Preacher was leaning against a pickle barrel beside the priest. In a quiet voice, he said, “So’s bein’ a sour-faced jackass who acts like he’s got a corncob stuck up his butt.”
The priest turned sharply toward him and hissed, “You dare—”
“These are good folks,” Preacher cut in. “I don’t mean to be disrespectful, Padre, but I won’t stand by while they’re badmouthed, neither.”
“You do mean to be disrespectful,” Father Hortensio sneered at him. “You are a heathen, Señor!”
Preacher shrugged. “I disagree, but even if you’re right, I been called worse in my time.”
The priest just scowled, shook his bald head, and turned away. Preacher let him go. He sort of liked Esteban and Juanita, who didn’t seem quite as spoiled as they might have been, given their wealth, but he was more than ready for the unpleasant little priest to move on.
After breakfast, that was what happened. The Indians had the wagons ready, so the Alvarez siblings climbed on board, as did Father Hortensio, and the little caravan moved out with waves and shouts of farewell from the Ojeida family. Preacher stood off to the side with Dog and watched the wagons roll toward the mountains. It took them a while, but eventually they were out of sight.
Vincente came over to Preacher. “You will stay again?” he asked.
“Sure. I wouldn’t mind givin’ those folks a good head start before I leave. I’m headin’ the same direction, and I don’t want to ride up on ’em and wind up havin’ to travel with them. I’ve had enough of that priest.”
Vincente crossed himself. “Father Hortensio is a man of God. He should be respected.”
“Fella’s got to earn my respect,” Preacher said. “He don’t get it just because he wears a padre’s robes.”
Vincente changed the subject, clearly not wanting to argue with this tall, lanky mountain man who had become his friend. They walked around behind the trading post and Vincente resumed his target practice, with Preacher making a suggestion from time to time that might improve his marksmanship.
More than an hour had passed fairly pleasantly in that manner when Preacher suddenly stood up from the tree stump where he had been sitting and cocked his head. Vincente noticed his reaction and asked, “What is it, Preacher?”
“I thought I heard somethin’. . . . There it is again!” Distant popping sounds came to his ears.
Vincente frowned. “I hear it, too. What is that?”
A grim look settled over Preacher’s rugged face. “Those are gunshots, Vincente,” he said, “and it sounds like they’re comin’ from the pass.”
Vincente’s eyes widened. “Caramba! Señor Esteban and Señorita Juanita . . .”
Preacher nodded and said, “Yeah. It sounds like those young folks are in trouble. Bad trouble.”
FIVE
After the first flurry of gunshots, the sounds settled down to more regularly spaced intervals. Preacher heard them plainly enough as he was getting Horse ready to ride. It sounded to him like somebody had bushwhacked the Alvarez wagons and now had their occupants pinned down.
Of course, it was possible the shots had nothing to do with Esteban and Juanita and their companions. Preacher figured that was pretty unlikely, though.
Vincente came up to him as he finished tightening the saddle cinch. “I will go with you, Preacher,” he declared. He had put on a sombrero and had two pistols tucked behind his belt.
Preacher shook his head. “No, I reckon that ain’t a good idea. You’ve got a family and a business to look after, Vincente. Handlin’ gun trouble is more in my line.”
“But I can help you,” Vincente protested. “I am a much better shot now. You have said so yourself.”
“Maybe so, but there’s things you don’t know yet, and I ain’t got time right now to teach you.” Preacher saw hurt feelings flare in Vincente’s eyes at that blunt statement. He reached out and squeezed the man’s shoulder. “You’re a damn fine fella, Vincente, but there’s liable to be killin’ work up there in the mountains, and you just don’t know how to do that yet.”
If you’re lucky, Preacher added to himself, you never will.
He swung up into the saddle while Vincente stood there frowning. From atop Horse’s back, Preacher said, “If I don’t come back, you might ought to get word to Santa Fe about those young folks. The army might want to come up here and have a look around for ’em.”
Vincente nodded. “Sí. I will do this.”
