Preacher

by William W. Johnstone

  “I’m not Creole!” Art insisted.

  “Uh-huh. And you said you wasn’t no slave neither, then I got you to admit you was. All right, Mr. Younger, here he is. Now, how you goin’ to hold him?”

  “Don’t you worry none ’bout me holdin’ ’im. I got me some shackles hangin’ from the saddle of my horse,” Younger said. “I’ll keep ’im shackled up till I get him back to his rightful owner.”

  “Let’s go,” the sheriff said, waving his pistol at Art.

  “Sheriff, you’re making a big mistake,” Tony said. “They’s too many things ain’t addin’ up here. I just don’t believe this boy is a slave.”

  “Mr. Younger’s got papers says he is,” the sheriff said. “And the boy done admitted that he run away from Matthews down in Sainte Genevieve. ’Peers to me like that pretty much closes the case.”

  * * *

  “Keep up, boy, keep up,” Younger said, giving the shackles a jerk.

  The hard yank caused Art to stumble, and he would have gone down had he not been fallen against Younger’s horse. Younger was riding and Art was walking behind, pulled along by a chain that connected his shackles to the saddle of Younger’s horse.

  “I hear tell Matthews is a rich man,” Younger said. “Ain’t no tellin’ what he might give me as a reward for bringin’ one of his slaves back to him. What do you think, boy? You was with him. How much do you think he’ll give me?”

  “Whatever he gives you will be a waste of money, because I’ll just run away again,” Art panted. He had to pant because the brutal pace was causing him to gasp for breath.

  “I reckon Mr. Matthews can break you of that. He’s got hisself a big nigra with a long black snake of a whip. Slaves that runs away gets whupped by that nigra.” He chuckled. “If I don’t get nothin’ from him but the chance to watch you get whupped, that’ll be reward enough.”

  Art didn’t answer.

  “You shouldn’t of come back and stole Jennie from me,” he said. “You brought all this on yourself. When I let you go back in the woods, why didn’t you just go your own way?”

  “You didn’t let me go, you tried to kill me. You left me for dead,” Art gasped.

  “Yeah, well, it would probably have been better for both of us if I had killed you.”

  Suddenly, and unexpectedly, Younger stopped his horse. “Now that I’m thinkin’ on it, why am I even botherin’ to take you all the way to Sainte Genevieve? You’re right, Matthews probably won’t give me any money a’tall.” He got down from the horse. “So, what am I going to do with you now?”

  “You could let me go,” Art said.

  “No, I don’t think I can do that. I think I’ll just shoot you.”

  “You can’t just shoot me. You won’t get away with that.”

  “Sure I will. You’re a slave, remember? There won’t nothin’ happen to me. All I got to say is you was tryin’ to run away again.” He raised his pistol, glanced at it, then laughed, an evil, cackling laugh. “But it ought to make you feel a little better to know that you’re goin’ to be kilt with your own pistol.”

  Younger pulled the hammer back and aimed at Art. Art waited until Younger was about to pull the trigger. Then, timing it just right, he swung the chain. Even though the other end of the chain was attached to the saddle, there was enough slack in it to loop around the pistol in Younger’s hand. Art jerked as Younger fired. As a result, the gun barrel deflected and Younger wound up shooting himself in the stomach.

  “Uhnn!” he yelled in shock and pain. He looked down at his lower abdomen and saw blood pouring from the self-inflicted wound. Dropping the pistol, he put both hands over the wound, trying to stop the bleeding. It was a futile effort, for bright red blood spilled through the gaps between his fingers. “I’ve ... I’ve kilt myself!” he said. He looked up at Art.

  “You!” he said. “You!” He reached toward Art with bloody palms. Staggering toward Art, he tried to grab him, but Art stepped back and watched as Younger plopped facedown into the dirt. Younger moaned a few more times, jerked once, then was still.

  Art waited another moment before he knelt beside him. Turning him over, he looked down into eyes that had already glazed over with death. Then he reached into Younger’s jacket pocket and found the key to his shackles.

