Forty Guns West (23 page)

9

“We're just about out of everything,” Van Eaton announced. “If we stretch coffee and beans and flour, we might last another ten days. No more.”

“Them gospel-shouters has a-plenty,” Dutch said. “I say we go take it and have our way with them women.”

Three weeks had passed without any of the man-hunters so much as glimpsing a track of Preacher. Preacher had moved very little. He had stayed alive by trapping rabbits, snaring mountain trout in fish-traps, and eating berries and tubers. After each rabbit, he would move the trap to a different location, sometimes no more than a few yards away. He was healed up and if anything, he was tougher and stronger than before. He was definitely leaner and meaner. He had killed a deer with bow and arrow and had passed the time by making himself a new pair of moccasins.

Now it was time to move.

Preacher had given up trying to understand the inner workings of the minds of those chasing him. He knew only that he was going to put an end to this hunt. He also knew that many of the men he had wounded would have by now left the missionary camp and rejoined Bones and his bunch. So much for trying to limit the killing.

So, on a fine morning in late summer, Preacher made his way to a place the Indians called Echo Point, the summit rearing up just over fourteen thousand feet in the thin air. It was a place where a shout could be heard for miles in all directions.

“I am Preacher!” the mountain man shouted, the words bouncing from valley to valley. “I am called Ghost Walker. White Wolf. Killing Ghost.”

His words reached every human ear within miles. The Indians smiled and looked at one another in satisfaction, and the white stiffened in shock.

“That's cocky! ...” Bones hissed.

“Magnificent!” Otto said.

“To those who hunt me, your time has come. You will not leave these mountains. Your flesh will rot and your bones will bleach under the sun and be scattered by the critters. You've hunted me and shot me and done your best to kill me. But I live. I live! Now I hunt. Now you will know the fear of the hunted. I will stalk you during the day and cut your throats while you sleep at night You ... all ... will ... die!” Preacher thundered.

* * *

“Big blowhard!” Tatman said, hobbling about the camp on a crutch. His knee was far from healed, but it was just about as healed as it was going to get with the time he had left to him. He hobbled over to where Joe Moss sat on a log, his own busted knee wrapped securely and stuck out in front of him, and carefully sat down. “We owe that mountain man, don't we, Moss.”

“In spades,” the man said bitterly. He pulled out a knife and began sharpening the blade on a stone. “I want to skin him alive; keep him screamin' for a long time.”

“Yeah, yeah! That's a good idee, for shore.”

Derby Peel walked over, favoring his healing ribs, and agreed with what Moss had to say. 'Just let me be there when you do it, boys. I owe him too.“

“Least you can walk,” Tatman said. “Me and Moss is crippled for life. It just ain't right what he done to us. It just ain't right. Cripplin' a man ain't no fair way to fight. It just by God ain't.”

“Shore ain't,” Moss agreed. “That man has condemned me to be a cripple for the rest of my days. There just ain't no justice in his world, that's for shore.”

Bones and Van Eaton had heard the words and exchanged glances. “I ain't quittin',” Bones spoke softly. “I can't quit.”

“I know,” his friend replied. “I didn't say nothin' about quittin'. Just that we're soon gonna be out of supplies. Well,” Van Eaton said with a sigh, “least we'll be together when the deed is done.”

Bones gave him a sharp glance. “What the hell do you mean by that?”

“Aw, come on, Bones,” Van Eaton whispered. “Look around you. Men all shot up an' limpin' an' crippled an' moanin' an' groanin'. One man done all that. One man, Bones. We ain't gonna beat that mountain man, Bones. And you know it well as me.”

Bones made no reply. Just sat with his head down staring at his filthy hands.

Van Eaton stood up and put a hand on Bones's shoulder. “We been friends for nigh on thirty years, Bones. And we've made a right considerable sum of money chasin' wanted men. But I got me a feelin' in my guts that this here is our last run. Bones? We could always head west and change our names.”

