Cobey wanted to tell them all to shut up their yammering. He was in no mood for it. But he suppressed his anger. These men were his partners, after all, and it wasn’t their fault that they had run up against the man called Preacher.
As if reading Cobey’s mind, Arnie asked, “You reckon it was really him?”
“Preacher, you mean?” Bert asked.
“Yeah. I’ve heard about him, but I never saw him before.”
“I did,” Hank Sewell put in, his voice sounding odd because his nose had swelled up and was closed off completely. “Saw him at a Rendezvous a few years ago, not long after he picked up the name Preacher. It was him, all right.”
“How come you didn’t know him right off?” Cobey asked.
Hank shrugged. “Well, it’s been a while. And it ain’t like him and me was ever friends. I just saw him once at a Rendezvous, that’s all.”
“Is he a bad man?” Wick asked. “He must be, because he hurt me.”
“He’s a dangerous man,” Arnie said. “That’s for damned sure.”
Cobey snapped, “He’s just a man. He can be killed like anybody else. And I intend to do it.”
Arnie leaned forward and said anxiously, “We got a job to do, Cobey. We can’t meet that fella at the tradin’ post like we was supposed to. How’re we gonna handle it now?”
“We’re going to wait here,” Cobey answered without hesitation. “The main trail passes right by here. If everything’s goin’ accordin’ to plan, he ought to pass by in a few days, and we’ll meet him then. No reason we can’t go right ahead with the thing and get it done.”
“And when it’s done?”
The bottle had made its way back around the circle to Cobey. He lifted it to his lips and took a healthy slug. When he lowered it, he said, “By then we’ll all be healed up, so we’ll find Mr. High-and-Mighty Preacher and make him rue the day.”
“Rue the day,” Wick repeated. “It sounds nice.”
Preacher meant to leave the trading post early the next morning, but after a peaceful night’s sleep, Vincente Ojeida asked him for some tips on handling a pistol, and Preacher was in such a good mood that he agreed to spend the morning there.
Followed by Dog, Preacher and Vincente walked out to a large open space behind the trading post, where Preacher placed several fist-sized chunks of rock on the trunk of a fallen tree Vincente had been meaning to split up for firewood. Then he moved back about twenty paces and drew both pistols. While Vincente watched, Preacher lifted both weapons and fired them without even seeming to aim. Two of the rocks on the log blew apart.
“Dios mio!”
Preacher lowered the pistols and smiled. “Don’t go gettin’ the idea that I can do that ever’ time,” he cautioned. “Along about ever’ seven or eight shots, I’m liable to miss one, ’specially if somebody’s shootin’ back at me.”
“You can teach me how to do this?” Vincente asked enthusiastically.
“I seriously doubt it. Some hombres, and I happen to be one of ’em, are what you might call freaks o’ nature. The Good Lord blessed us with the speed to get a gun into action in a hurry, and the steady hand and eye so that most of the time all we have to do to hit somethin’ is to look at it. It’s a God-given talent . . . although sometimes when there’s so much killin’ goin’ on, it seems to me almost like the Devil might’ve had a hand in it, too. There’s times, though, when it comes in mighty handy.”
Vincente looked disappointed. “But you cannot teach me?”
“Not to do what I just done. With practice, though, you can be as good a shot, or better, than most folks you’ll ever run into. Let me see your pistol.”
Vincente held out the gun he had brought from the trading post. Preacher looked it over, nodded in satisfaction, and handed it back to him.
“That’s a fine weapon, and it’s been taken care of. It’ll shoot true. Now load ’er up and let ’er rip.”
“You want me to shoot at the rocks?” Vincente asked as he loaded and primed the pistol. His movements were fairly slow, but he didn’t fumble with what he was doing. That was a good sign.
“Just pick one of them and aim at it,” Preacher told him. “Don’t get in a hurry, but don’t waste a lot of time, either. The longer you stand there holding your arm outstretched with a gun in your hand, the heavier it’s gonna get.”
