Blood on the Divide

by William W. Johnstone

  Worthless, no-count son of a bitch, Preacher thought. Then he lifted a pistol and put a ball right through the rapist’s belly.

  Meeker fell backward without a sound, screaming as his back touched the cold ground that he hated.

  Preacher cocked the second hammer and blew a hole into Sharp’s belly. Then, while the camp was in turmoil, Preacher slipped away into the darkness.

  The outlaws were firing at shadows, blasting away into the dead of night in their frightened panic. But Preacher had dropped into a natural depression in the earth and no bullets touched him as he ran back in the direction of his horses. He’d given the brigands quite enough to think on this evening.

  When Preacher reached the camp the next morning, about an hour after dawn, the outlaws were gone and the ashes of their fires were cold.

  Meeker lay on his back where he had fallen, and the gut-shot outlaw was not long for this world. His comrades had not even taken the time to dress his hideous wound. But they had taken the time to take his heavy coat and his boots. He watched Preacher through pain-filled eyes as the mountain man set about making a fire.

  “Nice bunch of folks you took up with,” Preacher remarked. “They sure cared a lot for you, didn’t they?”

  “Water seeks its own level,” the wounded man said weakly.

  “I reckon.” Preacher tossed the man a rag of a blanket someone had left behind.

  “Thank you.”

  “I’d do more for a wounded animal,” Preacher said shortly. “You got a hole in your belly, but I ’spect a little coffee ain’t gonna keep the dark angel waitin’ too long for you to pass.”

  “I would appreciate that.”

  “You talk like you got some education.”

  “I have. I just took a wrong turn a long time ago and couldn’t find the path.”

  “You wouldn’t find the path,” Preacher corrected. “Don’t give me none of this ’couldn’t’ crap.”

  Meeker smiled faintly. “You also possess a fair amount of education, mountain man.”

  “I went to the fifth or sixth grades, I think. Mostly Ma taught me to home.”

  “That fire feels good.”

  “It do, for a fact, don’t it? Where’d Sutherlin go this time?”

  “I owe them nothing, so I’ll tell you. They went hard to the ground. They’re going to try to sit out the rest of the cold weather and then surface, heading west to the Oregon country to find Malachi and the others.”

  “They finally got smart, did they? Well, I doubt they’ll lose me in this country, but it’s been done afore, I have to allow.” Preacher filled the coffee pot and put it on to boil, although he had doubts the man would live long enough to have him a taste of the brew.

  “I have chicory root in my saddlebags over there,” Meeker said. “If you like the added flavor.”

  “I do for a fact. It don’t grow worth a damn out here, not this high up.”

  Preacher dumped the coffee into the boiling water, added some shaved chicory, and removed the pot from the fire to let the grounds settle.

  “Does Sutherlin know they’s federal warrants out for him?” Preacher asked the dying man.

  “He suspects.”

  “The men ridin’ with him?”

  “They’re all trash. Including me. They’re riding away from a past that is filled with darkness and evil. You’re doing the right thing.”

  Preacher glanced over at him. “Odd thing for a man like you to say.”

  “When one is dying, the truth is best, wouldn’t you agree with that?”

  Preacher nodded his head. “I ’spect.”

  “It’s good to have someone near as the final moments grow closer.”

  Preacher looked at him. “What’d you do to turn bad?”

  “I killed a man. Then another, then another. It reached the point where it simply did not matter.”

  Preacher noted that the man’s voice was growing weaker. Now it was no more than a whisper. “I’ll bury you proper.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Although I don’t know why I should take the time,” Preacher added.

  Meeker smiled. “Because you are a man.”

  “Whatever that means.” Preacher looked over at the outlaw. Meeker closed his eyes and died.

  TEN

  Preacher wrapped the man in the ragged blanket and buried him, piling rocks over the mound. He also buried Sharp, although not as deep or as well. He spoke no words over the graves. Preacher had his coffee and put out the fire, then swung into the saddle and began tracking the outlaws. They were heading for the high country, to the northwest, and they were doing their best to shake Preacher off their trail. The first creek they came to, they entered. They stayed with creeks until the water either played out or the creeks changed direction of flow. On the fourth day after Preacher buried Sharp and Meeker, it began snowing, and Preacher completely lost their trail.

