Preacher, clean from the top of his head to his toes, thought he’d best save the skins for the trail. He put on some homespuns the ladies gave him to wear for what time he would remain in the fort. And that wasn’t going to be very long if Preacher had anything to say about it.
Everybody was breathing as shallowly as possible, for the stench of death was still very strong around the fort. Workers kept the funeral fires blazing throughout the night. Lieutenant Maxwell-Smith and the sergeant stayed busy recording the names of the pioneers who died in the fight, and any addresses of relatives back east.
The next day, Preacher and Greybull went out to gather up the loose stock and drive them back to the fort, while the survivors set about trying to piece together wagons from the wreckage. Of the more than fifty odd wagons that had been gathered around the fort, the men managed to put together twenty wagons that looked like they might be able to stand the trek westward to Oregon Territory.
Maxwell-Smith called Preacher into his office and asked him to have a chair.
“Don’t want one,” Preacher said with a straight face. “Ain’t got no reason to tote one around.”
“Sit, sir!”
Preacher sat.
“Tea?” Maxwell-Smith offered.
“Whiskey’d be better. But I reckon coffee will do. I ain’t never developed no real taste for tea.”
“As you wish.” The officer asked his orderly to bring them refreshments. He and Preacher sat and stared at one another until the coffee was poured and the tea was steeping.
“What you got on your mind, Lieutenant?”
“You are aware, sir, that you are in British-held territory.”
“The land’s in dispute. I reckon it’ll soon be in American hands.”
“Don’t count on that, sir. You colonists might have a fight on your hands.”
“Y’all tried that a couple of times, as I recall. Seems like you’d learn after awhile.”
The lieutenant’s smile was very thin, indeed. “Be that as it may, sir, I am in command here. Solely in command. I give the orders, to both civilian and military personnel who are at this fort.”
Preacher stood up. “I’ll be gone ’fore you can blink.”
“Preacher, sit down, please.”
Preacher sat.
“I need your help, Preacher.”
“I ain’t guidin’ no damn wagon train”
Maxwell-Smith leaned back in his chair and smiled. “I can promise you more pay than any guide ever received before you.”
Preacher slowly shook is head. “I ain’t got no use for riches. What am I gonna spent ’em on? Hell, man, I know where they’s gold nuggets big as your toe. I got a sackful out there in my possibles bag. They’s enough gold in that bag to last me the rest of my years. I ain’t got the patience to guide no bunch of hollerin’, squallin’ runny-noised kids and whinin’ complainin’ women, and foolish men. You got Greybull on the payroll. Give the job to him.”
“We have to keep him here. What is that man’s Christian name?”
“I ain’t got no idea. He got his name cause he nearly drowned in the Greybull just west of the Bighorns.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Twenty year or more ago. ’Round ’15 or ’16, I think it was. He got drunk and fell off his horse. He’s been called Greybull ever since. Names ain’t very important out here, Lieutenant. It’s what’s inside a man that counts.”
“By that you mean personal courage, the keeping of one’s word when given, never shirking one’s duty, and of course, helping those in need.” The last was spoken with a slight smile.
“Ah ... yeah, something like that.” Preacher had the feeling he was being pushed into a box canyon. This young officer might not know doodly-squat about the wilderness, but he sure was good with words.
“I am in need, Preacher. Those poor pioneers out there are in need.”
Preacher held up a hand. “Whoa, now. Just back up. I didn’t tell them folks out yonder to head west. They done that all by theyself. Didn’t nobody force them to do nothin’. Them folks ain’t my responsibility. And the truth be known, they ain’t yours, neither.”
“So you would just have me send them off westward, into a large unexplored land that is fraught with danger. A land that no man knows—”
“I know the damn country!” Preacher exploded. “Unexplored? Why hell, they’s been trappers and traders and the like all over that country for years now. Why I—” He closed his mouth. Just diggin’your hold deeper ever’time you flap your gums, he thought.
