Preacher, crouched no more than fifteen feet away, suddenly split the high mountain air with the scream of a panther. Bates fired his rifle and hit nothing and Hunter peed his dirty underwear. Preacher screamed again and the horses of the men broke loose from their picket pins and went racing off, eyes wild with fear.
“Shoot your damn gun, Bates!” Hunter yelled, frantically reloading.
“At what?” Bates hollered.
Two young Ute braves, in their late teens, hiding and watching on the other side of the animal trail, had to shove their fingers in their mouths to keep from laughing at the antics of the two frightened white men. They knew it was Preacher on the other side of the trail, and not a panther. This was going to be a good story to tell around the night fires. They would entertain the whole village with its telling. They might even make up a dance, showing how frightened the silly white men were. Yes, they would definitely do that.
Hunter got his rifle charged and brought it to his shoulder just as Preacher picked up a rock and flung it. The fist-sized rock caught Hunter in the center of his forehead and knocked him down and goofy. His rifle went off and the ball missed Bates by about an inch, slamming into a tree. Bates yelled as blown-off bark bloodied one side of his face.
“You’ve shot me, you goose!” Bates hollered, dropping his rifle and putting both hands to his bloody face. Bates suddenly stepped on a loose rock, lost his footing, and began flailing his arms in a futile attempt to maintain his balance. He lost and went rolling down the side of the rise, yelling and hollering for help. He banged his head on about a half dozen rocks on his way down and came to rest against a tree, totally addled.
The two young Utes were rolling on the ground, clutching their sides in silent hysterics at the sight unfolding before their eyes. This story and dance would be remembered and retold and danced for years to come. This was the funniest thing they had seen since Lame Wolf’s fat and grumpy and ill-tempered wife, Slow Woman, sat down on a porcupine’s tail while picking berries one day. Even Lame Wolf thought that was funny. Until she hit him in the head with a club and knocked him silly. Slow Woman never did have much of a sense of humor.
Preacher knew the young Utes were on the other side of the trail. They were good in the woods, but not as good as Preacher. And by now he could see them rolling on the ground in silent laughter. That was good. They would tell Wind Chaser and he would have them dance it out and the entire village would be amused.
Preacher stepped out of hiding and jerked the shot, powder, and pistols from the near-unconscious Hunter. He picked up both rifles and vanished into the timber. He caught up with their horses and led them off. Bates and Hunter were going to have some tall explaining to do when they caught up with Bones and party. If they caught up with Bones.
The two young Utes left in a run, back to their village. They could not wait to tell this story.
* * *
Wind Chaser was clutching his sides, his face contorted with laughter long before the young braves had finished telling their story. When they had finished, he wiped his eyes and said, “Our hunters have brought in much meat this day. We will feast and dance this evening. Ed-de will be entertained and be happy with this news.” He pointed at the two young Utes. “You two go now and bathe and prepare your dance for this evening. You have both done well.” He rose and entered his tipi to tell Eddie of the feasting and dancing and story-telling that evening. Good food, rest, and the attentions of the women had done the boy good. His fever was gone and he was able to walk about for short periods of time. Wind Chaser had talked it over with his wife and they had both agreed to ask Preacher if they could have the boy, for as long as Man Above allowed him time to live. If Preacher did not agree, well, that was the way it had to be. But Wind Chaser felt he could prevail upon the mountain man. He had known Preacher for a time, and known of Preacher for a longer time. And Preacher possessed uncommon good sense for a white man. Not as much sense as an Indian, of course, but one could not expect too much of a white man.
* * *
Preacher had found him a snug little hidey-hole for the evening. He had trapped a big, fat rabbit and it was on a spit. He was smiling about his day’s work as he drank the strong black coffee and savored the good smells of food cooking.
Hunter and Bates had staggered into the camp of Bones and company just about dark. Both of them were footsore and weary, and both had knots on their heads.
Bones took one look at the pair and said, “I don’t even want to hear about it.” He turned and walked away.
