Preacher's Journey (4 page)

Read Preacher's Journey Online

Authors: William W. Johnstone

BOOK: Preacher's Journey
2.01Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
SIX
The snow that Preacher thought he had smelled the day before never materialized. He remained convinced, however, that winter was still on the verge of busting wide open. The only question was when that would happen.
The night passed peacefully. Peter Galloway grumbled some more about being waked up to stand guard, but he did his part, taking one side of the camp while his uncle Geoffrey took the other. Roger and Jonathan took the next shift, and by the time that was over, Preacher was up and about again and stood guard while everyone else got a little more sleep. Since he was up anyway, he started breakfast cooking, frying some bacon and then using the grease to help make some johnnycakes. The coffee was perking and bubbling cheerfully when Angela climbed down out of the wagon and came toward him, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes.
“Cooking is my job,” she said as she walked up to the fire.
“And good mornin' to you too,” Preacher said.
She laughed. “I'm sorry. I guess I'm just not really awake yet. Usually I'm more polite. Thank you for preparing breakfast.”
“I figure you got enough jobs around here right now, what with midwifery and all.”
And putting up with that jackass of a husband,
Preacher added to himself. He poured coffee in a cup and handed it up to her. “Here you go.”
She took the cup and sipped gratefully from it as she sank down on a nearby log. “That's good,” she said. “Not quite as strong as I usually make it, but still good.”
“Out here you got to stretch things and make your supplies last as long as you can. Ain't like back East where you can just walk down the street to a store and buy more of just about anything. It's usually a hundred miles or more to the nearest tradin' post.”
She smiled at him. “You know everything there is to know about living on the frontier, don't you, Preacher?”
“Not hardly. A man who don't learn something new every day is a man who just ain't payin' attention. And that's true no matter where you are, not just on the frontier.”
“Have you learned anything so far today?”
Just that you're mighty pretty, even early in the mornin'like this, with your hair still a mite tangled and your face all soft . . .
Preacher clenched his jaw and clamped down on his thoughts. That there was a married woman and he had no right to be thinking such things . . . no matter if her husband
was
an ass.
“No, I reckon I'll have to keep on lookin'. But I'll learn something before the day's over. You can count on that.” He used his knife to turn the johnnycakes as they sizzled in the pan.
“Were you born out here?” she asked abruptly.
“No. My family lived back in Ohio. Still does, I reckon. I ain't seen 'em since I was twelve.”
“You left home when you were that young?” She sounded astonished.
“Way I saw it, a twelve-year-old boy was next thing to a man. I had to do my growin' up sorta quicklike, but I managed. Worked for a spell on a keelboat.”
And fought river pirates alongside Pete Harding, the man who had become his friend and mentor. Captain Harding, once the war with the British started. He had commanded the company in which Preacher found himself. Unfortunately, Harding hadn't survived the war. That had left Art, as he was called then, to carry out alone their plan to come west to the Rockies.
Angela Galloway didn't want to hear about all that, though, he told himself. The lady was just making polite conversation, that was all.
“Grab a plate and get you some o' this bacon and johnnycake,” he said gruffly. “Time I was roustin' out the rest of the bunch. We got to do a heap o' travelin' today.”
The kids were the easiest to rouse. Being young, they popped up out of their bedrolls in the wagons, bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, and ready to face the new day. That was a heap better than being bright-tailed and bushy-eyed, Preacher thought with a grin.
Getting the adults started was more difficult. Clearly, they were accustomed to laying abed until the sun was well up. Roger didn't complain much, but Peter did, as usual, and Geoffrey and Jonathan were dragging too. Simon Galloway seemed to be hungover, and looked as if he felt utterly miserable.
Preacher didn't feel any sympathy for the man. He liked a drink of whiskey every now and then, and he had even been drunk a few times in his life, mostly when he was younger and not accustomed to handling liquor. But in Preacher's opinion, a man who spent most of his time in a jug was just hiding out from the world, and Preacher wasn't the hidin' sort.
After everyone had eaten, the men got to work hitching up the mule teams to the wagons. Preacher saddled his dun. As he led the horse over to the wagons, he saw Angela climbing out the back of the one where Dorothy was resting. “How's the other Mrs. Galloway this mornin'?” he asked.
“She spent a fairly restful night,” Angela said as she moved away from the wagon. She cast a worried glance back at the vehicle. “She's weak, though. This confinement has been hard on her. If the baby isn't born soon, I'm not sure that Dorothy will be strong enough to handle the delivery.”
Preacher couldn't help but frown in disapproval. “Sounds to me like she ain't got no business bein' way out here in the middle o' nowhere.”
“No, she doesn't,” Angela agreed, keeping her voice pitched quietly so that none of the others would overhear. “But Roger and Peter were insistent that we start on in spite of everything. It was so late in the year when we reached St. Louis, I was sure we would spend the winter there and start west next spring.”
“That's what you should have done. Where are you folks from anyway?”
“Philadelphia.” Angela smiled. “I wouldn't mind being back there right now either.”
Not Preacher. He had heard about those eastern cities like Philadelphia and New York and Boston. They were huge, larger even than St. Louis, and St. Louis was plenty big for him. Big enough so he felt a mite crowded every time he visited there. When there were too many people around, Preacher just couldn't seem to breathe right, like there wasn't enough air to go around. That was crazy, of course, and he knew it, but he felt like that anyway.
When the mules were hitched up and the wagons turned around so that they pointed east instead of west, Preacher went from wagon to wagon, checking to make certain the men had loaded pistols close at hand in case of trouble. “Your wagon will lead off,” he told Jonathan Galloway.
“I've been leading,” Roger objected.