“No,” Bones said firmly. “That mountain man ain't gonna make me turn tail like a whipped dog. Van Eaton?”

“Yeah?”

“You see me buried proper, all right?”

“All right. You do the same for me if I go first.”

“You know I will.”

On the other side of the camp, the nobility had listened to Preacher's words and promptly dismissed them as mere prattle. They had already discussed the matter of supplies and had decided that they'd give this hunt about ten more days and then head out of the mountains before winter. But they would return the next spring to resume the hunt. This had been the most exhilarating time of their spoiled, pampered lives.

Juan's butt had healed up well. Rudi's shoulder was a bit stiff but functioning. Burton's leg had healed up nicely as well.

They were ready for the hunt to resume.

* * *

Preacher strolled into the missionary's camp nonchalantly, as if he'd been gone for no more than an hour instead of three weeks. “Howdy, folks! Y'all got any vittles to eat?”

Everyone crowded around, inspecting him. Preacher looked to be better than he was the last time they'd seen him. Patience said so, speaking for all in the camp.

“It's the pure mountain air that done it. That and good clean Christian livin', of course,” Preacher replied with a straight face. He looked around him. The area where they had housed the prisoners was empty. “What happened to all your patients?”

“Some died,”John said. “They're buried in the meadow yonder. Most recovered and went back with Bones.” He pointed to four clean-shaven and bathed men. “These four, Dirk, Simpson, Will, and Jim, have accepted Christ into their lives and are going to stay with us.”

“Well, by golly, I think that's grand, boys.” Preacher shook each newly converted hand and the former rouges and man-hunters grinned at him.

Dirk said, “You don't have to fret none about anything happenin' to these folks, Preacher. Me and the boys would give our lives for these fine people.”

Preacher stared hard at the man, and silently agreed that Dirk meant it. “I believe you. You're a good man.”

His plate of food was ready and Preacher sat down and dug in. He ate that and then ate another full plate before he was full. He leaned back with his pipe and a cup of coffee and sighed. “Y'all got any medicines left?”

“Some,” Prudence said. “But not a large amount. Why?”

“Y'all better get ready for some more patients. 'Cause after I finish this coffee and smoke, I'm fixin' to go huntin' me some no-counts.”

Otto said, “We offered them salvation. They refused. Some even openly scoffed at us. Since that time we have posted guards out at night and none of us ever go without our weapons. The women have all had firearms training.”

“That's good. 'Cause if y'all plan on stayin' out here, sooner or later you women will have to pick up a gun and kill you an Indian or a brigand. I just hope that when the time comes, you won't hesitate none in the pullin' of that trigger.” He paused to puff on his pipe. “When I get done with my business, I want to set you folks down and talk to you 'bout your plans on settlin' in this country. It ain't the wisest choice you could have made. But that'll wait 'til another day.”

“Our mission remains clear and our course is unalterable,” Patience told him.

“Uh-huh,” Preacher said. “We'll see.”

“Preacher,” Otto said, quickly changing the subject, “I've seen the man-hunters' new camp. It's a good one for defense. The best they've chosen.”

Preacher smiled. “I've seen it too. And they couldn't have picked no worser place. I'm headin' over there now. I'll see you folks tomorrow or the next day. Bye.”

* * *

Preacher lay in the rocks above the camp and studied it more closely through his glass. Bones couldn't have picked a worse spot if they'd all got together and held a stupid contest.

The camp had good water and there was graze for the horses, but the whole place was surrounded by timber. And Bones had built permanent watch shelters for the lookouts. Preacher memorized their locations and then stretched out for a nap. He planned on a busy evening.

* * *

Twice he'd lined up Tatman in his sights and twice Preacher had let the man live. He just couldn't pull the trigger. He just could not bring himself to shoot a man he'd made a cripple for the rest of his life. Preacher knew that if the conditions were reversed, Tatman would shoot him without blinking.... but maybe, he thought, that's one of the main things that separates us.

