Forty Guns West (24 page)

The man sat in his saddle in silence for a time. He slowly nodded his head. “Yes, you're right, Preacher.” He smiled. “But it has been a grand adventure.”

“Tell your grandkids about it. Write a book about it. And think kind thoughts of me.”

“Patience will be disappointed. She, ah, likes you, Preacher.”

“She'll get over it. She'll find her some fine Christian man and get hitched up and I'll be just a fadin' memory in her mind. Now go tell the others what we're doin', Otto.”

Patience and Prudence both let out a howl at the news, but they soon settled down as Otto convinced them that they could better serve their church in a more civilized area. Now all Preacher had to worry about was getting the pilgrims to safety. He knew a place about two days away where mountain men tended to gather for a ride to Bent's Fort. If he could reach them before Bones and his bunch caught up with them, the missionaries would be safe, for Bones and his man-hunters would never attack a dozen or so mountain men. If they were foolish enough to do that, it would be the last time they ever attacked anyone.

Preacher's luck held and two days later, a few hours before dusk, he led the wagons into the encampment of mountain men.

“Wagh!” a huge bear of a man shouted, rising from the ground upon spotting Preacher. “It's Preacher, boys. With a whole passel of pilgrims.”

“That's the man who told us you were a man of the cloth, Preacher,” Otto said.

“Horsehide!” Preacher hollered. “You big ugly moose! Ho, Papa Griz. I brung you boys salvation. God knows you heathens need some.”

“We was ridin' for the mountains to lend you a hand, Preacher,” a man called.

“Hell, I don't need no help. But I'd like to prevail upon you boys to help these fine folks I got with me.”

The mountain men took one look at Patience and Prudence and Preacher knew his worries were over. The missionaries would be safe. Preacher would resupply from his friends and then head back to confront and once and for all close the book on Bones and his man-hunters. Preacher wasn't lookin' forward to it, but it was something that had to be done. He sat down by the fire and stretched his legs out with a contented sigh. Most of the wild and woolly and uncurried mountain men were gathered around the missionaries, unhookin' the teams, helping the ladies down from the seats and ogling Patience and Prudence, hopin' to catch a glimpse of a nicely shaped ankle. These men were as wild as the wind and just about as hard to handle, but they could be as protective as a mamma bear with her cubs.

Preacher took the cup of coffee handed him. “Word from the Injuns we've talked to is you've raised unholy hell with them ol' boys a-huntin' you, Preacher,” a man known as De Quille said.

“Yeah? Well, I'm a-fixed to raise me some more hell with them.”

“You want a couple of us to ride along with you?”

Preacher shook his head. “Naw. There ain't but about thirty or forty of 'em.”

De Quille smiled. “Seems to me there was two bunches of about forty each started out after you, Preacher.”

“I been whittlin' 'em down some.”

“Do tell? I got news, Preacher. Them warrants on you has been lifted. There ain't no charges against you. It's all personal or both sidesnow, ain't it?”

Preacher looked at him and his eyes told the whole story. De Quille nodded his head. “That's what I figured,” he said.

11

The next morning, Patience and Prudence held a short service before they pulled out. It was a strange, yet wonderful and moving scene. The rough and wild-looking mountain men standing with heads uncovered and bowed while the ladies sang sweetly and Otto said a short prayer. Fifteen minutes later, after the goodbyes, the wagons were rolling eastward.

Preacher sat by the fire, deep in thought, and finished the pot of coffee. He was trying to figure out a way to tell the men with Bones and those silly foreigners that all warrants against him had been lifted and if they killed him now, it would be murder. Then he wondered if that news would make any difference. Probably not, but he was going to try. Providing he could do so without getting his head shot off. One way or the other, he was going to end this man-hunt. If he could do it without spilling another drop that would be wonderful. But he had strong doubts. Like De Quille had said, and no matter how many excuses Preacher made, this was personal now.

Preacher made certain the fire was out, then he packed up and swung into the saddle. Might as well get this over with.

* * *

Bones and party had no knowledge of any trading post any closer than Bent's Fort, so they were riding straight south while Preacher was heading straight north. All of them heading straight toward canyon country. The only difference was, Bones and his bunch got lost in the maze of twists and turns and blind canyons. Preacher did not.

Preacher looped around the tortured maze of canyons, thinking even Bones would have more sense than to get all tangled up in there. He had stopped north of the canyons to rest and water his horse when the smell of death touched his nostrils ... that sickly stench that he knew so well.

Preacher made no immediate move. Whatever it was out there was dead, and hurryin' wouldn't bring it—or them—back to life. And Preacher had him a hunch it was dead human bodies. Or what was left of them after the buzzards had feasted.

Preacher led Thunder, following the sink of death until he came to the scene. He ran around the scattered and torn-apart bodies, knockin' buzzards away until they finally got it into their pea-brains they were not welcome. It was something they were accustomed to, so they waddled off and waited with the patience of millions of years bred into them.

