Faith’s eyebrows arched. “He did?”
“He most certainly did. He promised that he would send some of his warriors to retrieve my gear. Didn’t he, Preacher?”
“Yep,” Preacher drawled. “You stood up for what was right, Mr. Carling.”
“Please, call me Willard. After all, we’re fellow frontiersmen now, eh?”
Preacher wouldn’t have gone quite that far, but he didn’t see any point in hurting Carling’s feelings. He said, “Sure, Willard.”
Jasper Hodge looked around at the village and said, “Well, now that we’re here, what are we going to do?”
“I’m going to wait until I get my paints and canvases back,” Carling said, “and then I intend to spend at least a week painting.”
Faith sighed. “I suppose I could try to compose some verses about the way these savages live. It’s hardly a fit subject for something as beautiful as poetry, but an artist works with the materials at hand.” She turned to Preacher. “What about you?”
“I figured I’d rest up and let these scrapes and bruises I got heal. After that, I don’t know.” Preacher’s eyes narrowed. “Snell’s still out there somewhere. He’ll be a threat to you folks as long as him and his bunch are around. Besides, I got a score to settle with him, so I may just go lookin’ for him instead o’ waitin’ for him to come to me.”
“You mean you’re going to try to kill him?”
“He’s got it comin’,” Preacher said simply.
“Perhaps,” Hodge said, “but no one declared you judge, jury, and executioner, Preacher.”
Preacher laughed humorlessly. “The nearest judge and jury are back in Saint Looey, Hodge. That’s as far in this direction as the law has gotten. Out here, justice comes from the barrel of a gun.”
“That’s not justice. That’s anarchy.”
“That’s the frontier. Sooner you learn that, the better.”
Hodge shook his head. “I’m a civilized man. I’ll never believe the same way you do, Preacher.”
Preacher shrugged. “I don’t recollect sayin’ that I cared one way or the other whether you believed like me.”
Hodge flushed with anger, but he didn’t say anything else.
The squaws who had been given the task of caring for the guests arrived with food for breakfast, and everyone sat down cross-legged on the ground to eat, even Faith. She complained some about having to eat with her fingers, but not as much as the night before. Maybe eventually, she would adjust to life on the frontier—but Preacher wasn’t going to hold his breath waiting for that to happen.
After the meal, the frontiersmen found places to stretch out and get another nap. They had sleep to catch up on, and like most men who were accustomed to living in rugged and often dangerous conditions, they slept like logs whenever they had the chance to do so safely.
Preacher stayed awake, though, because he wasn’t convinced that they were safe yet. Instinct gnawed at the back of his brain, trying to warn him that trouble still loomed on the horizon. He knew better than to disregard a hunch like that.
But as the day wore on, it certainly seemed like the rest of their visit to the Teton Sioux village was going to be peaceful. While Preacher kept an eye on them to make sure they didn’t get in trouble, Willard Carling and Jasper Hodge roamed around a bit, looking at everything with great interest. Hodge even took a pad of paper and a pencil from inside his coat and made notes about everything he saw.
“Material for the book I plan to write,” he explained when he saw Preacher looking at him with a puzzled frown. “This volume will make me a famous historian and naturalist.”
Preacher nodded. Hodge was an ambitious man. Fame called out to him, singing a siren song.
Preacher, on the other hand, had more fame in these mountains than he really wanted. A reputation as a tough, dangerous man sometimes came in handy, because folks thought twice about messing with somebody like that. But being well known also attracted trouble at times, because there was always somebody who thought they were tougher than he was and wanted to take him down a peg.
Faith Carling’s writing equipment had been lost when she was taken captive with the others, but she borrowed some paper and an extra pencil from Hodge. Using a flat rock for a writing table, she began to compose a poem. Chester Sinclair hung around where she was, obviously trying not to be too obvious about his feelings for her—and failing. Faith ignored him, though.
During the afternoon, Rip Giddens sought out Preacher and engaged him in a low-voiced conversation. “You trust ol’ Badger, Preacher?” Rip asked.