It would have seemed incredible to others, but for a moment, Preacher felt a twinge of pity for the group of man-hunters. He'd never seen a more beat-up and raggedy-lookin' bunch of men in all his days. They looked plumb pitiful. And he knew from the meager rations they were dishin' up that the bunch was nearly out of supplies.

From his position in the timber, Preacher counted the men. He shook his head. Way too many of them. The missionaries wouldn't stand a chance of beating them off if the man-hunters attacked in force. And if they ran out of supplies, they would attack and take what food the gospel-shouters had, and Preacher knew they had plenty.

Preacher experienced that old feeling of being “between a rock and a hard place” land on him again. Whatever he decided to do, he had to keep the safety of the missionaries foremost in his mind.

Damn! he thought.

He thought a lot worse than that when one of the men stepped out of the campfire lit clearing and into the woods and came within a few feet of peeing on him.

I do get myself into some predicaments, Preacher thought sourly. The man finally closed up his britches and walked back into the clearing.

Preacher slowly backed away from the clearing, carefully avoiding the wet spot left by the man-hunter. He could have killed several of those chasing him—and he knew he probably should have—but for the time being, he left them live. He also felt he would probably regret that decision later on.

But Preacher wasn't going to leave the vicinity of the camp without first raising a little hell, letting the man-hunters know that he could move unseen among them any time he liked. He paused and gave that some thought. No, he concluded. No, he wouldn't do that. As much as he wanted to, he finally realized that wasn't such a good idea.

Preacher was torn with indecision. He just didn't' know what to do. He knew what he
should
do, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. For the hundredth time, he wished these people would just go away and leave him be.

Preacher had the same feeling now as when years back, his older brother had told him there wasn't no such thing as Santy Claus.

* * *

For two days, Preacher watched the man-hunter camp and waited for them to do something. But all they did was eat and sleep and lounge about and act like they didn't have a care in the world. But Preacher had some cares. He knew he had to get those missionaries out of there before the snows came. People who had never experienced a winter in the high country had no idea just how fearsome a thing it was. The temperature could fall to way below zero faster than anybody would believe possible. And the passes would be clogged with snow. A man who knew the country and was on a good horse could make it. A wagon? No way.

The next morning, early, Preacher was in the missionary camp. “Pack up,” he told them bluntly.

“I beg your pardon, sir?” Prudence questioned.

“Are you hard of hearin', woman? I said pack up and harness up. I'm gettin' you people out of here.”

“You don't understand, sir,” Hanna said. “We...”

Preacher waved her silent. “ I understand more than you do, lady. I know it's damn near autumn. And I know I can't allow you people to be trapped up here when the snow comes. All the signs—if you know how to read them, and I do—point to a fierce winter. Y'all just don't know what winter is like in the mountains. Folks, we're high up. Higher than you realize. You just can't imagine what it's like up here in a blizzard. I can't get it through your heads that once the snow comes, you're stuck. You can't get them wagons out. Personally, I don't see how you ever got 'em
in.
You think you've seen winters back in New York or Maryland or wherever the hell it is you come from? You ain't seen nothin' 'til you seen snows piled tree-top high and winds fifty mile an hour and temperatures thirty below and water froze so solid you can walk a horse acrost it. You'll die, people. And the ground will be froze so deep down, blastin' powder wouldn't even dent it and I'd have to wait 'til spring to dig your graves. Am I gettin' through to you? Good. Now pack up. We're leavin' and to hell with them foolish bounty-hunters. With any kind of luck we'll be gone two-three days 'fore they realize it. Now ... move!”

10

“Gone!” Bob Jones yelled, jumping from his horse. “They're gone!”

“Who's gone?” Lige said, standing up.

“Them missionaries, that's who.”

Everyone in the camp gathered around him. Bones grabbed him by the arm. “Are you sure?”

Bob gave him a dirty look. “Sure? Hell, yes, I'm sure. I just come from there. And the campfire ashes was so old and cold they didn't hold nary a spark.”