“You got a lady in a delicate condition ridin' with you,” Preacher pointed out. “I want a wagon in front of you and a wagon in back of you, for extra protection. Peter, you'll be third in line, and Geoffrey, you'll bring up the rear.”
“Fine with me,” Geoffrey said with a smile. Peter nodded his agreement, not seeming to care where in line his wagon traveled.
Preacher would take the point, but he would also have to cover their back trail since he was the only one with a saddle horse. He would scout out the best route, get the wagons started on it, then fall back for a spell to watch behind them. Then he could gallop back to the front and make sure everything was all right there. He was going to be busy, riding back and forth like that, but he couldn't see any other way to do it.
He called Nate, Mary, and Brad aside just before the wagon train was ready to leave and told them, “I'm countin' on you kids to help out and not cause any trouble. You do what your folks tell you, and don't give 'em no sass. Stay in the wagons, and when we're stopped, don't wander off. You need to stick mighty close to the grown-ups. You understand?”
All three of the young'uns nodded gravely. Preacher knew that even though they liked him and were fascinated by him, they were a little scared of him too. So much the better, he thought. They were more likely to mind him that way. Kids who weren't a little afraid of their elders usually turned out to be little hellions, and a lot of the time they grew up to be pretty sorry adults too.
Preacher took the dun's reins and swung up into the saddle. Everyone who wasn't already on one of the wagons climbed aboard. Preacher walked the horse to the head of the line and waved an arm over his head. He didn't call out “Wagons ho!” or any such silliness. He just motioned for them to follow him and headed east.
The sun was up, though it wasn't doing much to warm the chilly air, and the sky was a deep blue, dotted with puffs of white clouds. A light breeze blew out of the north. It was a pleasant morning, especially for this time of year on the fringes of the high country.
But as Preacher led the wagons along the creek, the wind began to blow harder, and the temperature, instead of rising as the sun climbed higher in the sky, started to drop. Preacher looked to the north, saw the grayish-blue bank of clouds lying close to the horizon, and bit back a curse. He knew the clouds meant they were in for trouble. The only question was whether or not the storm that was on the way would be the first of the season's full-fledged blizzards, or just another teaser that would drop only a powdery dusting of white snow.
Time would tell, Preacher thought. Probably before the day was over, in fact . . .
By noon, most of the blue sky had been gobbled up by the onrushing clouds. The heavens were gray and ominous now, and when Preacher rode alongside the wagons, he saw that the men on the driver's seats were all huddled in thick coats, with their hats pulled down tightly on their heads. The two women and the kids were all inside the vehicles. Preacher hoped they were wrapped up good in blankets and quilts.
“Is it going to get much worse?” Roger called to him.
Preacher turned the dun so that he was riding alongside Roger's wagon. “Yeah, it'll get worse,” he replied. “I don't know how much worse, though. Right now it's just cold, so we'll keep movin'.”
“We could stop and build a fire,” Roger suggested.
Preacher shook his head. “Keep 'em movin',” he said curtly.
Roger seemed to have forgotten that they had more to worry about than just the weather. There was still the little matter of that Arikara war party. So far today, in his ranging back and forth, ahead of and behind the wagon train, Preacher hadn't seen any sign of Indians, hostile or otherwise. But his gut told him they were still around somewhere.
And if the 'Rees were holding some sort of grudge against these white pilgrims, for reasons that the Galloways didn't want to admit, they wouldn't give up their vengeance quest just because a storm was blowing in. Now there would be even more of a blood debt to settle because of the six warriors who had died in battle the day before. True, Preacher and Dog had killed them, not any of these immigrants, but the other members of the war party wouldn't know that.
Assuming there
was
a war party, Preacher reminded himself. He still didn't know that for sure. He wasn't going to argue overmuch with his instincts, though. They had kept him alive this long, so they had to be right more often than not.
The creek turned and angled northeastward, but Preacher kept the wagons moving almost due east. Their water barrels were full, so they didn't have to worry about running out of water any time soon. Not only that, but there were other streams up ahead where they could refill the barrels if they needed to. Inexperienced travelers might have to follow a creek or a river to get to where they were going out here, but Preacher didn't need that. He could strike out across country and his internal compass would keep him going in the right direction.
They stopped for a short time in early afternoon to rest the mules and eat a cold meal from the leftovers of breakfast. Preacher sought out Angela and asked, “How are you holdin' up, ma'am?”
She had a scarf wrapped tightly around her head so that only a single strand of honey-colored hair escaped, and she was bundled up with a blanket around her shoulders in addition to her coat. She summoned a weak smile and said, “I'm fine, Preacher. Cold, of course, but we all are.”
“What about your sister-in-law?” This would be a hell of a time for Dorothy Galloway to go into labor again, for real this time, but Preacher knew it was sort of inevitable.
“She's all right.” Preacher sensed that Angela wanted to say more, so he stood there in silence for a moment. Hesitantly, Angela went on. “She was a bit out of her head for a while. She seemed to think we were back in Philadelphia. She asked me to build up the fire in the stove. Then she said some things . . . well, they made even less sense than that.”
Preacher frowned. Having a pregnant woman to deal with had the potential for enough trouble by itself; having a
crazy
pregnant woman on his hands could be even worse.
“Keep an eye on her,” he said to Angela. “I know in her condition she probably couldn't get out of the wagon very easy, but we sure don't want her runnin' off and gettin' lost, or anything like that.”
“Don't worry,” Angela assured him. “Someone will be with her at all times. Peter brought her something to eat just now.”

Other books

Capture The Wind by Brown, Virginia
Brent's Law by Ylette Pearson
Honey Harlot by Christianna Brand
Aftermath by Casey Hill
Sacrifice by Sharon Bolton
Red Rose by J. C. Hulsey
Los Angeles Stories by Ry Cooder
The Hours of the Dragon by Robert E. Howard