Van Eaton took his plate of food and joined Bones, sitting down on the ground. “We got to talk, Bones.”
“So talk.”
“If Dark Hand is right, and I ’spect he is, and the Utes has taken a likin’ to the kid, we can scratch him off the list. We won’t be able to get within five miles of that Ute camp.”
“Agreed.”
“Preacher is playin’ with us. He could have kilt both them men but didn’t.”
Bones nodded his head in sour agreement.
“I just don’t like it, Bones. It’s a black mood that’s layin’ on me. I get the feelin’ that Preacher is tryin’ to tell us that if we’ll leave now, we can leave alive. But if we stay, he’s gonna turn this game bloody.”
“After seeing Hunter and Bates, I tend to agree with you. But them crazy foreigners has upped the ante, Van.” He stated the amount and Van Eaton almost choked on his food. He swallowed hard and stared at Bones. Bones nodded his head. “You heard me right. We don’t even have to think about robbing them. They’re offering us enough money to retire on, Van. Think about it. With that much money we could both buy them farms and horse breeding stables and the like we’ve always talked about. We could live like gentry.”
Van Eaton thought about that for a moment, his eyes shining with greed and cruelty and cunning. “Yeah. And oncest we got shut of the foreigners, we could kill ever’body ’ceptin’ our own men and we’d have twicest the money.”
“That’s right. And them crazy lords and dukes and such has agreed to divvy up money right now if we’ll stay. And they’s this to think about: We might not even have to kill the men to get the money. You know damn well if we stay, Preacher is gonna kill fifteen or twenty, at least, ’fore we get him. Maybe more than that. Probably more than that. We could just take the money off their bodies and nobody would be the wiser.”
“Is them lords and such carryin’ that much money on them, Bones?”
“No. Of course not. But they are carrying bank drafts that’s legitimate. All they got to do is fill them out and they’re good. I know that for a fact. They’re kill-crazy, Van. All of them. I ain’t never heard tell of some of the things they claim to have killed. Rinossoruses and wild crazy-sounded animals all over the world.”
Van Eaton blinked at that. “What kind of ossorusses? What the hell kind of animal is that?”
Bones shook his head. “I don’t know. I never heard nothing like it. They may be tellin’ great big whackers for all I know. What do you say, Van? Do we take the deal?”
Van Eaton slowly nodded his head. “Yeah, Bones. We take the deal.”
“I got a plan,” Bones said. “And it’s a good one. The way I got it figured, it shouldn’t take no more than a week to push Preacher into a pocket and let them fancy-pants foreigners kill him.”
“And then we can get gone from this damn wilderness.” Van Eaton looked around him at the night. The mountains were shrouded in darkness and it was cold for this time of the year. “I really hate this damn place, Bones. You can’t get warm at night. Can you imagine what it’s like out here in the winter?”
“No. And I don’t want to find out, neither. I just can’t imagine anybody in their right mind who would want to live in this godforsaken place.”
* * *
At the Ute village, Eddie was having the time of his life watching the two young Indians act out what they had witnessed earlier that day. The boy was laughing and clapping his hands, his bel
ly full of meat from the feast. Wind Chaser gently put his arm around the boy’s shoulders and patted him.
Deep in the wilderness, Preacher snuggled deeper into his blankets and slept to the sound of wolves talking back and forth to each other. It was a comforting sound to the mountain man, for many people, both Indian and white, believed him to be a brother to the wolf. Some even went so far as to say Preacher was part wolf himself.
They were not that far from the truth.
9
Preacher rose from his blankets and squatted for a moment in the grayness of pre-dawn. In the brush and timber surrounding the little pocket of clearing where Preacher had made his camp, he could see gray and black shapes moving silently about, slowly circling him but making no attempt to enter the clearing.
“My brothers,” Preacher said softly, his eyes on the big ever-moving wolves “You’ve come to warn me.”
Low snarls greeted his softly-spoken words.
“So today it really starts,” Preacher whispered. “They’re really gonna come after me.”