Preacher steeled himself and began trying to put body parts to the right body. What the buzzards hadn't worked on during the day, the critters had dined on at night. It was not a pretty sight; but one the mountain man had seen many times before. Buzzards will usually go for the belly, pullin' all the guts and soft organs out, the kidneys, and the eyes and mouth—diggin' for the tongue—first. Then they attack the rest of the body.

After a time, during which Preacher had to finally puke and get it over with, he finally concluded it had been a party of ten to twelve men, maybe as many as fifteen. And from the tracks, they'd each had them a pack horse or two. There was no sign of arrow or tomahawk, the men had not been scalped, so Preacher ruled out Indians. This was white man's work, and he had him a pretty good idea who'd done it. Bones and the scum with him. The men had been trappers, judging from what was left of their clothing. Their weapons and powder had been taken, along with their horses and all the supplies.

Preacher picketed Thunder and went prowling on foot until he found some sign. He recognized some of the hoofprints as horses being rode by Bones' bunch. He smiled. The fools was headin' straight into the maze. Odds were good they'd get lost, finally figure things out, and head right back this way. He would be waiting.

The bodies were, best as he could figure, 'bout two or three days old. He dragged the bodies and body parts into a natural ditch and worked the rest of the day covering them with rocks. Then he found a pointy rock and scratched into a huge boulder:

Preacher mounted up and rode for a couple of miles, then picketed Thunder on grass and took himself a long bath in a cold creek, usin' some soap that Hanna had given him. The soap was so strong it stung like the devil when he got it in his eyes, but it washed away the stink of the dead and got rid of a few fleas too, he was sure.

Dressed out in clothes that Frank and Paul had given him—he was airin' out his buckskins—Preacher put water on to boil and then tried to relax. He just didn't have an appetite at all for food—not yet anyways. The longer he sat and drank the hot, black, strong coffee and thought and brooded about the men he'd pieced together and then buried, the madder he got. He'd make a bet that he'd known some of those fellers. But the bodies had been so tore up there had been no way to tell. Those men had been ambushed, murdered, and then robbed of everything they had, right down to their britches and boots and jackets. They even took rings and amulets and such. Several of the men were missing fingers that had been hacked off.

Then, all of a sudden, it got real personal for Preacher. That body back yonder with no thumb on his left hand. Preacher had been with him when a Pawnee tomahawk had taken it off. Jon LeDoux was his name. And Jon had saved Preacher's bacon one time, too. Preacher's face tightened. Yeah. Up on Crow Crick, it had been. If it hadn't been for Jon, Preacher's bones would be rottin' under the ground. And Jon was never far from Ol' Burley Movant. Yeah. Bodies began to take shape now as Preacher could put missing fingers and scars and hair to faces. One of them back yonder had been Bill Swain, he was sure of it. And Bobby Gaudet had been a friend of Bill Swain. They'd all been down to the post to resupply and were headin' back into the Lonesome for the autumn season. Sure. That's why the wooden castoreum bottles had been left behind. Them ambushin' filth hadn't known what it was. Probably one of them uncorked a jug and seen how bad it smelled and left it. The grisly picture was beginning to take shape in Preacher's mind, and it was not a pretty one.

Now Preacher could, with almost dead accuracy, name every one of the men who'd been ambushed. He dug out a scrap of paper and a pencil and began writing down the names. Most of the men back yonder had kin, and they'd have to be notified. John Day had an Injun for a wife, but Preacher didn't have any idea where they'd chose to cabin in for the winter. Sam Curtis, on the other hand, didn't have anybody. He'd been an orphan when he ran off from the home and come west. Same with Onie. Preacher didn't even know Onie's last name or even if he had one. The others in the ambushed party would just have to lie in peace unknown, for Preacher couldn't put names to them.

But he could avenge them. And to hell with giving them murderin' ambushers any more chances.

* * *

“I found a way out,”Jackson said, stepping down from the saddle and gratefully taking the offered canteen and drinking deeply. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “But when we leave, stay bunched up; don't wander off. It's a twisted mess.”

Actually, it wasn't that bad. It was just that these eastern men had never seen anything like the tortured and rocky canyons and it panicked them.

“Good work, Jackson,” Bones said. “Get some rest. We'll pull out at first light.”

“Preacher?” Van Eaton asked.

“God only knows where he is and what he's doing.”

* * *

Preacher was waiting and watching about five miles inside the entrance to the canyons. He could see Jackson winding his way through the maze, lost as a goose and had been amused by the man's uncertain actions. Preacher had always found his part of the country rather pleasing; but it could be a mite hard on a man if he didn't know his way around.

While Bones and his party were resting that late afternoon, Preacher dislodged a few good-sized boulders and blocked the trail that Jackson had so carefully marked out with loads of rocks and dirt. He returned to his camp and fixed his supper, working with a cold and savage smile on his lips. Tomorrow should turn out to be right interesting, Preacher thought to himself.