“Not completely,” Preacher replied bluntly. “He’ll keep his word as long as we’re here in the village, but that’s all I’m sure of.”
“We can’t stay here forever,” Rip said. “Sooner or later we’ll have to leave.”
Preacher nodded. “Yep. That may be what Badger’s waitin’ for. He’s just bidin’ his time now. Of course, the Crows could change all that.”
“How do you figure?” Rip asked sharply, clearly interested by Preacher’s reference to the other Indian tribe.
“Accordin’ to what Panther Leapin’ told me, the Crows been raidin’ down here lately,” Preacher explained. “Panther figures it’s only a matter of time until they launch a real attack on the Tetons.”
Rip let out a low whistle. “Crows hate just about ever’body, and just about ever’body hates them. But they’re dangerous, Preacher, no doubt about that.”
Preacher nodded and said, “If they go to war, then Badger will have his hands full with that, and he likely won’t have the time or inclination to bother with us no more.”
“Yeah,” Rip said as he rubbed his jaw in thought. “There’s one mighty big problem with that, though.”
“Yeah,” Preacher agreed with a faint smile, his tone tinged with irony. “Bein’ in the middle of a war between two Indian tribes ain’t exactly the safest place in the world, now is it?”
Chapter Twenty
Like most of the men who came to the Rocky Mountains in search of beaver pelts, the red-bearded trapper called Wingate was happy being by himself. He could go for weeks, even months, without seeing any other white men, and he didn’t particularly care whether or not he saw any red men, as long as the ones he saw weren’t hostile. With his horse and a pack mule, he rode through the majestic scenery, and was glad to be alive and free and out in the open where he could enjoy all the sights and sounds.
He got a mite nervous, though, when he realized that somebody was following him.
All morning, his instincts had been worrying him, so along about noontime, he found a place in some thick woods where he could leave his horse and mule, and then taking his rifle, with which he was an excellent shot, he climbed to the top of a rocky spur and settled down behind some boulders to watch for whoever was dogging his trail.
He didn’t have long to wait. Within fifteen minutes, he began to hear the sound of hoofbeats—a lot of hoofbeats. A large group of riders was coming toward him. They weren’t moving all that fast, though. Wingate revised his assumption that whoever these gents were, they had been following him. Maybe they just happened to be going the same direction he was, which was generally north and west.
The frontiersman’s eyes narrowed in surprise as he saw the first of the riders come into view, moving at a deliberate pace around a large cluster of boulders. They were white men, wearing red-and-blue uniforms and black shakos. Sunlight reflected off the rifles they carried and the brass buttons and insignia on their uniforms. The man in the lead wore a saber belted around his waist and had a little fancier uniform than the others. Wingate supposed he was the officer in charge.
What the hell were a bunch of soldiers doing out here? From time to time, the Army sent an expedition to the frontier, but so far nearly all of the exploration and settling done west of the Mississippi had been by civilians, either individuals or fellas who worked for private companies.
The men Wingate was looking at now were definite
ly soldiers, though. Nobody else would parade around in get-ups like that.
He counted them as they came around the rocks. Fifteen men, counting the officer. Several of them were leading packhorses.
Wingate frowned. He supposed the soldiers had a right to be here; after all, ever since the Louisiana Purchase, this territory had been part of the United States. But it was damned odd to see soldiers wandering around in the mountains, especially on their own. Wingate would have expected to see a civilian guide or two with them.
Were they lost? They acted like they knew where they were going, but Wingate knew that when it came to the Army, that didn’t really mean anything. Soldier boys could march right off a cliff and act like they knew where they were going.
He waited until they were closer, then, acting on an impulse, he stood up and held his rifle over his head. “Hey!” he shouted. “Hey, down there!”
Instantly, the soldiers reined their horses to a halt, and several of them raised their rifles and pointed them at Wingate before the officer twisted around in the saddle and called for them to hold their fire and lower their weapons.
Then he turned back toward Wingate and shouted, “Hello, my good man!”