Instinctively, Vincente took a deep breath without Preacher having to tell him to do so. He aimed for a couple of seconds and then pressed the trigger. The pistol boomed and bucked upward in his hand. He lowered it, squinted through the cloud of powder smoke that floated in front of him, and said, “I missed!”
“The rock’s still there, all right. Look right underneath it, though.” Preacher pointed at a scar in the wood.
“Is that where the shot hit?”
“Sure is. You didn’t miss but by a few inches. Try again.”
Vincente began reloading. The look of disappointment that had been on his face a moment earlier had vanished swiftly. When he was ready, he took aim and fired again. This time one of the rocks shattered, the pieces flying apart as the heavy lead ball struck it. Vincente let out an excited whoop.
“There you go,” Preacher said. “You got a good eye. I can tell that about you. All you need is practice, and you’ll be a lot better shot than you ever thought you could be.”
“I cannot thank you enough, Señor Preacher—I mean, Preacher. Can I shoot again?”
Preacher waved a hand. “It’s your powder and lead. Have at it.”
For the next half hour, Vincente practiced, with Preacher setting up more rocks on the log for him to use as targets. He still missed about as many shots as he made, but Preacher thought that was pretty good and said as much. When Vincente was ready to call a halt to the practice, he said, “You will stay and eat with us, and then this afternoon, after siesta, we will shoot again, no?”
Preacher rubbed his jaw. He’d been planning to ride out, but Vincente was good company and his womenfolks were good cooks, there was no doubt about that. And Preacher figured there were still more tips he could give Vincente that would make him an even better shot. For one thing, Vincente needed to understand that shooting at rocks on a log and shooting at a man who was trying to kill you as hard as you were trying to kill him were two entirely different things. Preacher figured that a good grasp of that truth was at least as important as knowing how to stand and hold the gun and aim.
“Sure,” he told the eager Vincente. “I reckon I can tarry a while longer. That’s one good thing about livin’ wild and free—nobody’s waitin’ for you.”
But even as the words came out of his mouth, a memory flashed through his mind, a memory of a girl with long dark hair and a gentle touch and a sweet smile . . . a girl long gone, who probably never would have been his, even if she had lived. Yes, living wild and free had its blessings....
But it had its little curses, too.
FOUR
What with one thing and another, three days went by and Preacher was still at the trading post. There were things around the place, like repairing the roof and the corral fence, that Vincente could use the help of another man for, and their shooting practice continued, too. Lupita had made friends with Dog, and the big brute was acting almost like a pup again. Preacher had ridden fairly hard from Texas, and Horse could use the rest. Preacher’s only real worry was that if he stayed here too long, he might get fat from Elgera’s cooking. He couldn’t hardly empty his plate at mealtime before she had it filled up again.
Every day when he rolled out of his robes, he told himself that he’d be moving on. But good intentions, and all that . . .
He and Vincente were behind the trading post on the third afternoon. Vincente was practicing firing two pistols at the same time and not getting the hang of it. He had just lowered the empty weapons when Lupita came running around the building, calling, “Papá, Papá! Wagons coming!” Dog trailed behind her, barking excitedly.
Preacher and Vincente turned to
face the girl. “One of the wagon trains of Señor Bent and Señor St. Vrain?” Vincente asked.
Lupita shook her head. “No, there are only two wagons. They come from the south.”
“Travelers,” Vincente said. “But where are they going?”
“Only one way to find out,” Preacher said.
The four of them walked back around the trading post. Preacher saw the wagons trundling toward them along the trail, drawn by teams of mules. They were squarish vehicles with canvas covers over the backs. As they came closer, Preacher saw that a well-dressed man and woman sat on the driver’s seat of the first wagon. They appeared to be in their twenties. The young man handled the reins and was doing a decent job of it. The second wagon was being driven by a stolid-faced Indian in white tunic and pants. A blue sash was around his waist, and a matching strip of cloth was tied around his head, holding back his thick, square-cut black hair. Next to him on the seat of the second wagon was a priest in a brown, hooded robe. Three Indians who resembled the one driving the wagon followed on horseback.