Preacher returned the nod and heeled Horse into a fast trot. Dog bounded along beside them. Without looking back, he rode toward the Sangre de Cristos and the high pass that led through the mountains.
It wasn’t hard to follow the wagon tracks leading to the pass. The Alvarez wagons were far from the first ones to use this trail. Over the past few years, hundreds of vehicles belonging to Bent and St. Vrain had traversed this path, carrying heavy loads of goods both ways between St. Louis and Santa Fe. The wheels of those wagons had etched ruts in the softer ground and had even left marks on the rockier stretches. Preacher still heard the faint popping of gunshots as he reached the base of the mountains and started up the trail to the pass.
At first the route swung back and forth and the slope was fairly gentle. The trail reached a point, however, where the climb was sharper. Horse managed it without much trouble, but Preacher sensed that even the valiant animal underneath him was laboring a bit more than usual. For mules or oxen pulling wagons, it would be a long, slow climb. It probably took most of a day for a wagon train to reach the top.
Preacher wondered how far Esteban and Juanita had made it before they were ambushed.
Again he cautioned himself not to jump to conclusions. Maybe it was one of the trade caravans that had been attacked. He figured they must be tempting targets for bandidos or renegade Indians, what with all the supplies they carried. Vincente hadn’t said anything about expecting a caravan to come through today, but that didn’t mean it was impossible.
He would find out soon enough, Preacher told himself grimly. The shots were louder now. He would be coming to the site of the trouble before too much longer.
About forty-five minutes had passed since he left the Ojeida trading post when he spotted a puff of smoke from a rocky bluff that shouldered out from the side of the mountain and overlooked the trail. The smoke was followed an instant later by the crack of a rifle, the sound traveling clearly through the thin air. Preacher reined Horse to a halt and studied the face of that bluff. Several more puffs of smoke spurted out from different points. There must be a ledge running across there, Preacher decided, and half-a-dozen or so gunmen were hidden up there, firing down at the trail. From where he was, a hump of ground shielded the trail itself from his sight. Preacher dismounted and, taking his rifle with him, strode up the rise so that he could see the trail.
His mouth tightened into a thin line at the sight of the two wagons stopped on a fairly level stretch about two hundred yards ahead of him. They were the Alvarez wagons, all right; he had no trouble recognizing them. One of the lead mules on each team had been shot and collapsed in its traces, bringing both vehicles to a halt. Preacher didn’t see anyone on or around the wagons, but as he watched, a shot came from underneath one of them. The members of the party must have taken cover underneath the wagons when the shooting started.
Preacher wondered if any of them had been hit. There were no bodies lying around, at least not that he could see, and he told himself that was a good sign. Those pilgrims were in a bad fix, though. At the point where the wagons were stopped, the trail was about twenty feet wide. To the right, the bluff where the bushwhackers were hidden rose sharply. To the left of the wagons was a steep drop-off that fell several hundred feet to a canyon. There was no cover around the wagons themselves. The people hiding underneath them were pinned down, good and proper.
They weren’t putting up much of a fight, either. An occasional shot came from under the wagons, but each time it drew heavy fire in return. The thick planks of the
wagon bodies would probably stop most bullets, but the lead balls might ricochet from the stony surface of the trail and bounce around under the wagons, wreaking havoc.
Somehow, Preacher had to figure out a way to stop those ambushers, or the people with the wagons were doomed.
His brain, trained by years of living in dangerous situations despite his relative youth, swiftly considered and discarded several options. Riding down to the wagons wouldn’t do any good; if he did that, then he’d just be trapped, too. He might have been able to climb above the ledge where the riflemen were concealed and fire down into their midst, but that would take too long. He was looking at a climb of an hour or more that way. And taking potshots at them from down here might annoy them, but he doubted if he could do any serious damage that way. The angle was such that the ledge shielded them.
Preacher lifted his gaze higher on the bluff. He saw several outcroppings of rock that were littered with boulders. He frowned as he studied the angles and did some rough figuring in his head. He thought that if he could get some of those rocks to moving, they might just roll down onto that ledge and cause some real problems for the bushwhackers. Of course, that would put the people even lower down with the wagons at some risk, too, but Preacher thought the slope was such that any falling rocks would fly out beyond the ledge and plummet on into the canyon far below. And there weren’t enough boulders up there to cause a full-fledged avalanche.