“The ground around the ashes?” Van Eaton asked.

“Cold.”

“Two days at least,” Ed Crowe said. “How about tracks?”

“Plenty of them. Headin' south. I figure that's why ain't none of us heard nothin' from Preacher. He's leadin' them gospel-shouters out.”

Bones was thoughtful for a moment standing amid the cussing and loud-talking group. The four men who had left his group to stay with the missionaries were seasoned fighters with no back-up in any of them. Otto Steiner, Frank Collins, and Paul Marks all looked to be capable and tough. And Bones had no doubts about the women being able to fight right alongside their men. Add Preacher to that list and it made for a group who would stand tough and fight to the bitter end. True, Bones and company had them out-numbered about five to one, but sometimes numbers made little difference when the other men were fighting for their families and for God.

Sir Elmore Jerrold-Taylor had found his slightly bent sword and was waving it around. Zaunbelcher had moved quickly to the other side of the clearing. “Break camp, men!” Elmore shouted. “We follow and attack. To your steeds, men. Hurry.”

No one paid the slightest bit of attention to him. By now the man-hunters had all come to the conclusion this his Lordsip was crazy as a bessie bug, and those with him weren't that far behind. Sir Elmore finally realized that no one was listening to him and walked off to pout.

“Well, we'll follow, for sure,” Bones said. “But before we attack, I want to look this situation over.”

“You mighty right about that,” Van Eaton agreed. “Dirk and them others is no pilgrims. And them gospel-shouter men didn't look like no pushovers to me.”

“I wonder where that damn Preacher is taking them?” Ligue Watson pondered about.

* * *

Preacher was taking the missionaries just as far away from the valley of the man-hunters as he could, driving them hard.

In two and a half days, Preacher had pushed the wagons over thirty miles. A phenomenal feat considering the country in which they were traveling. But there was just no way to hide the trail the wagons left in their wake.

Preacher wasn't too worried about any Indian attack, for the Indians would see he was taking the whites out of their territory, and that basically was what they wanted. But he was moving them out of Ute and Arapaho country and onto the edge of Cheyenne territory. Although Preacher had always gotten along fairly well with the Cheyenne, a body just never knew when a band of young bucks might happen along and take that moment to attack.

“Notional,” Preacher told Otto as they rode side by side. “Injuns is notional people. I reckon I understand 'em 'bout as well as any white man, and I'll be the first to tell you even after all the years I spent out here I don't really know all that much. A man can ride into near'bouts any Indian village and get fed and put up for the night and treated right well. It's when you try to leave that it gets right testy. Don't ask me why they do that, 'cause I just don't know.”

“Because they are savages,” Otto said. “Uneducated, Godless savages.”

“They're uneducated accordin' to the white man's point of view, yeah. Smart as a body can get in their own right. I done told y'all they ain't Godless.”

Dirk rode up. The women were handling the reins to the teams, while the men ranged front and back and to the sides of the tiny train. Dirk had been lagging back about five miles. “No sign of Bones yet, Preacher.”

“They'll be along. But I think I can get us down to the hot springs for a soak 'fore they catch up to us. The ladies is gonna enjoy these springs.”

They sure did, and it was only with the greatest of effort that the men didn't try to sneak a peek at the ladies as they bathed and soaked and squealed and giggled in their birthday suits, splashing and playing in the hot water.

Dirk stuffed rags in his ears and wandered off to read the Bible. Simpson and Jim volunteered to stand watch about a mile from the springs, and Will rode off to see about shooting some game. When the ladies were done the men took turns washing off days of grime and soaking out the kinks and stiffness in weary muscles and joints. Upon their return from the hot waters, Prudence got to battin' her eyes something fierce at Dirk—who was a fine-lookin' man—and swishin' her bottom and sashshayin' about. Dirk got so flustered he walked into a tree and damn near knocked himself goofy. Preacher figured if he could get Dirk and Prudence together and toss a bucket of cold water on them, he'd have enough steam to run one of them big ugly and terrible soundin' locomotives he'd seen back east.

