“I won’t. You can count on that, Preacher.”
Preacher straightened to his feet and hauled Robinson up, too. “Stay here while I take a look around,” he ordered. “Somethin’ woke me up, and I want to make sure nobody came skulkin’ around and got up to mischief while you were sleepin’.”
“I can come with you—” Robinson began.
“No, do like I said and stay here.”
Preacher left the man there and started cat-footing his way around the wagons, stopping often to listen intently and search the darkness with his keen-eyed gaze. He looked into each wagon and saw nothing except the crates and piles of supplies and trade goods stacked in the wagon beds under arching canvas covers. Some of the drivers were asleep in the wagons, and their snoring told Preacher that nothing had disturbed them.
A frown creased his rugged face as he concluded his search. Nothing seemed to be amiss in the camp. There were no intruders, and as far as Preacher could tell, nothing had been messed with or stolen. And yet something had alerted his instincts and tugged him out of a sound sleep.
He wondered if he had somehow known that Robinson had fallen asleep on guard duty. That possibility seemed mighty far-fetched, but Preacher couldn’t think of anything else.
Shaking his head, he went back to the wagon he had been sleeping under. He crawled onto his blankets and rolled onto his back to stare up at the bottom of the wagon. The night was quiet and untroubled.
Despite that, it was a long time before Preacher dozed off again.
* * *
He was up the next morning by the time the eastern sky had barely begun to turn gray with the approach of dawn. After poking the cook fire back to life, he put the coffeepot on to boil and then went around the camp waking everyone. Jake groaned as he climbed out of a bedroll that he had spread on some boxes in one of the wagons.
“It’s awful damn early,” the boy said.
“Don’t cuss,” Preacher told him.
“Why not? You do.”
“I’m a man full-growed, not a boy. And when I was a boy, I respected my elders and done what they told me to.”
“I thought you said you ran away from the farm where you was raised when you just a couple o’ years older’n me.”
“Yeah, well, up until then I respected my elders anyway.” Preacher gave Jake a little push toward the livestock. “Go tend to them oxen. They’re gonna be hitched up and workin’ hard pretty soon.”
He went back to the fire, and using supplies from the wagons, soon had a big breakfast of flapjacks and bacon cooking. Even in mid-summer like this, the early morning air held a welcome hint of coolness. That, along with the smells of coffee and bacon, invigorated Preacher and made him eager to hit the trail.
Corliss Hart was rubbing sleep out of his eyes as he came stumbling up to the fire a few minutes later. Preacher glanced up at him and said, “If you want to go say so long to that gal o’ yours, you’d better go and do it now.”
“Miss Morrigan and I said our farewells last night,” Corliss replied. A short laugh came from him. “Besides, I wouldn’t dare awaken her this early. My life wouldn’t be worth a plugged nickel if I did. Deborah can be a real harpy when she wants to.”
Jerome came up behind his cousin in time to hear that comment. With a frown, he said, “You shouldn’t talk about her that way, Corliss. Deborah’s always struck me as a very sweet girl.”
Corliss grunted. “You don’t know her as well as I do.”
“No, of course not, but still—”
Corliss turned back to Preacher, ignoring his cousin. “How many miles a day do you think we’ll be able to travel?”
“With heavy wagons like this . . .” Preacher shrugged. “We’ll be doin’ good to make eight or ten miles a day. It’ll be slow goin’.”
“Good Lord, at that pace it’ll take us a month or more to reach the mountains!”
“More probably,” Preacher agreed, “because some days we’ll run into problems and won’t be able to move that fast. But don’t worry. That’ll get us to where we’re goin’ while the weather is still good, and you’ll have a few weeks to get your tradin’ post built before it starts to turn bad. Even then, it’ll be a month or two before winter really sets in. You ought to be set up in good shape by then.”
“But once winter begins . . . ?” Jerome said.
