Art looked at Walker with surprise. “What did you say?”
“I called you Preacher. That’s what the Indians are saying. I just did some business with an Arikara scout who told me all about it—all about your captivity by the Blackfeet. I told you they were savages.”
“They actually treated me pretty good, all things considered.” Art scratched his beard. He wanted to shave and to clean himself up. He couldn’t believe that Walker had already heard of his experience with the Blackfeet. “What else are they saying about me?”
“Well,” Walker said, “there is something about a fight with a grizzly bear. Seems you won but came out the worse for wear.”
“Pretty near killed me,” Art admitted. “She was a big mother bear with a bunch of cubs. I didn’t mean to bother her.”
“She couldn’t have known that, I suppose. So your men left you behind, wounded?”
“They did what they had to do. I would have done the same if it was one of them.”
“And where are you going now?”
“I’m looking for my party. You remember them from when we came here in August. They been throug here?”
“Haven’t seen them, but word is they’re headed back to St. Louis. They don’t have much by way of pelts.”
“What?”
“Don’t know why, but they were seen moving east just a few days ago. Probably they’ll head down toward the Platte for resupply, maybe do a little trading, then head on down the Missouri to St. Louis. I’ve dispatched a message to Mr. Ashley to tell him to expect them. Didn’t know about you, though. I’ll write him a letter to tell him I have met with you.” Walker puffed on his cigar. “And that you have a new name,” he added.
Art said, “I will tell him myself what happened to me and to our expedition. Not sure what he will think about all this.”
“Well, I hear Mr. Ashley is a reasonable man.”
“I like him and respect him.”
“I wish you good luck, sincerely. And I know you’ll be back out here. You’ve never been a city man. You belong out in the mountains and the high plains, with men like me. That’s who you are now, son.”
“Well, I’ve got to keep moving. I’m going to try to catch up with my men. If I move fast I can do it.”
“I have no doubt you will, Preacher. No doubt at all.”
* * *
Jennie had made a decision. She was going to go back. Maybe not all the way to St. Louis, but she was going to take her girls out of this primitive place and back into something that resembled civilization. The settlement on the Kansas and Missouri Rivers, called Westport or Kansas City, just beyond Independence, might be a place to settle. But it was hopeless out here, even though she had come to like the few bedraggled men who were trying to make a go of the little settlement.
It was getting close on to winter, so it was time to move. She told Ben and Carla Thomas and the other girls about her decision.
“I want you to pack up all your belongings and be ready to leave first thing in the morning,” she said.
Then she told the men of the settlement. They couldn’t believe their ears. They were sad because they had come to like her and her girls. It was beyond their wildest dreams that Jennie and the girls from the House of Flowers had come to their little village in the first place. What would they do without her when she was gone?
“You’ll be fine,” she assured them. “I’ll miss you too.”
But she wasted no time in gathering her girls, reloading the wagon, and ordering Ben to drive—east this time. First she would return to the trading settlement at the junction of the Missouri and Platte Rivers, and from there decide which direction to head next.
It took two days of hard overland travel to get there.
They rolled in near the end of the second day, the sun low in the sky. Jennie sat up front in the driver’s seat with her old friend Ben, the freed black man. He had stuck with her through the worst of times and hundreds of difficult miles. He did not question her decision to turn back east—in fact, he was glad she was doing it. It would be safer for her and the girls.
“Look, Ben, this is a bustling community. There are even some women here. Most of them Indian girls as far as I can see. And a lot of trappers. Hmmm, I’ll bet there’s some money to be made here for a person of business.”
“It’s also pretty rough, Miss Jennie.” Ben rarely ventured an opinion of his own.
The encampment was nothing pretty to look at—tents and crude sod and log buildings. The men hanging around stopped as the girls passed, and waved and whistled. No doubt, they were glad to see this train pull in to their humble way station.