Wingate didn’t much cotton being called anybody’s good man in that tone of voice, but he chalked it up to ignorance on the part of the officer and told himself to be tolerant. He called, “What’re you fellas doin’ out here? You lost?”
“Could you come down here, so we won’t have to shout?” the officer asked.
Wingate shrugged. “Stay there! I’ll be along in a minute.”
He climbed down from the rocky prominence, fetched his horse and mule, and led them out of the trees toward the group of soldiers. As he came closer, Wingate saw that the officer was a young man in his twenties, with a little mustache that curled up on each end. Having served in the War of 1812, the trapper was a little familiar with military ranks and thought the insignia on the officer’s uniform meant that he was a lieutenant. Probably fresh out of West Point and on his first assignment. His superiors probably hadn’t been too smart, sending him out into the wilderness like this.
“Howdy, Lieutenant,” Wingate greeted the man.
The officer swung down from his military saddle and offered his hand. As Wingate took it, the man said, “I’m Lieutenant Royce Corrigan, sir, at your service.”
“Wingate’s the name,” the trapper introduced himself.
“You wouldn’t happen to be a guide, would you?” Corrigan asked. “I’m afraid we lost ours a few days ago. An unfortunate encounter with a, uh, grizzly bear.”
“You mean a griz got him?” Wingate shook his head. “That ain’t a good way to go, bein’ mauled by one o’ them monsters. I reckon the griz et the poor bastard, too?”
“Well, uh, no. We shot the creature. Killed it. But not in time to save poor Stevens.”
Wingate drew a sharp breath. “That wouldn’t be Black-tooth Stevens you’re talkin’ about, would it?”
“Actually, yes. Did you know him?”
“Met him at Rendezvous a few times. Damn. So ol’ Blacktooth’s gone under, has he? Shame. Did you skin out that bear and save the meat and the hide?”
Corrigan frowned. “No. Should we have?”
“You left the carcass to rot?” Wingate sounded scandalized. “Ol’ Blacktooth’d be upset with you for lettin’ it go to waste that way.”
“Yes, well, we didn’t know any better,” Corrigan said, clearly a little irritated by Wingate’s criticism. “You didn’t answer my question about whether or not you’re a guide.”
“I’m a trapper. But I reckon if you fellas need some help gettin’ to where you’re goin’, I could lend you a hand.”
“That would be splendid. I can pay you the money that I had paid to Mr. Stevens. We recovered it from his, ah, body before we buried him.”
“That’ll be fine. Where you headed?”
“Well, actually, I’m not sure. You see, we’re looking for a party of travelers who came out here recently. They were supposed to visit a trappers’ Rendezvous and then continue their expedition through the mountains.”
Wingate grunted in surprise. “You wouldn’t be talkin’ about a bunch o’ pilgrims from back East, would you? A little painter fella and his sister, and a couple o’ other gents?”
“That’s them!” Corrigan said excitedly. “Mr. Willard Carling’s party. Do you know where they are?”
“I could prob’ly find ’em. I saw them at the Rendezvous, and I know which general direction they were headin’.”
“That’s wonderful. You’re a godsend, Mr. Wingate.”
“First time anybody’s ever called me that,” Wingate said with a chuckle. “It’s important that you find those pilgrims, is it?”
“Important? I should say so. It’s a matter of an absolute fortune!”
The warriors Badger had sent to retrieve Willard Carling’s belongings returned to the village that evening, bringing with them all the canvases, brushes, and pots of paint that hadn’t been broken, along with one easel. Carling almost cried with relief when he saw them.
“Now I can get to work again,” he said. “First thing in the morning, as soon as the light is good, I’ll begin that portrait of the chief, as I promised.”
“Gettin’ him to stand still for you may not be easy,” Preacher warned.
“Oh, I’m sure he’ll cooperate. Who wouldn’t want to have his portrait painted?”
Preacher just grunted. What Willard Carling didn’t know about Indians would just about fill that big canyon down south a ways.