“You won’t be goin’ anywhere,” Preacher replied. “The snow will block the passes, and you wouldn’t want to get caught out on the plains in a blizzard anyway. That happened to me a couple o’ winters ago. It ain’t too pleasant.”
“So it will be next spring before we can get back here to St. Louis,” Corliss said.
“Yeah. Maybe even early summer, dependin’ on how the weather is.”
“It really will be a long time before I see Deborah again then.”
“That’s why I said that if you wanted to go say so long—”
Corliss stopped Preacher by shaking his head firmly. “No. We’ve made our farewells. Seeing her again would just make things worse. She’ll be fine, and so will I.”
“Suit yourself,” Preacher said as he moved bacon around in a big cast-iron frying pan.
The camp was soon filled with the hustle and bustle of preparations as the group made ready to move out. Once the oxen had been given grain and water, they were separated into teams and led out to be hitched to the wagons. The drivers climbed onto the high boxes attached to the front of the vehicles. Using long whips, they got the lumbering beasts to move, and the wagons broke the circle and formed up into a line, one behind the other.
The common practice was for men who drove ox teams like this to walk alongside the massive creatures, lashing them with bullwhips. These bullwhackers, as they were called, could also be counted upon to fill the air with a near-constant stream of colorful profanity. The addition of seats on the wagons so that the bullwhackers could more properly be called drivers was a fairly new innovation. That made it a little easier on the men, although the oxen didn’t really have it any better.
Jake climbed to the seat on the lead wagon, where he perched next to Jerome Hart. Jerome looked down at Preacher, who stood beside the vehicle, and asked, “Where are you going to ride?”
“Not on one o’ these big ol’ wagons, that’s for danged sure,” Preacher replied. “I figure on bein’ out in front. I’ll walk it for now, but we’re gonna be stoppin’ at an Indian village where I left my horse and dog a while back.”
“An Injun village?” Jake repeated. “Does that mean we’re gonna see Injuns?”
Preacher smiled. “You’ll see your fill of ’em before this trip is over, Jake. Once we leave St. Louis, there’s a good chance all the new faces you’ll see for the next month or more will be red.”
Jake looked excited by that thought, and maybe even a little scared. One thing was sure—before this trip was over, the youngster would experience a lot of things that he had never experienced before.
Preacher could only hope that would be a good thing.
He walked along the line of wagons, checking each one of them. Corliss Hart was handling the team on the second wagon. Gil Robinson was on the driver’s seat of the third vehicle. The other teamsters were stocky, sandy-haired Pete Carey, towheaded Swede Lars Neilson, and a scrawny but strong, middle-aged man with a black patch over his left eye, known only as Blackie. He looked sinister, but was actually quite soft-spoken and mild-mannered. . . except when talking to the oxen. Then he could be every bit as loud and profane as the other drivers. Neilson called out to his team in Swedish, so Preacher couldn’t understand the words, but from the tone of them he assumed the Scandahoovian was cussin’ up a storm.
The sun had barely started to peek over the eastern horizon when Preacher waved the wagons forward. The popping of whips and the yelling of the bullwhackers filled the air. With wheels creaking, the wagons lurched into motion. They rolled forward. Even on foot, Preacher had no trouble staying ahead of them. He strode out some fifty yards in fr
ont, calling back over his shoulder to Jerome, “Follow me!”
They headed due west from the settlement, guided by Preacher’s near-infallible sense of direction. He knew that by late that afternoon or early the next day, they would reach the Missouri River, which made a great curve west of St. Louis, arcing up to join with the Mississippi north of the town.
Once they hit the Big Muddy, they would follow the stream across the state of Missouri to the settlements of Independence and Westport, which served as jumping-off points for the Santa Fe Trail. From there, instead of angling southwest toward the Mexican territories, Preacher intended to head northwest. That was the route people were talking about most often when they discussed the seemingly inevitable wave of immigration that was bound to happen soon.