  “They holed up,” he said to his horses. “They ain’t far from here, but we lost ’em.”

  He knew to continue would be to no avail. He might wander for weeks and never cut their sign. He turned his horses west. Come the spring, and it was not far off, west was the only way open to the outlaws. That’s the way they had to go, that’s where Malachi and his pack of scum were hiding out, and if they still planned on striking the wagon train when it left the mission come true spring, that’s where Preacher would be.

  Or at least close by.

  But winter was not yet ready to loosen its grasp on the high country. The snows continued to fall and the cold winds blew. It was still bitterly cold when Preacher came to within a couple days ride from the mission and rode into the camp of Windy and Rimrock. They’d been out hunting and had no luck at it. They looked up at him, nodded, and Windy pointed to the coffee pot.

  “We done hunted chic area out,” Rimrock told Preacher, handing him a cup of coffee. “Been a lot of mouths to feed this winter. How you been, Preacher?”

  “Tolerable. Seems like to me I done crisscrossed this country so many times over the past two years I begun namin’ the trees and the rocks. Got some chicory root in my saddlebags.”

  “Where’d you come by that?” Windy asked.

  “A dyin’ outlaw give it to me.”

  “Dyin’ on account of you?” Rimrock asked.

  “I ’magine. Right nice feller there towards the end.”

  Preacher told them all that had transpired since he’d left the mission.

  Windy and Rimrock exchanged glances and Preacher caught the quick looks. “Say it,” he told them.

  “Betina and Miles got married. So did George and Coretine,” Rimrock said it quick.

  “Good,” Preacher replied. “That’s a load off my mind. I ’spect I better not hang around the mission much, then. It might make them newlyweds nervous havin’ me around. You say food is gettin’ scarce?”

  “They’re just about out,” Windy said. “And game has took to cover in all this snow and ice.”

  “Caleb and Carl is huntin’ to the west,” Rimrock added.

  The men rested and talked and made another pot of coffee. When they were talked out and the coffee was gone, Preacher stood up. “We best start foragin’, then. I can’t abide no thought of kids goin’ hungry.” He looked up at the sky. “I figure spring’s a good three, four weeks off. We got our work ahead of us. I’ll hunt towards the north and see you boys back at the mission when I get there.”

  Rimrock finally commented on the pistols belted around Preacher’s waist. “That’s the goddamnest rig I ever did see, Preacher. Where’d you come acrost them cumbersome-lookin’ guns anyway?”

  Preacher slowly removed the pistols from leather and handed one to each man. Windy whistled softly and Rimrock hefted the four-barrel and grinned.

  “Fine, ain’t they?” Preacher said.

  “I’ll say. Whoever made these had a love for firearms and knew what they was doin’, for a fact,” Windy said.

  Preacher returned the guns to his holster
s. “Let’s go find some food for those hungry folks, boys.”

  Preacher hunted for two days and shot two deer, and mighty scrawny ones they was, for the winter had been hard. He skinned and dressed them out and headed for the mission, only a few hours ride away, for he had been working his way back with the first deer when he spotted the second one.

  The three mountain men arrived at the mission within minutes of each other. Rimrock had killed a deer and so had Windy. But four deer wasn’t going to last long with all these mouths to feed. Preacher swapped horses to give Hammer a much-needed rest and made ready to take out again when Miles approached him.

  Preacher smiled and stuck out his hand for Miles to take, which he did, with a surprised look on his face. “Congratulations, boy,” Preacher told him. “You lucked up and got yourself a fine woman, you did.”

  “I think so, Preacher. And I’m glad you approve. Aren’t you going to rest before taking off again?”

  “Rest when you’re dead, Miles. Lots of hungry folks here whose bellies think their throat’s been cut. I’m takin’ a pack-horse to tote back the meat.”

  “If you can find any game to kill.”

  “I’ll find it, Miles. I ain’t got no choice in the matter. A body needs fat in the cold to survive. See you.” He swung into the saddle and rode off, leading a packhorse.

  A missionary walked up to stand for a moment beside Miles, both of them watching Preacher as he rode off. “They are hard-drinking, hard-living, and profane men, Miles. But most of them are good men. They have their scallywags among them, of course, but just think what might have happened to all these people here at the mission had not those men chosen to stay and help.”