“Ricos,” Vincente said quietly. “Rich ones, from Taos or Santa Fe, or perhaps even Mexico City. Why are they here?”
Preacher agreed with Vincente’s assessment. The young couple’s fancy clothes were indicators of their wealth, as were the sturdy wagons and the fine mule teams. The Indians were probably their servants. But Preacher didn’t know why they had come to the edge of the Sangre de Cristos, or what the priest was doing with them.
Elgera came out on the porch, too, and watched with the others as the wagons pulled up to the trading post and stopped. The young man climbed down easily from the lead wagon’s high seat and then turned to help the young woman descend to the ground. Together, they came to the bottom of the steps leading to the log building’s porch.
They made a fine-looking pair. The boy was handsome and the gal was beautiful. Preacher couldn’t decide if they were married, or brother and sister. He thought he detected a family resemblance that made him lean toward the latter choice.
That was confirmed a moment later when the young man said, “Hola, señores y señora.” He took off his flat-crowned hat, revealing thick, glossy black hair, and swept low in a bow to Lupita. “Y muy bonita señorita.”
Lupita blushed at the compliment, making her even prettier.
The young man straightened and replaced his hat on his head. “I am Esteban Felipe Alvarez, and this is my sister Juanita Olivera Alvarez.”
“Welcome to my trading post, Señor and Señorita,” Vincente said. “I am Vincente Ojeida. This is my wife and daughter, and our amigo, Señor Preacher.”
“Preacher?” The sharply spoken word came from the priest, who had climbed down from the second wagon and now came forward. The four Indians stayed deferentially in the background. “You are a man of God?” The priest’s expression as he looked up at Preacher made it clear that he found that idea hard to believe.
“Not like you, Padre,” Preacher replied, “although I reckon I’m on good enough speakin’ terms with the fella you call El Señor Dios.”
“If you are not a preacher, is it not presumptuous of you to call yourself one?”
Most of the time, Preacher got along all right with men of God, but he felt an instinctive dislike for this little priest. The padre had thrown back the hood of his robe, revealing that he was bald except for a fringe of hair around his ears and the back of his head. He wasn’t all that old, though, probably no more than thirty.
Keeping his temper in check, Preacher said, “The Injuns tagged that moniker on me. I got captured by a bunch of Blackfoot who figured on torturin’ me to death. I couldn’t get away from ’em, so I done the only thing I could. I started talkin’. I’d seen a street preacher one time, back in St. Louis, so I done like him and spouted the Gospel for ten or twelve hours straight. By that time, the Injuns decided that I was touched by the spirits—”
“The Holy Spirit?” the priest interrupted.
“Spirits that they found holy, anyway.” Preacher shrugged. “They let me go, and that was all I cared about. The story got around, and I been knowed as Preacher ever since.”
Vincente looked up from beside him and said, “You never told me that story, amigo.”
“Well, I’ve only knowed you a few days, and you ain’t asked about it yet.”
“This is true.”
The priest said, “I still think it is improper for a sinner to bear such a name.”
“Last time I checked,” Preacher drawled, “we was all sinners, old son.”
The priest glared and might have continued the argument, but Esteban Alvarez said smoothly, “You must forgive Father Hortensio. He takes his calling very seriously.”
The priest sniffed. “How else should I take it? What else in life could be more important than doing the work of our Holy Mother Church?”
As if he hadn’t been interrupted, Esteban continued. “We have journeyed far, all the way from Mexico City, and would like to buy some supplies before we continue on our way. Can you accommodate us, Señor Ojeida?”
“Of course, Señor. Please, you and your sister come in.”
So far, Juanita Alvarez had not spoken. But as she and her brother stepped onto the porch, Lupita came up to her and said, “Señorita, your dress is so . . . so beautiful! I have never seen anything like it!”
Juanita smiled at the girl and said, “Gracias. I have others in the wagon. Perhaps you would like to try one of them on before we leave?”
