Preacher's Fortune

by William W. Johnstone

  That increased the likelihood that the wagons might be able to make it to the top without running into another assault. Preacher turned, rode back down to where the party of travelers waited, and urged them to get moving.

  “Esteban, can you shoot a rifle?” he asked the young man.

  “Sí, señor.”

  “Let that Yaqui handle the team. You take a rifle and mount up on that extra horse. You’ll ride up front with me. The other two Injuns can bring up the rear. Tell ’em to be ready to fire.”

  Esteban nodded and passed along the orders.

  Preacher turned to Father Hortensio. “How about you, Padre? Ever shot a rifle?”

  The priest drew himself up and glared. “Of course not. As a man of God, I am also a man of peace.”

  Juanita spoke up. “I can use a rifle, Señor Preacher.”

  “Give your sister a gun,” Preacher said to Esteban. “If those varmints come after us again, we’ll hand ’em a warm welcome.”

  Esteban didn’t look all that happy about giving Juanita a rifle, but he took one from the wagon, loaded it, and handed it to her, along with a powder horn and a shot pouch. He armed himself the same way, climbed onto the extra horse, and followed Preacher out to a point about fifty yards ahead of the lead wagon.

  “How will we go on without the other mules?” he asked.

  “Worry about that once we’re on top of this here hill,” Preacher advised him.

  “Perhaps we should have turned around and gone back down.”

  Preacher shook his head. “Easier said than done. There wasn’t room to turn those wagons and teams around. Sometimes the best thing to do is to bull straight on ahead.”

  “I suspect you know a great deal about bulling ahead, Señor Preacher.”

  “I been accused o’ bein’ bullheaded often enough,” Preacher said with a chuckle. Despite the lighter moment, his eyes were always moving, roving over the rocky slopes around them, searching for any telltale signs of trouble. His rugged face grew more serious as he asked, “Who do you reckon those fellas were?”

  “The men who attacked us? Thieves, of course. They had to be thieves, after whatever is inside our wagons.”

  The answer came quickly from Esteban. Maybe a little too quickly, Preacher thought as his eyes narrowed. His question had been mostly an idle one. From the start, he had assumed that the bushwhackers were highwaymen of some sort.

  But Esteban’s reaction made him wonder, and for the first time his instincts warned him there might be more to all of this than he had suspected.

  Hank Sewell wouldn’t have to worry about his broken nose anymore. He had a lot more broken now. Probably every damn bone in his body, after that fall into the canyon. That grim thought was in Cobey Larson’s brain as he led the men into the camp about a mile from the top of the pass.

  Wick Jimpson was there, along with the man they had met the day before, down below the pass. Their employer had shown up on schedule, along with three other men he had hired as guides and bodyguards. Since Wick’s wounded leg hampered him too much for him to take part in the ambush, he had assumed the role of bodyguard. He could still get around well enough for that. The extra three men—Hardy Powers, Chuck Stilson, and George Worthy—had been placed under Cobey’s command. That gave him seven men, including himself, to stop the wagons carrying those Mexicans. It should have been plenty.

  But nothing had worked out, and now Cobey was furious. He had lost Sewell, and Stilson was wounded. A rifle ball had clipped him on the hip. He had bled like a stuck pig, but Cobey thought he was going to be all right. Wouldn’t be much good for a while, though, injured like that. Cobey’s own wounded arm was still stiff and sore, but it was healing all right and he could handle a gun; that was all that mattered.

  The man who had hired them hurried out from the camp to meet them. He was an Easterner, a tall, skinny fella who dressed fancy and liked giving orders too much, especially considering the fact that he didn’t know all that much about the West. Still, he had already paid them some decent wages, just for meeting him, and promised more if they helped him get what he wanted.

  “What happened?” he demanded as Cobey and the others rode up. “Did you stop the wagons? Where’s the Alvarez girl?”

  Cobey swung down from the saddle and said wearily, “We stopped the wagons, but then they got away.”