Folks back east wanted to travel overland to the rich Pacific Northwest country, and to do that they would have to follow trails that had been used for the past two decades by mountain men and fur traders. A few missionaries had taken wagons through that way already, making it through the Rockies by way of South Pass, but it remained to be seen whether the big prairie schooners could make such a trip on a regular basis.
If they could, then a trading post established in the vicinity of South Pass could prove quite lucrative. That was where Preacher was aiming for with the Hart expedition. It had been tried before, many years earlier, when a trading post and a tiny settlement called New Hope had sprung up in that area, but illness and Indian troubles had eventually wiped it out. Corliss and Jerome might have better luck now.
The terrain west of St. Louis was flat for the most part, with only occasional stretches of gently rolling hills. For that reason, the wagons were able to move along at a fairly rapid rate. The oxen would go only so fast, though, no matter how loud the drivers yelled or how often they used their whips. Plodding was in an ox’s nature, and there was nothing that could be done about that. Mules would have been faster, but if you used mule teams, you had to take along grain for them. They couldn’t survive just by grazing on the grass along the way, as oxen could. It was a trade—a somewhat slower speed in return for more room to carry cargo that could be sold for a profit, instead of grain that would just be eaten by the mules.
Preacher was tireless as he walked in front of the wagons. He called a halt from time to time to let the livestock rest and graze, but mostly they kept moving.
During one of the breaks, Jake commented, “There sure ain’t much to see out here, is there? Just grass and a few trees. How far is it to the mountains?”
“We won’t be seein’ mountains for a long time yet, and if you think there ain’t much to see here, wait until we get to the real prairie,” Preacher told him. “There ain’t even any trees out there.”
“But we will get to the mountains, won’t we?”
Preacher chuckled. “If we keep goin’ long enough, we will. They’re out there, I can promise you that.”
They resumed the journey, pushing on throughout the day as the sun traveled from east to west. It was lowering itself below the western horizon, turning the sky incredible shades of orange and pink and purple, when Preacher dropped back to the lead wagon, pointed to several tendrils of smoke rising ahead of them, and told Jerome and Jake, “That’s where we’re stoppin’ tonight, the village of an old friend o’ mine, Red Horse.”
“Injuns?” Jake asked, his face lighting up with anticipation.
Preacher nodded and said, “Injuns.”
Twelve
The Missouri were a small tribe, numbering no more than five hundred people. Approximately half of them lived in this village and were led by Chief Red Horse. Their lodges were spread out along the southern bank of the Missouri River as it swept past in its big, graceful curve. Dogs ran yapping from the village to greet the visitors, followed by a large group of curious children.
One dog in particular hung back from the pack of mongrels, padding along toward the wagons in deliberate fashion rather than running ahead. Huge, shaggy, and gray, the animal resembled a timber wolf as much as it did a dog. Preacher grinned when he saw the big wolflike cur coming toward him. He whistled, and only then did the dog break into a trot. That trot turned into an eager run after all, and by the time the massive beast reached Preacher, it was moving fast. The dog slowed down at the last minute, reared up, and rested its forepaws on Preacher’s shoulders. Its tongue lolled from its mouth in a happy grin.
Preacher buried his fingers in the thick fur behind the dog’s ears and wrestled playfully with the animal. As the lead wagon came up beside them, Jake called in a worried voice, “Is that wolf tryin’ to eat you, Preacher?”
“He ain’t a wolf,” Preacher replied. “Just looks a mite like one. This here is Dog. Him and me been trail partners for a long time.”
“Is that the only name he has, just Dog?”
“That’s enough, ain’t it?”
“Yeah, I reckon,” Jake said. As Jerome Hart hauled back on the reins and brought the wagon to a halt, the boy clambered down over the tall wheel and dropped to the ground. “Can I pet him?”
Preacher took Dog’s paws off his shoulders and lowered the big cur to the ground. “This is Jake,” he said to Dog. “He’s a friend.” To Jake he added, “Stick your hand out so’s he can sniff it. Don’t do it too fast, though. You don’t want to spook any animal, especially Dog.”