Lupita turned her excited gaze toward her mother. “Did you hear that? Can I try on one of the señorita’s dresses, Mamá?”
“Perhaps,” Elgera said. “We will see.” She was frowning slightly, as if she didn’t totally approve of the visitors. Preacher could understand that. Elgera probably didn’t want her daughter’s head getting filled with notions. Life out here on the Santa Fe Trail was hard, and there wasn’t much time for extravagances.
Everyone went inside the trading post except Preacher and the Indians. Father Hortensio gave the mountain man an unfriendly look out of the corner of his eye as he went past, but Preacher ignored him. He didn’t give a hoot whether or not some priest approved of him.
Preacher lingered on the porch instead and kept an eye on the Indians. He wondered what tribe they belonged to. Down in Texas, there were Comanches and Apaches, but these Indians didn’t belong to either of those tribes. Navajo, maybe, he decided, although that didn’t seem exactly right, either. He wasn’t going to ask them. He didn’t know if they even spoke English, and his Spanish, while good enough for him to get by, wasn’t fluent by any means. They paid no attention to him. The three on horseback had dismounted, and now all four of them squatted on their haunches next to the second wagon and talked among themselves in guttural voices too low for Preacher to make out the words. He probably wouldn’t have been able to understand their lingo, even if he knew what they were saying.
Vincente came back out onto the porch a few minutes later. “Señor Alvarez is picking out his supplies,” he said. “I think he must be the richest man who ever stopped here.”
“Did he say where they’re bound?”
Vincente shook his head. “Up over the pass, that is all I know.”
Preacher rubbed at his jaw as he frowned in thought. “Sort of out of place up here, ain’t they?”
“It is true,” Vincente said with a shrug. “The señorita, I can tell she is tired. The journey has been hard on her.”
“They must have some mighty important reason to come all the way from Mexico City and go on up into the mountains like they’re plannin’.”
“Sí, but it is no business of mine.”
“Mine, neither,” Preacher said.
But he had a nagging feeling in the back of his mind that it might not stay that way.
Since it was already fairly late in the day, it came as no surprise when Esteban Alvarez decided that he and his sister and their companions would camp there at the trading post that night before movin
g on to the pass the next day. Vincente explained apologetically that he had no rooms to rent to the travelers, but Esteban told him not to worry.
“My sister sleeps in our wagon, and I have a tent for myself and Father Hortensio,” he explained. “The Yaquis sleep under the wagons.”
“Yaquis, eh?” Preacher said. “I wondered what tribe they belonged to.”
“They come from the mountains of Mexico,” Esteban said, “and are fierce fighters. But once they have declared their allegiance, there are no more loyal servants to be found anywhere.”
Preacher hoped the young man was right about that. He had kept a close eye on the Yaquis, and they didn’t look all that trustworthy to him. They had a sort of mean look in their eyes, like they would have enjoyed staking him out on an anthill and carving his eyelids off with their knives. The feeling was enough to make Preacher’s hand itch to close around the butt of a pistol.
He kept his suspicions to himself, though, not wanting to alarm Vincente and Elgera without any reason. And he had to admit that the Yaquis had been on their best behavior so far. After dinner that night, everybody bedded down just like Esteban had said they would.
Preacher was restless and kept waking up during the night to check on the group camped near the trading post. As far as he could tell, everything was quiet and peaceful. The travelers rose early the next morning. While the Yaquis prepared the teams for leaving, Esteban, Juanita, and Father Hortensio went into the trading post for breakfast. Juanita carried one of her dresses, which she gave to Lupita. “It will be a little large on you, chiquita, but your mamá can take it up,” she said with a smile.
Lupita clutched the dress to her and asked excitedly, “Can I keep it, Mamá?”
A little reluctantly, Elgera said, “That will be fine. Muchas gracias, señorita.”
“De nada,” Juanita said casually.
Father Hortensio watched the exchange with a frown of disapproval on his face. “Vanity is a sin,” he proclaimed to no one in particular.
Preacher's Fortune Page 3