  “Got away?” the Easterner echoed. “You didn’t kill Esteban Alvarez?”

  “We didn’t kill anybody,” Cobey snapped. “Fact is, we lost a man, and got another wounded. You’d know that if you’d just open your eyes.”

  The man looked angry that Cobey would talk to him that way, but he held his temper. His intense gaze played over the other men for a moment, and he said, “Yes, I see now that one of you is missing. What happened?”

  “Somebody else took a hand. We had those greasers and their wagons pinned down, just like I planned. But then some other fella came along and started some rocks rollin’ down on us. We had to hightail it outta there, or risk havin’ what happened to Hank happen to the rest of us.”

  “What did happen?”

  “One of those rocks knocked him off the ledge where we set up our ambush,” Cobey answered grimly. “He fell past the trail and into a canyon a couple of hundred feet deep.”

  “Did you find his body?”

  Cobey snorted in disgust. “We never looked for it. Nobody ever survived a fall like that. Hate to say it, but the wolves’ll have to take care of ol’ Hank.”

  The Easterner grimaced. “This is truly a savage wilderness, isn’t it?”

  “Your choice to come out here,” Cobey said.

  “So the Alvarezes got away?”

  “That’s right. They’re likely on their way up to the top of the pass now. It’ll be a hard climb for them, since we killed two of their mules, but I reckon they can make it.”

  The other man nodded. “So we’ll have to stop them up here. I suppose that’ll have to be all right. All that really matters is they don’t reach their goal before I do.”

  “I thought you didn’t know exactly how to find what it is you’re lookin’ for. That’s why you needed us to grab the girl and kill her brother, so you could make her take you to it.”

  “Finding the location would certainly be easier with her help, but if it becomes necessary, I’ll conduct a search of my own. I’m confident in my abilities.”

  Cobey was glad somebody was confident in the fella. As for himself, he didn’t fully trust anybody from east of the Mississippi.

  “Well, you’d best tend to your wounded man,” the Easterner went on. “There’s nothing more we can do today, I suppose.” A thought occurred to him. “You said that someone interfered in your plans. Who was it?”

  “I ain’t sure,” Cobey said. “I never got a good look at him. But he’s a hell of a shot, I know that. And I know that if I ever find out who it was and cross trails with the son of a bitch . . . I’ll take great pleasure in guttin’ him, up one way and down the other.”

  The slow process of climbing to the top of the pass was made even slower by the loss of the two mules. More than once, the two Yaquis who weren’t driving had to dismount and put their shoulders against the back of a wagon to help push it farther along the trail. After a while, Preacher called a halt and decided that one of the mules should be taken from the second wagon and hitched into the empty spot in the first team. Then two of the Yaquis’ saddle horses were hitched side by side in the second team. Mixing horses and mules often didn’t work out, but in this case they didn’t have much choice.

  That made things go a little faster, and by late afternoon the wagons were finally nearing the top. Preacher sat on Horse and looked back down the trail. To his right, the mountains tailed on farther south. To his left, they petered out and turned into a vast sweep of mostly flat land that stretched all the way over into Texas. That was Comancheria over there, hundreds of miles where few if any white men had ever set foot. Bands of fierce Comanches roamed that
territory, hunting buffalo and making war on their enemies. Preacher had heard plenty about them, enough to know that they were best avoided. But he was intrigued anyway and told himself that one of these days he would ride through that country, just to see what it looked like.

  Beside him, Esteban Alvarez sat on his horse and said, “At times I wondered if we would ever make it. The journey has been a long one.”

  Preacher grunted. “All the way from Mexico City? I’d say so.”

  Esteban turned to him and went on. “I cannot express my gratitude enough, Señor Preacher. If not for your help, we would have died today. Those bandits would have killed us all and looted our wagons.”

  There he went, talking about thieves again. Preacher still wasn’t convinced that was all there was to it. But he didn’t want to press the issue at the moment. It was more important that they finish the job of getting the wagons through the pass and then make camp for the night.