  Two minutes later, mounted on Younger’s horse and armed with his own rifle and pistol, Art turned west.

  20

  Heading northwest from where he left Lucas Younger, Art came upon the Missouri River within a few days. Although he had never been in this part of the country before, he was now confident that he couldn’t get lost. All he would have to do is follow the river, and that seemed like a simple enough task.

  * * *

  Shooting the turkey was easy. The bird had landed in front of him, then began pecking around in the grass as if totally unaware of Art’s presence. Art could only imagine that the turkey either didn’t see him, or perhaps he did see him but, never having seen a man before, didn’t know enough to be frightened.

  Art pulled his Hawken from its saddle sheath, hooked one leg across the saddle pommel, rested his elbow in that leg, then leaned forward to take careful aim before he fired. Nearly concurrent with the discharge of the powder and the rolling kick from the gun, feathers flew up from the turkey. The bird dropped without another twitch.

  It was while Art was cleaning the bird that he came up with the idea of building an oven. He used stone and mud to make it, being careful to build it in such a way as to allow it to draw properly. After that he built a fire, and only then did he commit his turkey to the experiment.

  Rather quickly, the aroma of the cooking turkey let him know that his experiment was successful. The turkey was browning nicely, the juices sealed behind the crispy skin.

  “Hello the camp!”

  The hail startled Art, who had been so intent on cooking his turkey that he hadn’t paid enough attention to what should have been routine camp security. He was surprised a moment later to see a tall, gaunt, bearded man come into the camp. The man was dressed in buckskin and homespun. The clothes were so gray with soil and sweat that it looked as if they had become a part of his skin.

  “You campin’ all by yourself, are you, young feller?” the man asked, looking around the camp.

  For a moment, Art contemplated telling him that there was someone with him, but he knew better than that. No doubt, this man had already made a thorough check of the area and knew the answer to his question. If Art lied to him now, it would be a sign of weakness, a sign that he was afraid to admit that he was alone.

  “I am alone,” Art admitted.

  “Bodie is the name,” the man said, sticking out a calloused hand. “How are you called?”

  “Art. Art Gregory. Call me Art.”

  “Art, is it? Well, you got ’ny coffee, Art?”

  “ ’Fraid not.”

  “Good, good. Then if I offer to share some of my coffee with you, maybe you’d see your way clear to share some of your turkey.”

  “I’d be happy to share my turkey with you, Mr. Bodie.”

  “Just Bodie, Art, no mister needed,” Bodie said.

  Bodie had ridden in on a mule, not a horse, and he went to the mule now and, reaching into his possibles bag, pulled out a coffeepot and a handful of coffee beans. Then, using the butt of his pistol, he began crushing the coffee beans.

  “You headed anywhere in particular?” Bodie asked as he worked on grinding the beans.

  “Just west,” Art replied.

  “Uh-huh. Goin’ after the furs, are you?”

  “Furs?”

  “Beaver and sech. They pay good money for pelts back in St. Louis. Course, you don’t have to go all the way to St. Louis to sell your season’s take. Most o’ the time you can sell ’em at Rendezvous.”

  “What is Rendezvous?”

  Bodie laughed. “Boy, you are a green ’un, ain’t you? Rendezvous is just about the most grandest thing they is. It’s a place where all the trappers come togeth
er after a long winter up in the mountains. At Rendezvous they’s whiskey, trade goods, and the like. Sometimes they’s even women there. ’Course they’s all whores, but whores is good enough iffen you been a long time without touchin’ anythin’ soft.”

  “You going to Rendezvous?”

  Bodie shook his head. “This year’s Rendezvous has done come ’n went. No, sir, I unloaded my furs an’ now I’m headed back to St. Louis.” He glanced over at Art’s horse. “That’s a good-lookin’ horse you’re a ridin’.”

  “Thanks,” Art said.

  “I guess you can see that I’m ridin’ a mule.”

  “Yes, sir, I noticed that.”

  “Well, sir, they’s a reason for that. You see, mules is a somewhat more surefooted critter than a horse. And that makes ’em good for use in the mountains. Fact is, it’d prob’ly be a good idea for you to trade that horse in and get yourself a mule.”