“Look, there are some boats,” Jennie said, pointing at some keelboats along the river’s shore. “We could take a boat as far as Westport, maybe settle there for a while and see if we like it.”
“Yes, Miss Jennie,” the faithful black driver said simply. He knew by now that whatever Miss Jennie decided on was what they would do, no arguments from him.
They drove to one of the more substantial buildings, which was a fur dealer’s headquarters, and Jennie went inside to get the lay of the land. She found out that they could camp anywhere they pleased, that there were no authorities in this place other than the gun and the fist, and that the trappers and traders and other men in the vicinity would be mighty glad to see them.
* * *
McDill got drunk during the second day in the sprawling tent-town. He spent a sizable chunk of the money that he had collected for the entire party’s pelts. That left him with next to nothing to buy supplies, but he was too far gone by noon to care much.
He wandered the sprawling encampment looking for a woman. Any woman would do. He had almost forgotten about the time he’d been here before and the trouble he had caused by making a play for another man’s squaw. But he hadn’t forgotten how Art had sicced his wolf-dog on him, how Dog had bitten his knife hand and humiliated him.
“Shoulda shot that damn dog-monster when I had a chance,” he muttered to himself drunkenly. He staggered through the makeshift “streets” of the town, glassy-eyed and angry. This time nobody was going to prevent him from getting what he wanted.
He headed toward the center of the settlement, where the Eastern fur traders had set up their frontier offices. A better class of people was living there, he had convinced himself. Maybe that meant a better class of woman.
Putting his hands in his pockets, he realized that he had very little money left. He’d given Caviness ten dollars off the top of their meager take, just to keep his friend off his back. The others were going to be mad when they found out he had spent all his money on liquor—and maybe a whore.
“Damn them to hell anyway,” he breathed. “They got out of this thing with their lives, which is more than that young Indian-lover woulda done for ’em.” Despite Art’s skills and easy way with people, McDill wasn’t about to give him credit for anything. “Like to get us scalped with his Injun-palaver. If I hadn’t been there on the island, I don’t know what woulda happened. Saved all of our damned lives . . .”
Percy McDill looked up and couldn’t believe what he was seeing. There, directly in front of him, were the girls from the House of Flowers in St. Louis. At first he thought he was dreaming or maybe somehow imagining this sight. He had never gone into the famous house of prostitution— the likes of him couldn’t afford the fancy prices for fancy women. But he had hung out nearby enough to recognize a few of the faces and figures of these girls.
What were they doing way out here in this Godforsaken place? A jumble of thoughts clogged up his brain and he couldn’t think straight, couldn’t figure out what was going on. All he knew was that he wanted a woman and here were some women. How lucky could a man get?
He smiled evilly and staggered forward.
* * *
Art wasn’t sure why, but something propelled him forward. He rode without stopping to sleep, only to rest and water his horse. Turned out it was a good bargain, this h
orse: very sturdy and reliable and didn’t seem to mind Dog tagging along for the ride. From Joe Walker, Art had obtained a rifle, shot and powder, a new canteen, a new saddlebag for food and supplies. He was all set now, and with each mile he felt stronger and more determined to find the men he had once commanded.
He hoped Hoffman, Montgomery, and Matthews were all right. He hoped McDill and Caviness were healthy too, so he could beat the hell out of them. He had no doubt that McDill had bullied the others and lied to them to make them do whatever he wanted. That was his way.
He remembered the first time he had encountered Percy McDill, in the tavern in St. Louis. The big man had been full of it then, a coward at heart, selfish, with nothing good to say about another human being. McDill had been so cocksure that the job of leading the expedition for Mr. Ashley would be his. And he’d been so angry when the assignment went to Art . . . and a thorn in Art’s side ever since.
Late in the afternoon of the third day out of Walker’s fort, Art rode into the tent city at the junction of the Missouri and the Platte. There was something familiar about the look and feel of the place, the men who populated it—for they were his kind of people, men of the mountains. As he rode through, he got more than a few hellos and howdies.