  The wagons trundled up the last few hundred yards of the trail and came out on a high, windswept plateau. The Sangre de Cristos continued to rise to the west. To the east were some ranges of smaller mountains and hills, with more flat land visible beyond them. Ahead, to the north, were the ruts of the Santa Fe Trail. Though Preacher had never been over it, he knew the trail continued in that direction until it reached the Arkansas River, where Bent’s Fort was located. The trail turned east there and followed the river for a good long distance before it veered off to the northeast toward the Missouri settlements where it originated. While he was in Taos, Preacher had talked to several men who were familiar with the trail, and he had filed away in his brain the details of everything they said. Out here on the frontier, information was a little like gold: A man could never have too much of it.

  “It’s late enough in the day we’d better think about findin’ a good place to camp,” Preacher told Esteban. “Stay with the wagons and keep them movin’ north. I’ll find us a likely spot and ride back to show you the way.”

  “Do you think those men will come back?” Esteban asked worriedly.

  “You don’t never know,” Preacher answered bluntly and honestly. “But this is pretty open country right around here. If they show up, you ought to be able to see ’em comin’. Use the wagons for cover and put up the best fight you can. I’ll hear the shots and come a-runnin’.”

  “I hope it does not come to that,” Esteban said with a frown.

  “You and me both.” Preacher turned Horse and trotted off to the north with Dog following.

  He rejoined the wagons in less than half an hour with news that he had found a good campsite. He led the party off the trail to a small hollow ringed with trees. “They’ll give us some cover, in case we have to fight off an attack,” Preacher explained to Esteban.

  “Do you think that is likely?”

  “Don’t matter whether it’s likely or not. I figure to be ready in case it does happen.”

  After the wagons rolled through a gap in the trees into the hollow, Esteban dismounted and helped his sister and Father Hortensio climb down from the lead vehicle. The Yaquis set about efficiently caring for the animals and getting ready to spend the night here. One of them arranged some rocks in a circle and soon had a fire going. Preacher wasn’t sure that was a good idea. The group had been ambushed once already today, and with the exception of the man who had been knocked into the canyon, the varmints responsible for the attack were still out there somewhere. A fire would tell them exactly where the wagons were.

  Preacher soon saw that the Yaquis didn’t intend to leave the flames burning, though. One of the Indians quickly prepared supper and heated a pot of coffee, and then put out the fire before full darkness settled down. That came closer to meeting with Preacher’s approval.

  As they all gathered around the remains of the fire, which still gave off a little warmth, and began to eat, Juanita said, “It seems that you are now a member of our little company, Señor Preacher.”

  “Impossible,” Father Hortensio snapped before Preacher could respond.

  Esteban said, “We cannot ask Señor Preacher to inconvenience himself by traveling with us. I’m certain he has other destinations in mind.”

  “Well, I can’t rightly say,” Preacher drawled, “seein’ as how I don’t really know where you folks are bound. But it might be a good idea if I was to stick with you for a while. The bunch that jumped you is liable to try again, and you’ll likely need every gun you can get to help fight them off.”

  “I am sure they will find some other group of travelers to rob—”

  Preacher interrupted Esteban by saying, “That’s another thing. I don’t reckon those fellas were regular thieves. I think they were after something mighty particular—and I think you know what it is.” Ignoring the surprised looks on the faces of Esteban, Juanita, and Father Hortensio, he went on stubbornly. “I reckon it’s time one of you told me the truth.”

  SEVEN

  Father Hortensio glared at Preacher and sputtered, “I will not be called a liar by an uncouth heathen—”

  “I wasn’t really talkin’ to you, Padre,” Preacher broke in, silencing the priest with a look. He switched his gaze to Esteban and Juanita. Most of the light had faded from the sky, but enough remained for Preacher to make out the expressions of surprise and confusion on their faces. “I’m talkin’ to these two.”

  “I . . . I take offense at your words,” Esteban began. “To imply that we have somehow concealed the truth from you . . .”

  “Those men were thieves, bandits,” Juanita put in. “Why would you think otherwise?”