It was worth a try, he decided. He couldn’t see any other way to help the pilgrims trapped under those wagons.
He moved to the side of the trail and rested the barrel of his rifle on a rock, steadying it as he drew a bead on a likely boulder. His shot had to hit right under it, where the rock rested on the ground. If his aim was too high, the ball from his rifle would just splatter against the face of the boulder itself. He pulled back the hammer, sighted in as best he could, and pressed the trigger. The flintlock snapped, the priming powder went off with a hiss, and then the main charge exploded with a loud roar. The stock kicked hard against Preacher’s shoulder.
The distance was too great. He couldn’t tell where his shot had hit, or if it had done any good. But he knew it might take several more tries to dislodge the boulder. With quick, practiced movements, he reloaded the rifle, rested it on the rock again, and fired a second time.
By now the men on the ledge must have heard his shots and figured out that somebody else was taking cards in this game. Preacher wasn’t surprised when a ball struck the rock wall above his head, causing a little shower of dust and rock splinters. The shot had missed him by several yards, so he didn’t worry overmuch about it. He just finished reloading, brought the rifle to his shoulder, and let off another round.
This time he saw the boulder lurch forward a few inches before it came to a stop.
Something whined past his ear like a big insect. The ball kicked up dust in the trail behind him. He finished reloading and lifted the rifle again, nestling his beard-stubbled cheek against the smooth wood of the stock as he drew a bead. He pressed the trigger, and once again the rifle roared and kicked.
The boulder was poised on the bluff in a delicate balance. The men who had hidden themselves on the ledge to ambush the wagons had seen that it was a good place for a trap, but they had neglected to notice that they were placing themselves in harm’s way as well. Now, as the boulder lurched forward again and began to roll, Preacher thought he heard faint shouts of alarm from the bushwhackers.
The boulder toppled headlong, bounced off a couple of other rocks, and started them rolling, too. With a rumble like distant thunder, the rockslide grew in breadth and power.
Preacher saw men leap to their feet and race for the far end of the ledge, where it curved back out of sight. Smaller rocks smashed down around them as they fled. Preacher finished reloading the rifle yet again and snapped it to his shoulder. Aiming quickly, he fired. He thought one of the bushwhackers staggered as if hit, but he couldn’t be sure about that. Dust was beginning to rise, obscuring his view of the ledge.
He saw one of the men struck by a falling boulder, though. It swept the luckless victim right off the ledge and out into empty space. Screaming, the man plummeted toward the trail some fifty feet below. He fell past it, though, along with the rock that had knocked him from the ledge, and disappeared into the canyon. His scream faded away.
Preacher reloaded the rifle yet again and ran back to Horse, where he hung the weapon on its sling attached to the saddle. He swung up onto Horse’s back, called, “Come on, Dog!” and rode hard for the wagons.
Clouds of dust hung in the air around the ledge. It wouldn’t take long for them to blow away. But for the moment, even if the bushwhackers dared to venture back out onto the ledge, they wouldn’t be able to see to shoot down at the trail. They would have to fire blind, if at all. Preacher wanted to take advantage of that momentary respite and get the wagons moving again.
The Yaquis must have heard the pounding of Horse’s hooves on the trail, because they scrambled out from under the wagons, rifles in their hands. Before they could blaze away at Preacher, Esteban Alvarez followed them out and called, “No! Hold your fire!”
Preacher reached the wagons a moment later and didn’t bother to dismount. He swept an arm toward a bend in the trail about a hundred yards ahead of them and shouted, “Let’s go! Cut them dead mules loose and get the hell out of here! Once you’re around that bend, maybe they won’t be able to fire down on you!”
Esteban caught at his stirrup. “Señor Preacher!” he said. “We were attacked—”
“I know that, and them buzzards are liable to come back and make a second try at you if you just sit here waitin’ for ’em!” He called out to the Yaquis in his rough Spanish, hoping they understood as he repeated his orders to cut the dead mules loose from the rest of the animals and move the wagons around the bend.