Jake looked a little nervous as he extended his hand. Dog snuffled around it, then commenced to waving his bushy tail. Jake grinned.
“He likes me!”
“Appears that he does,” Preacher said as Dog licked Jake’s hand. “Dog’s always been a good judge o’ character, so I reckon it speaks well o’ you that he likes you.”
“Uh, Preacher,” Jerome said in a worried tone from the wagon seat, “do we need to be concerned about those Indians who are approaching?”
Preacher glanced up and saw a party of warriors striding toward the wagon train, led by the tall, erect figure of their chief, Red Horse. Preacher smiled and told Jerome, “Nope, they ain’t hostile. They’re good friends o’ mine, in fact.”
He told Dog to stay by the wagon with Jake, then walked out to meet the welcoming party. With solemn expressions on their faces, he and Red Horse clasped wrists. Then hints of smiles appeared as they pounded each other on the back.
“You have returned to our village, Preacher,” Red Horse said, “just as you promised you would.”
“Never doubted me, did you?”
“Not hardly,” the chief replied, using an expression he had picked up from the mountain man.
“I left my canoe in St. Louis,” Preacher went on. “You can pick it up at Ford Fargo’s place next time you go down there to trade with the white men and hang on to it for me until I come through this way again. I meant to paddle back up here when I left the settlement, but I wound up comin’ with these folks instead.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the wagons and the white men perched on the driver’s seats.
Red Horse nodded. “Ford Fargo is an honest man. That is fine.”
Preacher had had a good spring with his traps, and the load of pelts he’d gathered had been too big for a packhorse. So instead of transporting them that way, he had built the canoe, loaded the furs in it, and paddled down several smaller streams that eventually merged with each other and then the Missouri River.
Dog had traveled with him in the sleek craft, sitting on the pelts, and Preacher’s saddle mount, a rangy stallion known only as Horse, had kept pace with him on shore. The two animals were probably the closest friends Preacher had. When he reached the village of Red Horse’s people, he had left both Dog and Horse here so that the Indians could care for them while he followed the river on to St. Louis. Even though he’d been gone less than a week, Dog had been glad to see him, and he knew that Horse would be, too.
Corliss jumped down from his wagon and walked forward, past the lead wagon, to join Preacher. The fancy clothes that the man had worn that first day Preacher met him in the cemetery had been
replaced by high-topped boots, whipcord trousers, a work shirt, and a leather vest. A broad-brimmed hat was tilted back rakishly on his thick dark hair. He said to Preacher, “Are you sure it’s a good idea, making camp here so close to these savages?”
Preacher saw Red Horse stiffen. So did some of the other warriors. Preacher turned to Corliss and snapped, “Most o’ these so-called savages you’re referrin’ to speak our tongue, mister, and they’re more civilized than half the folks in St. Louis.”
“Civilized?” Corliss repeated. “But they live in those . . . those . . . whatever you call them.” He waved a hand toward the lodges of the Missouri.
“Where you live don’t have anything to do with how you treat folks. And Red Horse and the Missouri are good friends o’ mine.” Preacher’s eyes narrowed. “You’d do well to remember that.”
“All right, all right, I meant no offense,” Corliss muttered. “I just don’t want anything happening to our trade goods.”
“They’re a heap safer here than they were when the wagons were parked there on the edge of the settlement. Some Indians like to steal horses from each other, but it’s more of a game than outright thievery. They’re some o’ the most honest folks you’ll ever meet.”
“Well . . . that’s good.” Corliss looked at Red Horse. “My apologies, Chief.”
From the lead wagon, Jerome called, “Corliss, why don’t you get back on your wagon? We need to get them formed in a circle before night falls. Isn’t that right, Preacher?”
Preacher didn’t think they would be in any real danger here at the Missouri village, but circling the wagons would be good practice, just as it had been back in St. Louis. He lifted a hand over his head, made a revolving motion with it, and called, “Yeah, circle ’em up!”
Preacher's Showdown Page 10