Preacher finally had to take off into the hills to get away from Patience. There was nothing he liked better than a good roll in the blankets with a fine-lookin' filly. But this was neither the time nor the place for a romantic tussle. However, he had learned a few years back that missionary women wasn't no different from other women when the candle got snuffed out and they got cozy. Loud, too. Preacher couldn't hear out the one ear for two days after a night with one particularly fine-lookin' gospel-shouter lady, a few hundred miles west and north of where they was right at the moment.

Preacher moved the pilgrims out the next morning. He'd heard tell of a tradin' post about four days from the springs and though he'd never been there, he decided to make a try for it. The missionaries were sorely in need of supplies. By this time, there were over a hundred and fifty trading posts scattered through the West. In two years trading posts had sprung up all over the place as more and more people were leaving their homes east of the Mississippi and heading west.

“Don't expect no fancy place like y'all seen in St. Louis,” Preacher warned the ladies. “And the men there will likely ogle you gals from toes to nose. White women is scarce out here.”

It was the most disreputable looking place the missionaries had ever seen. But it was a right busy post, doin' business with Indian and white alike. Preacher spoke with a couple of trappers he'd met over the years and knew slightly, then went inside to get a drink of whiskey.

Damned if the first person he spotted when he stepped up to the rough bar was a man who'd swore on his mother's eyes he'd someday kill Preacher.

Mean Pete Smith almost swallowed his chewing tobacco when he looked up and saw Preacher. His mouth dropped open and his eyes bugged out.

“Shut your mouth, Pete,” Preacher told him. “Flies is uncommonly bad this year.”

“You!” Mean Pete hollered.

“In the flesh.”

Mean Pete stood up.

“Take your rough stuff outside,” the owner of the post said. “I'll brook no trouble in here.”

“Shut up,” Mean Pete told him. “Me and this rooster here got things to settle 'tween us.”

“Whiskey,” Preacher told the man behind the planks, doing his best to ignore Mean Pete. “And don't gimmie none with no snake-heads in it.”

The man looked hurt. “I serve only the finest of whiskey, sir.”

“Right,” Preacher said drily. “Aged a full two days at least. Put a jug out here.”

The bar was separated from the mercantile part of the post by a log wall. A brightly colored blanket served as a door.

“You better enjoy that drink, Preacher,” Mean Pete said. “'Cause it's gonna be the last'un you'll have.”

Preacher poured and sipped and grimaced. “I was wrong. This here stuff was aged 'bout one day.”

“Did you hear me?” Mean Pete roared.

“Oh, shut up, Pete,” Preacher told him. “You said the same thing last time we hooked up and I left you on the floor. Now sit down and be quiet.”

Mean Pete wasn't about to sit down and shut up. He had taken an immediate dislike to Preacher years back and challenged him to a fight. Preacher whipped him. For the last twenty or so years, every two or three years Mean Pete would come up on Preacher, challenge him to fight, and Preacher would tear his meat house down.

After gettin' his butt bounced off the floor six or eight times, Preacher figured Mean Pete was about the hard-headedest man he'd ever met. Now here he was again. Only now it seemed like he wanted gunplay. Preacher was tired of gunplay Weary of it. And he didn't want to kill Mean Pete. He turned to face Pete.

Preacher asked, “Pete, where in the world did you ever get the name of Mean Pete?”

“Haw?”

“Your name. Who was the first to call you Mean Pete?”

“I disremember. What's that got to do with anything?”

“I was just curious. 'Cause I ain't never heard of no kick and gouge you ever won. And when them Kiowa come at us down on the Canadian that time all I 'member seeing from you was your big butt runnin' off. So how in the world can you be called Mean Pete?”