The Yaquis got to work while Esteban helped his sister and Father Hortensio crawl out from under the lead wagon. Preacher didn’t think any of them had been wounded, which was mighty lucky. The bushwhackers had killed the mules first to stop the wagons, and that had given the travelers just enough time to scurry to safety underneath the heavy vehicles.
Preacher rode ahead, scouting around the bend. As he had hoped, there was enough of an overhang shielding the trail so that another ambush would be impossible right here. He wheeled Horse around and trotted back, glad to see that the Yaquis had gotten the dead mules cut loose from their harness. Two of the Indians had taken the reins and began pulling the wagons around the slaughtered animals. “Climb on!” Preacher urged Esteban, Juanita, and Father Hortensio. “We can’t afford to slow down!”
Esteban had to help Juanita and Father Hortensio clamber up onto the wagons. The priest was clumsier and needed more assistance than the young woman. They managed, though, and the wagons rolled on toward the bend in the trail. The Yaquis who were driving had to saw on the reins and tug hard to make the mules cooperate. It wasn’t easy with unbalanced teams. The other two Indians rode behind the wagons, leading the extra saddle horse. Preacher rode in front, his rifle now in his hands again in case he had to make a quick shot at the first sign of another attack.
There was no ambush, however, and slowly the crippled wagons made their way around the bend and into the shelter of the overhang. Preacher waved for the Yaquis to stop and called, “Alto!” The Indians hauled back on the reins.
Preacher rode over to the lead wagon. Esteban and Father Hortensio peered out the back of it, their faces pale and drawn. “Anybody hurt?” Preacher asked.
Esteban shook his head. “Only the two mules who were killed. When we heard the shots and saw the mules stumble, we knew we were under attack and got under the wagons. Luck was with us.”
“God was with us,” Father Hortensio corrected.
“You better hope he still is,” Preacher said, “if you ever want to make it to the top of this pass alive.”
SIX
Juanita Alvarez climbed out of the wago
n, following her brother and Father Hortensio. She was as pale and frightened as they were, but she kept her back straight and her head up. Preacher saw that and admired her grit.
“Señor Preacher,” she said. “You saved our lives. How did you manage to make the mountain fall on our attackers?”
“Well, it weren’t hardly a whole mountain, just a few rocks,” Preacher explained. “That slide probably looked and sounded worse’n it really was. But it spooked those old boys enough to make ’em turn tail and run, and that’s all that matters.”
“It did more than that to one of them,” Esteban said. “I saw him knocked over the edge. He fell past us, all the way down into that canyon.” A shudder ran through the young man’s frame, and Father Hortensio made the sign of the cross and muttered a prayer.
“You’re wastin’ your breath, Padre,” Preacher told the priest.
“Does not any man deserve to have his soul commended to God upon his death?” Father Hortensio challenged.
“If that bushwhacker shows up at the Pearly Gates, I expect St. Peter’ll tell him to skedaddle, that there ain’t no place for him. More than likely he’s toastin’ himself on the fires o’ hell right about now.”
“You cannot presume such a thing.”
Preacher bit back the retort that almost came to his lips. He had bigger problems on his plate than arguing theology with a stiff-necked priest. “You folks fort up here for a while,” he told them. “I’m gonna do a little scoutin’ on ahead.”
“You wish to join our party?” Esteban asked with a frown.
“I didn’t say that. I reckon for the time bein’, though, we’re in this mess together, at least until we all get to the top of the pass.”
With a warning for them to keep their eyes open and stay ready for trouble, he rode on up the trail, which soon resumed its steep climb.
Preacher didn’t see any sign of the bushwhackers, and wondered if they could have given up. That ledge must have led to another trail that they had followed out of these rugged peaks and valleys. It didn’t take long for his experienced eyes to see that the spot where the wagon had been attacked was the best place for an ambush in the pass. Anywhere else, the bushwhackers would have been exposed to any return fire.
Preacher's Fortune Page 4