As one, their mission accomplished the wolves vanished, running deeper into the timber.
Kit Carson once said that Preacher was the“gawd-damnest feller” he’d ever seen. He had a way with animals like no man he’d ever known. Ol’ Bill Williams said Preacher was spooky. He felt that Preacher could actually talk to animals, most especially with wolves. Jim Beck-wouth once told a writer that of all the mountain men he’d ever known, the man called Preacher was the most fascinating. John Fremont confided in his friends that the mountan man Preacher was almost mystical in his dealings with animals. He swore that he actually witnessed a pack of wolves playing with Preacher one day, in a small meadow deep in the Rockies. He said that when they all tired of playing, they fell down on the grass and flowers and rested in a bunch, Preacher right in the middle of the huge wolves. Jim Bridger said that Preacher could be as rough as a cob, mean as a grizzly bear, and as gentle and compassionate as a mother with a baby.
Smoke Jensen, the West’s most talked about, written about and feared gunfighter, whom Preacher took under his wing as a boy to raise after Smoke’s pa died, wrote later in the biography, that the man called Preacher was a highly complex man, who lived under only one set of rules, his own. He said that Preacher was an inordinately fair man, but once his mind was made up, and his moccasins set on the path of his choosing, would brook no interference, from any man.
If those who made up the party who were now hunting Preacher for sport had known anything at all about the inner workings of the man, they would have immediately packed up and left the mountains as quickly as possible.
But they did not really know the matter or manner of the man they sought. And by the time they finally found out, it would be too late for most of them. It wasn’t just that Preacher was a mountain man. For there were mountain men, albeit not many of them, who were as skittish as an old maid in a men’s bath house. It was the individual himself that should have been studied closely. Bones had never had any experience with Preacher, or with men like him. His reputation as a successful man-hunter had come about by chasing down escaped convicts, weakened by physical abuse, poor food, and brutally hard work. He had chased down embezzlers who by the very nature of their work were not physically imposing people. Bones had chased down and captured—or shot dead—men who had killed their wives and wives who had killed their husbands. He had killed or captured ignorant farm boys who broke jail after some minor infraction. True, Bones had tackled some mean and vicious men and emerged victorious. But he had never taken on anyone who came even close to being in Preacher’s league.
As for the royalty who were members of this party of man-hunters, to them this escapade in the wilderness was still nothing more than good sport and fun. Quite entertaining, really, don’t you know? It was irritating to them that Bones had forbidden them to kill a savage or two, but perhaps when this Preacher matter was concluded, then they could hunt some Indians. They’d never taken a scalp, and that would be quite a novel thing to take back to show their friends. They were all looking forward to scalping some savages.
It just never entered their minds that they might be the ones to get killed and scalped.
* * *
Preacher struck first, three days after he’d waylaid Hunter and Bates. He still had it in his mind that he could maybe harass them into leaving the mountains. There was no way he could have known that the blood-hungry royalty had upped the ante on his head. He had checked on Eddie and found the boy was happier than he had ever seen him.
Wind Chaser was uncommonly blunt with Preacher. “My woman and I wish to keep Ed-de as our own, Preacher.”
Preacher nodded his head. “And what does Eddie think about that?”
“He is a child. He does not know what is best for him. As adults, we do.”
Preacher had to hide his smile. The Indian and the white man were so much alike, in so many ways, and yet, so far apart that their two cultures could probably never co-exist side by side.
“Well, when the time comes, I’ll talk to Eddie. If it’s all right with him, it’s all right with me, Wind Chaser.” He smiled and to soften his words added, “And I’m purty sure it’ll be just fine with Eddie.”
Wind Chaser smiled. “The boy will want to stay with us. You will see.”
“I ’spect you’re right. I’ve cached supplies all over these mountains, Wind Chaser. So I’m gonna leave my horses with you and go this on foot.”
Wind Chaser had noticed the huge pack and had suspected as much. He nodded his head. “This is no longer a game, White Wolf. Why don’t you take some of the warriors and end this foolishness once and for all?”