“Precisely, Preacher!” Maxwell-Smith said “You know the country they have to travel through. You’re the best. You’re a legend, Preacher. I marveled about your exploits in England. You—”
“All right!” Preacher said. “That’s enough grease. You slop anymore lard on me and I’ll be so slippery I won’t be able to sit a saddle. I’ll guide your damn wagon train.” He shook his head. “Lord have mercy on a poor mountain boy like me.”
* * *
“It’s the pox!” Luke reported back to Bum. He had not entered the fort, only watched from far off and talked to some Mandans he met on the trail. “The Blackfeet took the disease and then attacked the fort. They died by the hundreds. But not ’fore they kilt more’n half of them movers and tore up a whole bunch of wagons. Them folks is busy piecin’ together wagons, so they gonna keep on their journey.”
“Did you see Preacher?”
“Yeah. And the missionaries. They made it through and is all right, ’pears to me. What’s Red Hand say about this plan of yourn?”
“He’s thinkin’ about it. Gone back to his camp to talk it over with his bunch.” He eyeballed Luke suspiciously. “You didn’t bring nothin’ back with you, did you?”
“Huh? Oh! No. I never got close enough to catch nothin’. And them Mandans I talked to had already been scratched for the pox.” He looked over at the new men that had joined the group since he’d left. “I know Burke and Dipper. I figured they’d hook up with us. Who’s them others?”
“Jennings and Penn rode with the Hawkins’ gang up in the northern territories. They’re good boys. Halsey and Wilson busted out of jail back in St. Louie in the winter. Olson’s a farm boy from back east. He’s wanted for murder.”
“Who’d he kill?”
“His parents. I think he’s a good man.”
“Sounds like it. I got more news. They’s another wagon train comin’ in later this month. The commandin’ officer at the fort sent some of his men to make sure it got in all right. They’s some talk about the guide a-fixin’ to quit the train. What’s left of the pilgrims at the fort is gonna wait and hook up with this new train.”
“Who’ll be guidin’ it?”
“Don’t know. But Greybull’s there. I seen him. Hard to miss a man his size.”
“Greybull’s scoutin’ for the Army. I know that to be true. Trappin’s about played out.” Bum smiled. “Preacher. Has to be Preacher.”
“Doin’ what?”
“Guidin’ the damn train, idiot! Ever’thing is workin’ out just right. We’ll get the gold, the women, and have Preacher to torture.”
“So we’ll just stay right here and keep low and by the time the trains link up and get ready to pull out, the boys will be healed up for the most part.”
Bum looked at him. “Sometimes you can make sense, Luke. Not often. But sometimes.”
Luke grinned like a fool.
* * *
Preacher carefully inspected each wagon. If he found something wrong, he ordered it fixed. From Fort Hall to Fort Vancouver was a long, hard, dangerous pull, with Indians being only a part of the problem. There were rivers and streams to cross, and many of them would be running over their banks this time of the year. There would be broken bones and sprained limbs and squabbles among the movers.
And Bum Kelley and his gang.
There would be wagon breakdowns, wheels would come loose and have to be repaired. Tongues would break and harnesse
s would rip. Kids would get sick and probably one or two would get lost in the woods. A couple of these silly females were pregnant and that meant they would probably birth along the trail.
And Bum Kelley and his boys would surely be cookin’ up something unpleasant to spring somewheres along the way.
He would have to see that additional canvas was brought along ’cause sure as shootin’ some pilgrim wouldn’t have his lashed down proper and come a high wind it’d go sailin’ off to China. Better lay in a stock of nails and shoes for the animals and make damn sure there was plenty of powder and shot and lead and copper caps and spare bullet molds. There would be weapons aplenty, what with the ones taken from the dead pioneers.
And he wished he knowed where Bum Kelley was plannin’ on stagin’ his little surprises; and whether he had throwed in with that damn no-good Red Hand.
Preacher paced the lines of wagons and went over them again. The men and women and children watched him in silence, the kids big-eyed. He knew what he looked like to them, all dressed out in skins, from his feet to his jacket. He looked like some grim-faced wild man, with pistols and knives ahangin’ all over him as he prowled up one side of the line and down the other, never speaking to anyone.
