on Preacher was captured by Indians and while they were mulling over whether to kill him outright or torture him to see how brave he was, the young man started preaching the gospel—sort of—to them. He preached for hours and hours and hours until the Indians finally reached the conclusion that he was crazy and turned him loose. Once the story got around, and that didn't take long, he was known as Preacher.

* * *

Preacher did nothing for several days except watch. He had been sure that once he burned the supplies of the man-hunters, they'd all give up and go home. He'd told the cooks and servants that he was going to kill all those after him just to get them moving. The truth was, Preacher's deep grief and hot anger over the death of Eddie and Wind Chaser had tempered somewhat. He could kill ten times the number of those men after him and that wouldn't bring the dead back to life.

He just wanted this over and to live his life in peace.

“Damn,” Preacher said, lowering the spy glass. “What's it gonna take to discourage them fools down yonder?”

Some of the men were real woodsmen and frontiersmen. They'd been smoking fish and meat and making jerky and really eatin' pretty high on the hog. And Preacher had seen where a whole passel of supplies had been dug up. He had stung the man-hunters some, but that was about it.

Preacher didn't know it, but his troubles were only just beginning.

* * *

“Oh, sister,” Patience said to her twin, Prudence. “Aren't they magnificent?”

“Breathtaking, sister.”

They were gazing at the Rockies.

One of the settlers, a good solid, sturdy young man of German stock, named Otto Steiner, walked up to the twins' wagon. “Quite a sight, ja, ladies?”

“Oh, Mister Steiner, they are just beautiful!” Patience cooed.

“Ja, ja. All of that. Well, I just want to see those lovely rich valleys and lakes in those mountains where a man and his wife can raise kids and vegetables and have cows and fish and hunt. We go on now.” He waved at the scout, who was now sober, having exhausted his supply of whiskey. “We go, man. Take us through the mountains.”

The scout, known only as Wells, nodded his head and picked up the reins. “I ain't gar-enteein' nothin'. But we'll give it a shot.”

“What do you mean, sir?” Patience demanded. “We were told back in Missouri that you knew this country.”

“Wal, they lied. I ain't never been this far a-fore. And to tell you the truth, I ain't real thrilled about goin' no further, neither. So I don't think I will.”

“What does that mean?” Otto asked.

“Means I quit.” Without another word, he rode away, heading east. He did not look back.

The four wagons and eight people suddenly looked awfully tiny with the majestic mountains looming in front of them.

“Well now,” Frank Collins said, walking up with his wife of only a few months with him. “This sort of leaves us in a pickle, doesn't it?”

“The Lord will see us through,” Jane Collins said, smiling up at her husband.

Hanna Steiner joined the group, as did Paul and Sally Marks. “I didn't like that Wells person anyway,” Hanna said bluntly. “He was a very untidy man who did not bathe enough and he cussed. I cannot abide a man who swears.”

“Ja, Hanna,” Otto said. “You are right about that, you surely are.”

“Well!” Patience said, flouncing on the wagon seat. “We must press on.” She picked up the reins. “The Lord is with us and surely He will hear our prayers this evening and send His man of faith in the wilderness, Preacher, to guide us through. I am certain of that. Onward, people. We'll lift our voices in Christian song as we travel through the wilderness.” She popped the big rear mules on the butt with the reins and off they went, creaking and lurching and singing across the Plains, only a few miles from the Rockies. The faint sounds of song could be heard as the young pioneers headed bravely into the unknown.

* * *

The fare in the camp of Bones had decidedly gone downhill with their cooks leaving and much of their supplies destroyed. It was now mostly venison and beans. And not one sign of Preacher had been found by the daily patrols. It had been two weeks since the cooks and servants left and Preacher had burned their camp.

“I think the man has fled,” Robert Tassin said.

“I concur,” his countryman, Jon Louviere agreed.

Bones and Van Eaton, sitting on the ground a few yards away, listened but said nothing. It really made no difference to either man. The longer they stayed out, the more money they made. The rules and rates of the 'game' had changed. With the exception of Bones and Van Eaton, each man was being paid five dollars a day, a very princely sum for the time. Bones and Van Eaton were receiving substantially more. In addition, when, or if, Preacher was found, and the aristocracy killed him, each man in the group would receive a cash bonus. The entire group could have the reward money posted on Preacher's head. Literally. For the reward money could only be claimed by bringing Preacher's head back as proof. A carefully packed glass jug and pickling solution had been brought by the second group.

Up near the timber line, Preacher was getting bored. His hopes that the hunting party would go away and leave him alone had been dashed. On this clear and crisp mid-summer morning, just as dawn was lighting the horizon, Preacher reckoned it was time to open this ball and he was going to lead the band. He picked up two rifles and headed out.

Patience and Prudence and party had broken camp and were on the move. They were about eight miles away at dawn.