  Preacher took a sip of his coffee and then said, “Mainly, it’s the way you’ve been tryin’ to convince me they were just bandidos. I’ve knowed fellas who could quote most of Mr. Bill Shakespeare’s plays, and I recollect one of ’em sayin’, Methinks thou doth protest too much. That’s the way it sounds to me when you start talkin’ about those bushwhackers bein’ simple thieves. On top of that, you’ve got the fact that a couple of rich young folks would come all the way up here from Mexico City, draggin’ along a priest and some Injun servants. Seems to me like you’d have to have a mighty good reason to make such a trip. And then there’s the way the whole lot of you acted just now, when I brought it up. You folks are after something, and those bushwhackers were tryin’ to stop you from gettin’ to it.” Preacher leaned back on the log where he was sitting. “If I had to make a guess, I’d say we’re talkin’ about gold.”

  Father Hortensio caught his breath with a sharply indrawn hiss. “He knows!”

  “I reckon I do now,” Preacher said dryly.

  With a sigh, Esteban said, “No, you had figured it out already, Señor. But it is not just gold we seek. It is silver, too, and precious gems.”

  “It is more than that,” Juanita added quietly. “It is our history, our legacy.”

  “Why don’t you start from the beginnin’?” Preacher suggested.

  The Alvarez siblings looked at each other, but before either of them could speak, Father Hortensio said, “No! Tell him nothing more! I forbid it!”

  “With all due respect, Padre, it is not your place to forbid me to speak,” Esteban said.

  “I am an instrument of the Lord! Defy me and you defy Him!”

  “I am sorry,” Esteban said with a shake of his head, “but I think Señor Preacher has a right to know.”

  Father Hortensio glared for a moment, then folded his arms across his chest. “It is your decision, Esteban,” he said coldly. “I wash my hands of the matter.”

  “I remember hearin’ about another fella who was big on hand-washin’,” Preacher said. “Name of Pilate.”

  Father Hortensio puffed up until Preacher thought he might bust a blood vessel. The priest didn’t say anything else, though. He just stood up and walked stiffly over to one of the wagons, where he stood and glowered off into the growing darkness.

  “The father means well,” Esteban said in a low voice. “He takes his responsibilities to the Ch
urch very seriously.”

  “Nothin’ wrong with that. I just think it’s best that I know what we’re dealin’ with here, so I can lend you young folks a hand.”

  “You would join us in our quest, Señor?” Juanita asked.

  “Suppose you tell me about it, and then we’ll see.”

  “Very well.” Esteban took a deep breath. “The story goes back a little more than a hundred and fifty years, to a time when one of our ancestors, Don Francisco Ignacio Alvarez, was a military commander here in the province of Nuevo Mexico. Word reached the governor in Santa Fe that the Pueblo Indians were planning an uprising that would force out all the Spaniards in the province and destroy the missions that had been set up by the priests.”

  Preacher nodded. “The Pueblo Uprisin’. I’ve heard tell of it. Led by an Injun name of Popé, or somethin’ like that.”

  “Yes, that is right. You know the story, then. You know how the Indians did rise up as they planned and drove out the Spanish soldiers, forcing the settlers to flee all the way to El Paso del Norte.”

  “I’ve heard yarns about it. I ain’t an expert on the subject or nothin’ like that.”

  “We are experts,” Esteban said. “The story has been in our family for many generations of how the Indians fought with the soldiers and slaughtered every priest they could lay their hands on, desecrating and destroying the missions as well. It was a time of blood and fire, Señor Preacher, of torture and death.”

  “What’s it got to do with you now?” Preacher asked bluntly, knowing that with Esteban’s Latin flair for the dramatic, the story would probably take a long time in the telling if he didn’t speed things up.

  “As I said, our ancestor Don Francisco was a soldier. Before the uprising, the governor sent him to this area, to the Sangre de Cristos, to see if there was anything to the rumors of trouble. When he got here, he met a priest named Father Alberto.”