  “That a fact?” Art considered the situation. He was going to the mountains, so a mule might indeed be a better mount. Also, though he wasn’t a slave, he was now technically a horse thief. And if caught with this particular horse, he might be tried for the crime.

  Art started to say yes. After all, it seemed to him that the smart thing to do would be get rid of the horse. On the other hand, if Bodie got caught with the horse, he might be taken for the thief, and perhaps for a murderer, since only Art knew the truth of how Younger died. No matter how good a deal it might be for him, he couldn’t leave Bodie holding the bag like that.

  “There’s somethin’ you need to know ’bout how I come by this horse,” Art said.

  Bodie put the ground beans into water, then set the pot over the same fire that was cooking the turkey before he replied.

  “You stole him, did you?”

  “In a manner of speaking, yes,” Art said.

  “Then looks to me like you’d be anxious to get rid of him,” said. “And to make it a better swap for you, I’ll even throw in my trap line. If you’re goin’ after beaver, you’re to be needin’ a good trap line.”

  “There’s more to it,” Art said. He explained how Younger made the claim that he was a slave, how Younger was going to shoot him, but how he wound up shooting himself instead.

  “All I was tryin’ to do was get away from him,” Art said. “But when I jerked the chain, somehow it caused him to shoot himself in the stomach. No one is going to believe that. Once they find his body, they are going to think I’m the one who killed him.”

  “Yeah, well, if you ask me, it served the son of a bitch right, killin’ hisself like he done,” Bodie said.

  “Yes, sir. But I don’t think anyone is going to believe me.”

  “I believe you, boy. If you wasn’t tellin’ me the truth, you wouldn’t have to be tellin’ me nothin’ a’tall. You could’a just traded the horse for the mule and you’d be in the clear whilst I’d be the one ridin’ the stole horse.”

  “Yes, sir,” Art said.

  “You got yourself a cup?”

  “Right here,” Art said, holding up his cup.

  Bodie poured coffee into Art’s cup, then into his own. “Her name is Rhoda,” he said.

  “Beg pardon?”

  “The mule,” Bodie said. “Her name is Rhoda. You’ll be good to her?”

  “You mean, after all I’ve told you, you’d still be willin’ to trade?” Art asked.

  “Well, I need me a horse,” Bodie said. “And the one you’re a’ridin’ looks pretty good.”

  “What about the fact that it was Younger’s horse?”

  “From what you’ve told me about the bastard, I doubt he has too many friends who are crying over him. And since I know what to look out for, why, I reckon I can stay out of trouble. So, what do you say, boy? We goin’ to trade?”

  Art smiled broadly. “Yes, sir, we’ll trade,” he said.

  “Listen, when you get up into the mountains, if you run into a couple o’ ugly varmints—one is named Clyde, the other calls himself Pierre—why, you tell ’em that ole’ Bodie says hello, will you?”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll do that.”

  “This be your first time in the mountains, boy?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I thought so. Well, watch yourself up there. Winter comes early to the high country. Before too much longer you’re goin’ to be needin’ to go to shelter. You any good with that there Hawken?”

  “Tolerable,” Art replied.

  “Then I advise you to get you some meat shot, couple o’ deer, an elk, maybe a bear. A bear would be nice ’cause you’d also have its skin to help you through the cold.”

  “Thanks for the advice.”

  * * *

  Art and Bodie parted company the next morning, having changed mounts. Rhoda wasn’t as comfortable a ride as Younger’s horse had been; she had a more syncopated gait and Art had to get used to it. But she wasn’t the first mule he had been around; back in Ohio his father had farmed with mules, so he knew how to work with them. And as mules go, Rhoda had an unusually gentle disposition.

  * * *

  Harding’s description of the West had been accurate. He had said that you would travel for days to reach the horizon, only to see it continue to stretch out before you.

  The plains had been impressive, with their wide-open spaces and the great herds of buffalo, along with deer and other game. But his pulse really quickened when he caught his first sight of the mountains, rising in the distant west.