He stopped when he came to Richard and Edmond’s wagon. The wagon was loaded with new supplies but none of the quartet was anywhere around. One of the teenage boys in the train was sitting on the seat. “What you doin’ up there, tadpole?”
The boy, maybe fourteen at the most, red hair and freckle-faced, grinned at Preacher. “Mister Richard employed me to drive the wagon through the wilderness, sir.”
“Did he now?”
“Yes, sir, he did. And the money will come in handy when we get through the wilderness and start to homesteading.”
“J reckon so. Your parents don’t object to you doin’ this, do they?”
“Oh, no sir. Not a bit”
“You figure on handlin’ that team of mules all day, by yourself, do you?”
“I’m going to try. We had mules back in Missouri. Big reds. Just like the ones I’ll be driving here.” He frowned. “The ladies don’t know how to drive a team. I never heard of anything as silly as that. But Misters Richard and Edmond said they would spell me from time to time.”
“That’s right considerate of them. What are they goin’ to be doin’?”
“Riding their mounts, sir. I believe they said something about assisting you.”
Preached choked on his ’baccy and coughed for a spell. He spat and said, “They’s plannin’ on doin’ what?”
“Assisting you, sir.”
“Ass-istin’ me doin’ what?”
“Scouting, sir, I suppose.”
Preacher looked at the lad, blinked a couple of times, and walked off, muttering “Sweet Baby Jesus. Them two couldn’t find their ass-ends if they britches was on fire.”
He spied Melody heading his way and ducked between wagons. Preacher sighed. It was hard to believe that about six weeks back, he was headin’ down to rendezvous without a care in the world. Now he was saddled with a wagon train load of pilgrims, with more coming in, a gang of outlaws on his trail, and dodging a love-struck female who could raise the temperature of a room by ten degrees just by walking into it.
He had even offered Greybull two of his gold nuggets to take the train westward.
“Not for that whole en-tar poke of yourn,” the big mountain man told him. “And I’m sorry ’cause I’ll prob’ly never see you no more after you pull out.”
“What are you talkin’ about, you big ox?”
“Why, hell’s far, that blue-eyed, honey-haired missionary lady’s got marriage on her mind. And you’re the man she plans on hitchin’ up with. She’s gonna have you out hoein’ gardens and pluck in’ petunias, and totin’ her little bag whilst she shops and the like.”
“Have you lost your mind? I ain’t gonna marry nobody, you mule-brained, goat-headed giant!”
“Yep. I can see it now,” Greybull said somberly and sorrowfully, but with a definite twinkle in his eyes. “You clerkin’ in some store, strainin’ your eyes sortin’ ribbons and socks and drawers and the like. You be goin’ home to the little lady after work—only by this time she’ll prob’ly weigh about as much as a buffalo, and have seven or eight kids a crawlin’ around on the floor, a-squallin’ and a-dirtyin’ their diapers and a-hollerin’ for their daddy and—”
The pioneers stood in shocked silence, wondering what was going on as Preacher chased a laughing Greybull around the fort, the smaller man waving a tomahawk and cussing at the top of his lungs.
14
Preacher had done everything he knew to do to make the wagon train ready for the trail. Oddly enough, he felt good about what he had done. Even Greybull and another trapper, Jim, had noticed the subtle change in the mountain man.
“You’ve changed, Preacher,” Jim pointed out. “I can’t put no finger on it. But they’s something different about ye.”
Greybull smiled. “I think it’s ’cause he knows they’s love at the end of the trail.”
Preacher sighed and held his tongue.
Even though several weeks had passed since the pox had struck the Blackfeet and their bodies had been burned, the smell of death still hung faintly over the area, for not all bodies had been found and burned.
“The patrol that just come in says the second train is ’bout five days out.” Greybull wisely changed the subject, not wanting to be again chased around the fort by a tomahawk-wielding Preacher. “Twenty-five or thirty wagons. With them three wagons that rattled in last week, you’ll have near ’bouts sixty wagons to guide through the wilderness.”