* * *

“I thought you said this way was clear?” Lige asked Jackson, a surly expression on his unshaven face.

“It was, yesterday,” Jackson replied. “Rock slides happen.”

“Now what?” Bones asked.

“We either dig through all that piled up crap or take that other way through I told you about,” Jackson said.

Those were the last words he ever spoke. Preacher's rifle boomed and the ball struck Jackson squarely in the center of his chest. He toppled off his horse and landed heavily on the sand.

Panic erupted on the canyon floor. Dozens of hooves churned up so much dust it blanketed the area like a thick, dirty fog. None of the man-hunters gave even a second thought to Jackson; not pausing long enough to see if he was dead or wounded. They just spurred their horses and ran for cover.

Preacher knew a dozen other ways out of the canyons, easier ways, for the area in which Bones thought he was trapped was really not that large. It just seemed that way to a man who was lost.

Preacher knew he was safe on the rim of the canyon. The sides were high and straight up. From where he sat, several hundred feet up, he could see two ways to leave this particular series of canyons. But he doubted those below would ever find them in time. He waited until the dust settled and the canyons were as silent as Jackson, sprawled on the sands.

“Bones,” Preacher called. “I found them trappers you and your scum killed back yonder.” He waited for denial. None came. “Some of them boys was friends of mine. And the worst one of them was worth more than the whole bunch of you. I been fightin' with my mind for days, tryin' to figure out if I should just go on and lose you crappy bunch of fools. Them you ambushed back yonder made up my mind. I can't let you people get back to civilization and kill more decent folks. I can't have nothin' like that on my conscience for the rest of my life. So y'all know what that means.”

Preacher didn't expect any reply, and none came. “I just thought I'd let you know where you all stood,” he called, then he began shifting locations, working his way around the edge of the rim, coming up, he hoped, behind Bones and his bunch.

“I warned you all repeatedly that we should have given those men a proper burial,” Steinwinder chided all within the sound of his voice.

“Aw, shut up!” Sutton told him. “I'm tared of you and that flappin' mouth of yourn. Hell's far, boy. You was the one who wanted to scalp some of 'em.”

He never got to say another word. Preacher's rifle boomed and Sutton took the ball through his head. He slumped against the now blood splattered, gray wall of the canyon.

“What a disgusting sight!” Steinwinder said, as he quickly moved to a more secure position, away from Sutton.

Preacher fired his second rifle and the big ball just missed Steinwinder's head, throwing sand in the man's eyes, and blinding him momentarily.

“I've been gravely wounded!” the Austrian hollered, stumbling to his feet. “Help me. I've been blinded.”

Jon Louviere jerked him down and bathed his eyes with water.

Preacher was moving quickly, again angling for a better position. But the men had moved into the shadows of the canyon walls, and they were very difficult to spot. Preacher was all through playing games with the man-hunters. He wasn't interested in shots that only wounded. He wanted an end to this. And he hadn't been joking with Bones this time. Preacher was mad to the bone.

“We're trapped in here, Bones,” Evans said. “Preacher'll just lay up yonder and pick us off one at a time.”

“Maybe not. Jackson told me he'd found two ways out and marked both of them. Horace, you snake outta here and find that other pass.”

“I'm gone,” the man said, and began crawling out, staying in the shadows.

Up on the rim, Preacher passed up several shots that would have broken a leg or ankle or arm. He looked up at the sun. Nine o'clock, he guessed accurately. He had plenty of time.

Horace Haywood found the other exit, but it was narrow and dark and twisting and he didn't like the looks of it. But he liked it better than facing Preacher's shooting. He edged his way back to Bones.

“It's there, all right. But it ain't gonna be easy.”

“Nothing has been on this trip,” Bones said wearily. “Water the horses several times today. All that we can spare. Keep them fresh and in that pocket back yonder. Strip the saddles from them and rub them down good. Then tie down anything that'll rattle or make any kind of noise. That'll keep the boys busy for a time. And stay in the shadows and out of sight. Come full dark, we'll slip outta here.”

Some of them wouldn't.

Flores mistook a round rock for Preacher's head. He slipped out of the shadows and lifted his rifle to his shoulder. Preacher's rifle sang its hot, smoky song and Flores was slammed back against the side of the canyon wall. “Mother of God,” he whispered. “I am truly going to die in this horrible place.”

“One place is as good as another,” Prince Juan Zapata said, the Spanish penchant for fatalism surfacing at last in the man. “You are Catholic?”

“Si.”

“I will pray for you.”

“Gracias, amigo.”

Zapata's dark, cold, and cruel eyes looked at the man. “Amigo?” He chuckled at the familiar usage from a man far beneath his royal class. “Well, why not? You know, Flores, up there on that rim is a better man than all of us.”

“I know,” Flores whispered, both hands holding his bloody stomach. “But we found out too late. Que hombre.”

“Yes, he is. What a grand adventure this was going to be. Some adventure, right, Flores?”