The camp of the man-hunters had shifted, the unwashed multitudes crawling out of their blankets, shaking out the fleas and various other bugs and headed for the creek for coffee water.

Bones was squatting by the fire, warming his hands and waiting for the water to boil. He was always surly in the mornings and this morning he was surlier than usual. Even Van Eaton did not dare to speak to him. The gentry were gathered together, as usual. They preferred their own company to that of the unwashed.

Bones reached for the coffee pot just as a rifle ball banged against the big iron kettle and ripped off, the flattened and ragged ricochet striking a man-hunter in the center of the forehead and dropping him dead on the ground. Bones kissed the earth, flattening out on his belly.

One of Bones's original group, Joey York, was a tad slow in reacting and Preacher's second shot ended his man-hunting days forever. The ball from the fancy hunting rifle punched a hole in Joey's chest and knocked him into a cookfire, setting his clothing and greasy hair ablaze. The ensuing smell was not exactly conducive to a good appetite.

“Did anybody spot the smoke?” Van Eaton yelled, from his position behind a tree near the creek.

“Do we ever?” Tom Evans called.

“Somebody pull Joey out the fire,” Bones said. “The smell is makin' me ill.”

One of the second party, a man called Stanley, jumped up and made it halfway to the smoldering body of Joey before Preacher nailed him, dusting the man from side to side. Stanley stumbled and fell dead without making a sound.

“He's got to be in that little stand of trees over yonder,” Cal Johnson yelled, sticking his head up and peering over the log he was hiding behind. “But that's a good three hundred yards off. Man, he can
shoot!”

Preacher's rifle boomed and Cal lost part of an ear. He fell back behind the log, squalling in pain as the blood poured. “Oh, God, he's kilt me!” Cal screamed.

Falcon glanced at him. “Naw. You'll live. But you gonna be wearin' yore hat funny from now on.”

“Jesus!” Stan Law yelled. “Joey's stinkin' something fierce. Cain't nobody haul him outta there?”

“You want him out, you haul him out,” Horace Haywood called. “I ain't movin'.”

A man called Hoppy, because of the way he walked—one leg was shorter than the other—jumped up and hip-hopped toward the fire. Preacher fired again and now Hoppy's left leg was equal to his right. The ball took off about half of his left foot. Hoppy flopped on the ground, screaming to high heaven.

“Charge, men!” Sir Elmore ordered. “Into the fray!”

“Charge yoresalf!” Derby Peel told him.

“By God I will!” Sir Elmore said. “Where's my saber?”

Baron Zaunbelcher quickly scurried away from Elmore.

“Stay down!” Bones yelled. “Don't be a fool. Preacher's got us cold.”

“He's movin'!” Jimmie Cook yelled. “Headin' off to the south. If he makes the crick, he's gone for sure.”

Sir Elmore jumped up, waving his saber. Baron Zaunbelcher was keeping a good eye on the Englishman. “Now's our chance. Charge, men!” Elmore ran toward the creek, waving his saber. Burton Sullivan and Willy Steinwinder right behind him.

“Oh, Lord!” Bones said, crawling to his boots. “Come on, boys. We can't let nothing happen to them silly people.”

En masse, the entire camp—those who were able—came to their feet, all running after Preacher, waving rifles and pistols and yelling and cussing. But Preacher had left the creek and was hiding among the trees that lined the bank. He caught sight of the sun flashing off of Elmore's blade and sighted in. The ball clanged against the polished steel and Elmore's entire body experienced the sensation of a railroad spike being hit with a sledge hammer. For a moment, before Burton hauled him down, Elmore looked like a man with a bad case of the twitches.

Using his second rifle, Preacher took aim and put a ball into a man's belly and the man tumbled to his knees and then slowly fell into the creek, face first. Two minutes later he had drowned. Preacher watched the entire running human wave hit the ground and he took off running, zigging and zagging through the grass and brush, heading for the ridges. Very quickly Preacher was out of rifle range and gone. He reached his horse and headed south.

Back at the camp of the man-hunters, they were busy patching up the wounded and seeing to the disposal of the dead. Elmore's right hand had stopped its twitching. He was looking sorrowfully at his slightly bent saber.

“Throw it away,” Zaunbelcher urged.

“Indeed not! It's only bent a little. My father carried this sword during the War of 1812.”

Baron Zaunbelcher almost said he now knew the reason the British lost, but thought better of it at the last second.

Preacher had put several miles behind him and the now scared, shook-up, and bloody band of man-hunters. He wasn't worried about them following him; not this soon anyway. He threaded his way through the timber, topped a ridge, and looked down into one of the prettiest valleys in this part of the country. He stared hard at the scene before him. He blinked. But the scene remained unchanged.

Four wagons, a half a dozen cows, one of which was probably a bull, and riding horses.