“The soldier boys say anything about the guide and the wagonmaster?” Preacher inquired.
“Only that they picked the guide up in St. Louie and the wagonmaster is original from back East somewheres.”
“Wonderful,” Preacher muttered. “More pilgrims a-comin’ to the promised land.”
Maxwell-Smith walked up in time to hear the last couple of comments. “This train started out with more than forty wagons,” the officer said. “They survived half a dozen major engagements with hostiles along the way. That tells me that they are at least trail-wise.”
Preacher nodded. “Mules or oxen?”
“More ox than mules,” Greybull said. “That means they won’t be totin’ no heavy supply of grain.”
“But they’ll be slower,” Preacher countered. “On the other hand, Injuns don’t steal oxen as a rule. I reckon it’ll all balance out. Mainest thing is gettin’ these pilgrims through with their hair.”
Preacher turned to Maxwell-Smith. “You had any word on Red Hand?”
“Nothing,” the British officer replied. “And I was specifically warned about that renegade.”
“That worries me,” Preacher admitted.
“You think Bum may have hooked up with him?” Greybull asked.
“He’s done it before,” Trapper Jim answered for Preacher. “I’d like to see the end of both of them. And soon.”
But Preacher’s thoughts had again shifted to the monumental task that lay before him. He said, “Best you can expect from ox is twelve to fifteen miles a day. Mules can give you eighteen to twenty. We’re lookin’ at near ’bouts the end of summer ’fore we reach Fort Vancouver. Is losin’ ten percent of these people along the way off the mark, ’Bull?”
“I wouldn’t think so. Prob’ly more’n that ’fore it’s all said and done.”
“Twenty percent of ’em,” Trapper Jim said.
“I want the post surgeon to check these new people over good,” Preacher told Maxwell-Smith. “My bunch is clean of cholera and I want it to stay that way. Has he got enough laudanum to give us a goodly stock?”
“Yes. Since the trains started coming this way, he’s tripled his orders from the Company.” He held out several pages. “And this is not going to help matters any.”
“What’s all them words say?” Greybull asked.
�
��A financial panic has struck the people back East,” Maxwell-Smith said. “Newspapers are calling it the panic of ’37. And according to this newsletter, thousands of people are making plans to come westward.”
“Shit!” Preacher summed up his feelings with that one bitter word.
“There is more,” the British officer said, “and none of it is good. Andrew Jackson has retired from office and nearly all the major New York City banks have closed their doors. A massive financial depression has enveloped the land. Farmers can’t sell their agricultural products, farm surpluses are clogging the markets and farmers are being forced off the land because they have no money. A massive movement is on for the free lands of the Pacific.”
“That’s the end for us,” Greybull said. “Folks that ain’t got no money shore can’t buy pelts. You was right in what you said two year ago, Preacher. You said the end was in sight and we’d all better brace for it. Them that laughed at you is eatin’ mighty bitter words now.”
“Bein’ right don’t make me feel good, though,” Preacher said. He looked at Maxwell-Smith. “What else is writ on them pages? I know that ain’t all. Your jaw is hangin’ low enough to touch your boots. So let’s have it all.”
“Sickness. Back East there are epidemics of typhoid, dysentery, tuberculosis, scarlet fever, and malaria. New Orleans is very nearly quarantined. Cholera is being brought over from Europe and is trekking westward with the human movement.”
“Ain’t they nothin’ good a-tall in them pages?” Preacher asked.
“I’m afraid not, Preacher.”
Someone among the wagons started singing, the voice liltingly Irish.
“Will you go lassie,
go to the braes of Balquihidder
where the blackberries grow,
mang the bonny highland heather ...”
“I’ve tried to tell these folks about this northwest trail,” Preacher said. “Tried to talk some sense into they heads. But they don’t wanna listen. Ol’ Joe Walker blazed one trail back in ’32 or ’33. I went over it with him. That one was hell, boys, pure hell. This one is only slightly better.”
The First Mountain Man Page 12