They looked at him differently, however. That dad-blasted preacher story must have gotten to them too, he mused. He looked around for someone he knew well.
He found what he was looking for. There was Jeb Law, his old friend. Art rode over to Jeb’s campsite. The old man looked up from his fire, broke out into a big grin. “Well, if it ain’t my oldest and dearest friend and—” He looked down at the lean and hungry Dog. “And his pal Dog.”
Art dismounted and shook Jeb’s rough hand. Jeb looked him over, from head to foot.
“You be needin’ a good meal, son. Let me fix you up some beans. Got coffee cookin’ on the fire. Take a load off’n your feet.”
“Thanks, Jeb. Good to see you too.”
The two men sat. Jeb Law looked directly into the younger mountain man’s eyes and said, “You came to the right place if’n you’re lookin’ for your explorin’ party. They’re right here.”
“McDill and the others?” Art wasn’t surprised except that it had taken him a lot less time than he had thought. He calculated that they’d be well on their way to St. Louis by now. McDill didn’t like to linger in places like this, especially since he’d gotten in trouble over a woman last time through.
“They’re all alive,” Jeb said.
“I’ll be damned. Well, that’s a good thing. Guess they didn’t need me after all.”
“Ha! You should see the long hound-dog looks on those men. They sure missed you. They thought you was dead.”
“McDill. He told them that, didn’t he.”
Jeb nodded. “Sure thing. The others didn’t like it one bit when they found out he had lied to them. Other than that one that’s joined to him at the hip—what’s his name?”
“Caviness.”
“Yep. He and Caviness are a pair of evil children if’n I ever laid eyes on any in my whole miserable life.” Jeb smiled. “And you are a sight for sore eyes, boy. Here, have some of old Jeb’s coffee. Best brew west of Nowhere.”
Dog sidled up next to Art, sat alertly right beside his leg. The coffee slid hotly into Art’s belly, and he felt the effects of no food in three days.
“I told them all about you bein’ called Preacher and all that. They were sure surprised.”
“Now, where did you hear about that?”
“I hear things. Don’t take long for stories to get passed around out here. You know that. And it was a pretty good yarn, about how you killed a bear and wandered around wounded and got yerself captured by Injuns. I said to myself, ‘That sounds just like the Art I know.”’ He grinned, showing the few yellow teeth he had left. “Sure ’nuff, it were you!”
“Where are my men?”
“Why, they’re campin’ right next door there.” Jeb pointed. “They must be out galavantin’ around. McDill got himself drunk early on today. He’s either passed out or dead somewheres round about.” He cackled like a woman. “That one’s got death marked on him. It ain’t gonna be long for him, I’ll wager.”
Art stayed and ate some of Jeb’s beans cooked with a fistful of pork fat. He hadn’t tasted anything so good since the last time he and Jennie had eaten together in St. Louis. His belly settled down and his mind became more focused on what he had to do: find his men and reclaim his leadership.
It wasn’t going to be easy or pleasant, he knew. Not with McDill and Caviness fighting him every step of the way.
The sun had begun to fall below the distant hilltops. He had better get moving before it got fully dark. “Thanks, Jeb,” he said. “I’ll be back.”
“I’ll wager,” Jeb said again.
He didn’t know where to start, so Art just walked into the center of the tent town. He ran into some other acquaintances along the way and stopped briefly to say hello. All of them seemed to know about his adventures, and some of them even called him “Preacher.”
Dog tagged along with Art, never leaving his side. He avoided other dogs, faded into the background if any barked or challenged him. Like his master, he didn’t want any trouble or distraction at this time.
The mountain man came to one of the fur dealers’ buildings, a squat log structure chinked with mud and sod. He went in. There were a couple of men there stacking pelts and going over their books. He asked about his men.
“Oh, yeah, they’re here. Their captain, McDougal I think his name is, was around here earlier. Drunk as a skunk.”