“Preacher,” Mean Pete took a step closer, his hands balled into fists, “I just ain't a-gonna stand here and let you insult me. I'm a-fixin' to stomp your ugly face. And then I'm a-gonna shoot you.”

“In that order?”

Mean Pete flushed and took another step. He was a couple of inches taller than Preacher, and maybe twenty five pounds heavier. Neither Preacher nor Mean Pete noticed when the blanket was drawn back and the missionaries all crowded into the opening, staring at the scene before them.

Mean Pete gave a whoop and a holler and jumped at Preacher. Preacher drew back and busted him smack in the face with the full jug of whiskey and Mean Pete hit the boards. Pete didn't even moan. He was cold out.

Preacher turned to the man behind the bar. “If the whiskey had been worth a damn, I wouldn't a-done that. And if you want pay for that snake-head poison, get the money from him.” He pointed to Mean Pete. “Now give me a good jug 'fore you make me mad.”

Patience fanned herself vigorously. “My word!” she whispered to Prudence. “He is such a
forceful
man.”

* * *

Patience and Prudence were awakened that night by Preacher's somewhat drunken singing. It was a ditty he'd learned from a boatman in St. Louis one time and it was about a Scottish lassie named Lou Ann MacGreagor and her red sweater. Seems she filled it out rather well. The ditty seemed harmless enough until Preacher got to the second half of the song. Those verses concerned themselves with Lou Ann's undies ... or as it turned out in the next verse, her lack of them. Just as Preacher got all tuned up to sing a few more verses, each one raunchier than the other, Patience and Prudence immediately began singing hymns, loudly. As Preacher's singing became lustier, the other missionaries quickly joined in Christian voice.

By all accounts, it was a rather odd mixing of tunes. Somehow, between Preacher's bellering and the sweet harmonies of Patience and Prudence and the others, Lou Ann MacGreagor got to the promised land and got all mixed up with the prophets and everybody was girding their loins and dancing naked on the rock of ages with the angels and the meek.

A drunken Arapaho staggered out of the barn, where he'd been imbibing with some friends and joined in, singing in his own tongue about a lost love ... which in this case was his horse.

Preacher woke up the next morning rather confused. He just could not remember ever hearing that ditty sung in quite that manner.

He finally put it off to bad whiskey. But he couldn't understand why Patience and Prudence and Hanna and Jane and Sally were all giving him such dirty looks.

* * *

By noon it appeared that Preacher had been forgiven for his night of drunkenness and people were once more speaking to him, not that it mattered one whit to Preacher whether they spoke or not. His head hurt anyway.

“That loutish fellow back there,” Otto said, riding up beside Preacher. “Mean Pete. Will he be coming after you?”

“Naw,” Preacher said. “He was drunk. He never does remember our fights ... might be 'cause they're so short. The one thing he does remember is that he don't like me.”

“Why?”

“I don't know. He took one look at me years back and decided he didn't like me. We been havin' these head-buttin's ever since. Mean Pete is kind of a strange feller.”

“I'm sure he must have his good points.”

“If he does, he sure keeps 'em hid right well.”

“Where are you taking us, Preacher?”

“Bent's Fort.”

“But, sir ...”

Preacher shook his head. “Otto, you and the others is fine people. Good people, and you mean well. But ain't none of you needs to be out here in the wilderness. Come back in ten years. You want to save souls, practice on whites first, 'cause the Injuns don't want you. I told you the Injuns got their own religion and they're happy with it. You've told me time and again that you want to farm. Fine. Go to Arkansas or Louisiana or East Texas and farm. You and Hanna have kids and be happy. You can find heathens to convert anywhere. This whole country's gonna bust loose in a few years. The Injuns claim all this country as their own. They pretty much put up with us trappers 'cause I reckon we're all more Injun than white after all this time out here and we don't meddle in their affairs.”

“But, sir ...

“Hush up an' listen to me. When we get to the fort, y'all hook up with wagons headin' back east and go. Now, damnit, Otto, you know in your heart and your brain that I'm right.”