  At first, he thought it was a low-lying cloudbank. But after a day or two, he realized that it must be a mountain range, though certainly more magnificent in size and grandeur than anything he had ever seen before.

  It took him nearly two weeks of hard traveling before he got close enough to make them out as individual mountains, rather than a featureless, purple rise in the distance. The closer he got, the higher and more formidable they became. He knew there was no way over them. He wondered if there was a way through them.

  Perhaps he was too focused on the grandeur of the mountains, or maybe he was just careless, but for some reason he was nearly right on the bear before he saw it. Art had seen bears before, but he had never seen a bear the size of this one. This bear was at least twice, and maybe three times as large as any of the brown or black bears he had seen back east.

  It was nearly time for it to hibernate, that is, assuming bears out here hibernated. Art didn’t know whether these creatures hibernated or not. After all, he was in an area of the country he had never seen before. Here, everything was big, the mountains, the wide-open spaces, and this bear.

  So far the bear had not seen Art, but that didn’t mean he didn’t know Art was here. Standing up on his hind legs, which gave him a height of at least eight or nine feet, the bear sniffed the air, trying to determine the source and direction of the scent he was picking up. Art had no doubt that once the bear located him, he would charge. Remembering Bodie’s suggestion that a bear would be a good means of providing for the winter, as well as for his own self-preservation, Art decided to shoot it. Keeping a wary eye on it, he loaded his rifle, primed it, then pulled back on the hammer and aimed at the beast.

  It was at precisely that moment that the bear saw him. Much faster than Art would have believed, the bear whirled around, came down on all fours, and started toward him. Art fired at the exact moment the bear turned to charge. As a result, the carefully aimed bullet that would have hit the bear in the heart, hit him in the side.

  The grizzly roared in pain and rage as it lumbered toward Art at amazing speed. Art pulled his pistol and fired, hitting the bear in the throat. The bear slapped at the wound, as if driving away a mosquito, but it didn’t stop its charge.

  Art thought about running, but realized that he wouldn’t be able to outrun the bear, and if the grizzly caught him from behind it would be all over. He had no choice now but to pull his knife, pray, and hope for the best.

  The huge beast raised up as it reached Art. It tried to claw Art, but the bullet in its side
had broken a couple of ribs, so it wasn’t able to control the swipe. Art ducked under the bear’s initial swipe, then stepped into the animal, thrusting his knife deep into where he thought the bear’s heart was.

  The grizzly made a second swipe with its other paw, and this time it connected. The long, sharp claws cut through Art’s buckskin shirt and opened up four deep gashes in his shoulder and chest. Fortunately for Art, that was the bear’s last effort, for even then it was dying. It fell on Art, knocking him down.

  Pinned beneath the one-thousand-pound grizzly, Art struggled to roll out from under. The struggle was difficult, not only because of the pain of his wound, but also because the loss of blood was making him feel dizzy and weak.

  Then, finally free, he stood up, staggered a few steps away from it, and collapsed.

  21

  When Art opened his eyes, he realized, with some surprise, that he was inside a building. He could smell smoke, and feel warmth from a fire. He could also smell something cooking.

  He tried to sit up, but when he did pain and nausea overtook him, and he fell back on the bunk. He moaned.

  “Bonjour, mon ami,” a voice said.

  Art turned his head and saw a man standing near the fireplace, in which a fire blazed. The fireplace didn’t draw that well, thus accounting for the smoke Art smelled. That same smoke also filled the room with such a haze that it was difficult for him to make out the man’s features.

  “Who are you?” Art asked.

  “I am called Pierre Garneau,” the man said, speaking with a decided accent. “And you are?”

  “My name is Art.” Art studied his surroundings. The last thing he could remember was crawling out from under the bear. “The bear?” he said. “What happened to the bear?”

  “Oh, you killed him, my young friend. It was a brave thing you did, to kill the bear with only a knife.”

  “I tried to shoot him, but I couldn’t get the job done that way.” Art looked around. “Where am I?”