The night passed without incident. The Easterners seemed to be adjusting to the food and the sleeping arrangements. Chester Sinclair especially seemed to be taking to it. Preacher noticed that Sinclair had stopped shaving. Both Carling and Hodge used borrowed knives to scrape their beards off every day. Sinclair had some nice dark stubble going, though.
True to his word, first thing the next morning, Carling had Sinclair set up the easel and place a blank canvas on it. “I wish I hadn’t lost some of my paints,” the artist complained. “I know I’ll have to make do, but it’s still annoying.” He smiled as an idea occurred to him. He turned to Preacher, saying, “There are drawings on the outside of these hide dwellings—”
“They’re called tepees or lodges,” Preacher said.
“Yes, yes, that doesn’t matter. I remember also that when those savages captured us, they had colorful streaks on their faces. These Indians have their own paint!”
“Well, yeah,” Preacher agreed. “They make different colors o’ paint, mostly from berries and such.”
“Could you get them to make some for me?”
Preacher thought it over and nodded. “Might be able to do that.”
“Excellent! Now, if you’ll just fetch the chief and let him know that I’m ready for him to pose . . .”
Preacher gave a little shake of his head and tried not to sigh. Dealing with Willard Carling was a little like trying to deal with a headstrong child. It was easier to do what he wanted than to argue with him.
Might come a time, though, when Carling would get his rear end paddled, again just like a headstrong child.
Preacher went in search of Bites Like a Badger, and found the chief talking to some of the other warriors. As he came up, Preacher overheard enough of the conversation to know that Badger was sending the men out to scout, to make sure there was no Crow raiding party in the area. The warriors loped off on their errand, and Badger turned to Preacher, still wearing that neutral expression.
“What do you want?” Badger asked.
“Carling is ready to paint your portrait.”
“What is this . . . portrait?”
“A picture of you,” Preacher explained. “You stand still, and he paints what you look like.”
“I paint myself,” Badger said coldly, “and when I do, it is for war.”
“No, that ain’t what I mean. Come with me, and you’ll see what I’m tal
kin’ about.”
Reluctantly, Badger went with Preacher, and as they came up to Carling, the artist greeted the chief effusively. “There you are!” Carling said. “Thank you for agreeing to pose for me. Now, if you’ll just stand right over there . . .”
With Preacher translating, Carling got Badger posed like he wanted him. Badger wore his buckskins and a headband this morning, but not the feathered headdress that was his by right as the chief of this band. After a few moments, Carling said, “No, no, this just isn’t right. It’s like trying to paint a magnificent peacock without its plumage. Chief, you’re going to have to get your headdress and put it on.”
“Says he wants you to put on your war bonnet,” Preacher drawled in translation.
“Does he wish to go to war with me?” Badger demanded.
“Nope, it’s all for show. Better get your tomahawk and your bow and a quiver of arrows while you’re at it.” Badger was armed only with a knife.
The chief scowled. “I do not like this pretending to go to war. It feels wrong to me.”
“Sorry,” Preacher said with a shrug. “He’s your guest, though, so I reckon you’ve got to oblige him.”
Indians seldom if ever cursed, and if they did, it was with words that they picked up from the whites. But as Badger started toward his lodge, he was muttering something in the Sioux tongue under his breath. Preacher figured it was a good thing he couldn’t hear well enough to translate what Badger was saying.
“Oh, dear,” Carling said as the chief stalked off. “He’s not deserting us, is he?”
“He’ll be back,” Preacher assured the artist. “He’s gettin’ his war bonnet and some other gear, so he’ll look savage enough to suit you.”
Carling smiled. “That’s splendid!”
Badger came back a short time later, suitably bedecked in war bonnet and a fancier set of buckskins with a lot of beaded decorations that must have taken his wives hours and hours of tedious, painstaking labor. He had a fringed quiver full of arrows slung on his back, a tomahawk with a feather tied to its handle tucked behind his rawhide belt, and a sturdy bow gripped in his hand. A couple of squaws followed behind him, smiling and occasionally giggling. They were probably the ones who had decorated his buckskins. Several other squaws and children trailed along, too, and some of the warriors came over to see what was going on as well.
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