“Sold us a few pelts yesterday, not very good quality,” the other man said.
Art thanked them and went out. He was close. Maybe he should just go back to the campsite and turn in and let them come to him.
Fifteen
In the darkness, illuminated only by a single candle, Jennie faced a terrifying apparition. Percy McDill had burst into her tent, and now moved toward her, his face twisted by lust and anger into a grotesque mask. The candle’s reflection in his dark eyes gave Jennie the illusion of staring into the very fires of hell. She stepped backward, but found little room to maneuver in the confines of the tent.
Jennie screamed.
* * *
Outside, Art heard a woman’s scream. It came from a nearby tent. It startled him—not because of the cry itself, but because he thought he recognized the voice of the woman who screamed. But it couldn’t be ... it couldn’t be who he thought it was. Could it?
Running in the direction of the commotion, Art wondered what Jennie would be doing out here. It couldn’t be her, could it? She was in St. Louis. And yet, something about the scream touched his very soul. He hurried toward the tent.
* * *
McDill lunged, clamping his dirty hand over her mouth. Jennie bit his hand and he ripped it away, howling like a wounded animal. She screamed again. Outside the tent she could hear people moving around, and she hoped someone would come to help her. She fought back, pummeling his chest and face with her hands, but he was so big and strong that it had no effect.
“You bitch!” he sneered, cradling his wounded hand. “I was gonna pay you, whore that you are, but now I’m not—I’m gonna take it for free.”
“Stay away,” she warned. “For your own good, mister. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Ha! You don’t want to hurt me?” he said with a lopsided, drunken grin. “Tell me, bitch, how you plannin’ on hurtin’ me?”
She couldn’t stand the smell of him, and his ugly leer. Yet she realized that she had to be careful, that she couldn’t rile him even more—or else he was liable to kill her. She had known men like him for her entire life.
She gathered what composure she could, and brushed a fall of hair back from her face. She forced herself to smile at him.
“Look, you’re right, whoring is my business. But I was just getting ready for bed and I must look a mess. Why don’t you go away n
ow, give me a chance to get ready, then you can come back later,” she said.
“No way, little lady, I’m here and here I am. You’ll get to like me when you know me better. I promise.”
Jennie doubted that she would ever be able to bear the sight of this man, let alone like him. He was grotesque, and it didn’t matter that he was drunk. She had met this kind before, and he reminded her of her old master, among others.
“But you’ll like me better if you give me a chance to get ready for you,” Jennie said, making one last attempt to get through to him.
“I like you fine just the way you are,” he said, starting toward her again.
Jennie felt the world closing in on her and smelled blood in the air; she could only hope it wasn’t her own. Again she screamed for help.
At that moment the tent flaps opened, and it was as if God himself had heard her plea. The one man in the world whom she truly loved stepped inside. It was Art, the man she had known as a boy, the man who was a part of her life even when they were not together. She had heard the stories of him over the last several weeks, how he had beaten off a bear attack, then wandered through the wilderness, surviving on berries, roots, and whatever he could kill with just a knife. She had also heard of his escape from the Indians, and of the new name the Indians had given him.
“Art!” she cried.
McDill turned to see the man he hated most in the world—the man he had thought was dead—moving at him swiftly and angrily. He ducked to avoid Art’s first swing, and came up with a hard punch of his own, taking Art off guard, smashing into his chin. He laughed as the younger man staggered backward.
“Well, now, if it ain’t my ole’ pal Art,” McDill said. “Only I hear tell the Indians call you Preacher now. Is that right? Are you goin’ to preach to me, Preacher? Are you going to save my soul?” He laughed.
Art got to one knee, and shook his head, trying to clear away the cobwebs of the hammerlike blow. He stared up at McDill, and at the hideous leering grin on his face.
McDill held his hand out and curled his fingers, tauntingly inviting Art toward him.
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