Preacher shook his head. “This is personal, Wind Chaser. I talked to the wolves the other mornin’. They told me.”
Wind Chaser felt the hair on the back of his neck hackle and he resisted the temptation to step back, away from Preacher. He had heard about Preacher and his relationship with the great gray wolves that roamed the countryside. It was just that sort of thing that made many people, Indian and white alike, believe the story that Preacher had been found as a baby and raised by wolves, suckled on their milk. Preacher had, of course, heard the story, and, naturally, being Preacher, he had never done anything to dispel the myth. Indeed, whenever he got the chance, he added a few words to strengthen the myth. The more Indians were spooked by him, the safer he was.
“Your brothers, the wolves, they were close to you?” Wind Chaser asked.
“’Bout as clost as me and you is right now.”
“Ummm!” Wind Chaser said softly.
Smiling, knowing Wind Chaser would repeat the story and the legends about him would grow all over the Indian nation, Preacher walked out of the Ute village and made his way toward the timber. His pack would have bowed the back of a normal man. Preacher walked like he was carrying a pack full of feathers.
* * *
“Not a sign of him,” the teams of men reported back to Bones after an all day search in an ever-widening circle around the base camp of the man-hunters.
“We seen savages,” Mack Cornay said. “Plenty of them. But all they done was look at us. They didn’t make no move, no gesture, nothin’.”
“No tracks of that big rump-spotted horse he rides?” Van Eaton asked.
“No. Nothin’.”
“He is on foot,” Dark Hand spoke from where he sat on the ground. “He has hidden supplies all around and is now living with some wolf pack.”
“Aw, hell!” George Winters said. “No human man lives with wolves. They’d tear him to pieces. All that talk is nothin’ but poppycock and balderdash.”
Dark Hand shrugged his shoulders in total indifference to what these foolish white men believed. Dark Hand and Preacher were about the same age, and Dark Hand had heard many things about the mountain man called Preacher over the years. Much of what was said about him was indeed nonsense. But some of the talk was true. Dark Hand knew that Preacher was not unique in his abi
lity to get along with wolves. He knew of Indians who possessed the same talent. He also knew that Preacher did not sit with the spirits for guidance. Preacher was just a very highly skilled woodsman—as good as any Indian—and he had honed those skills to a knife blade sharpness.
Dark Hand also knew that Preacher had not killed the man called John Pray. He had scouted for miles the day after Pray had vanished and found where Preacher had taken him, tied him, questioned him, and then turned him loose.
And most importantly, he knew he would be much better off if he would leave the company of these foolish white men and strike out on his own. But the white men fascinated him. They were so ignorant about so many things. Dark Hand never tired of listening to the babble. They prattled on and on about the most unimportant subjects.
Tatman said sarcastically, “All right, Injun. You seem to think you more’un the rest of us. So what is Preacher gonna do now?”
“Start killing you,” the Pawnee said matter-of-factly.
“Oh, yeah?” a big, ugly unwashed lout called Vic said, standing up. “I reckon you think this here Preacher is just gonna walk right in this camp and start blastin’ away, huh?”
Dark Hand smiled knowingly. None of the white men had taken note that when he sat, he sat with his back to a boulder, or log, or tree. No one seemed to notice that Dark Hand utilized every available bit of cover even when in camp. How these men had lived this long was amazing to Dark Hand.
“No,” the Pawnee said. “He will not come into camp firing his guns.”
“Well, then,” Vic said, his voice dripping with ugly sarcasm, “I reckon you think he’ll call down lightnin’ or something to strike us all dead? You seem to think this feller is some sort of god.”
Dark Hand sighed. An instant later, Vic cried out and looked down at the arrow that was embedded deeply in his belly. Vic screamed as the pain hit him hard. His legs seemed to lose strength and he stumbled and sat down heavily on the ground. “Oh, mother!” he hollered, “Oh, my dear sweet mother!”
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