  “And did you notice that Preacher is taking only a few supplies for his personal needs in order to bring back more meat?” Miles added.

  “Their day is almost gone in the mountains,” the missionary said, a genuine note of sadness in his voice. “Some are glad to see it gone, but I’m not. Tell you the truth, I’ll really miss them. But don’t tell Marcus that,” he was quick to add with a smile. “Although he is much more fond of the men than he likes to admit.”

  Preacher didn’t kid himself. This area had been hunted out for miles around, driving the animals further and further away. Now that false spring had come and gone, with mother nature coming in right behind it and dumping more snow and laying the heavy hand of cold all over the land, it was going to be difficult to find game.

  But find it he and the others must.

  At the end of his first full day out, Preacher hadn’t even killed enough to feed himself. His supper was a skinny rabbit that he had almost had to fight a coyote over. But the next day he killed two big bucks that dressed out nicely and he returned to the mission with the meat. Rimrock had killed a bear who had wandered out of hibernation, Windy brought in two nice deer, and Caleb and Carl each brought in a deer.

  But there was no time to relax, for with so many people to feed, that meat wouldn’t last two days.

  Late and unexpected winter locked up the land cold and tight, and the mountain men where forced to spend every waking hour in the search for food. And the men of the wagon train did their part and more. They had become trail-tough and resourceful. They set snares for rabbits and other small game – anything to add to their meager diet.

  By the time the first bits of greenery began poking out of the soil, Preacher and the other mountain men were just about wore down to a frazzle.

  By the time game had once more begun coming out of shelter and moving around, and the men from the mission and the wagon train could take over the job of providing food, Preacher and his friends flopped on their beds in a crude cabin and relaxed for the first time in weeks.

  “This past month has been enough to make a body swear off the human race,” Caleb said. “First warm winds that blow, I’m headin’ for the Rockies.”

  “Me too,” Windy and Rimrock said together.

  Carl was taking the train on to the coast.

  Nobody had to ask what Preacher was going to do. They looked at him, sitting on a bunk and carefully cleaning and oiling his guns. He had spent several days molding bullets.

  “Snow’s gone for this season,” Preacher said. “Malachi and his bunch and Sutherlin and his pack of filth will be movin’. I’m thinkin’ it would be best if you men stayed with the train to Oregon Territory. We got these movers this far. Be a shame to desert ’em for the human varmits this clost to where they want to settle.”

  “Mayhaps you be right, Preacher,” Windy said. “The Rockies will be there for us.”

  Rimrock and Caleb nodded their heads in agreement. Caleb said, “When you takin’ out, Preacher?”

  “In about fifteen minutes. Malachi and his bunch are clost. I can smell ’em. And since trash seems to gather together, I ’spect Sutherlin and his gang will find them. If they ain’t already done it.” He stood up. “I’ll see you boys at Fort Vancouver.” He smiled. “I got me a pretty lady ’crost the mountains that I ain’t seen in over a year. If she ain’t done married up to some gospel shouter, I might do me some sparkin’ of my own.” He slung his pistols around his waist and picked up his Hawken. “See you.”

  Preacher had been resting Hammer and the big horse was rarin’ to hit the trail. Preacher got him settled down and saddled and was no more than a dot in the distance by the time the others at the mission realized he was gone.

  Preacher began working in an ever-widening circle, scouring the still-cold ground for tracks. On his fifth day out, he found a hoofprint that looked familiar to him. He dismounted and more closely studied the depression in the dirt. He recognized the print as a horse belonging to one of Sutherlin’s bunch. He walked the tracks for a time, memorizing the prints, and then swung into the saddle. The gang was heading as straight west as they could ride.

  “Now we end it, Sutherlin,” Preacher said. “You have run your race and you’re about to lose.”

  Hammer snorted his agreement.

  Preacher had him a hunch that once Malachi and Sutherlin linked up, they would ride due west and not attempt to strike the wagon train until it was about midway between the mission and The Dalles, smack in the middle of the Blue Mountains. It was a hard and backbreaking two hundred and fifty miles over the Cascades to the Willamette Valley. Sutherlin and the others would probably have plans to hit the train when the movers were exhausted.

  If Preacher allowed them to do that.

  Which he most certainly would not.

  Preacher figured Sutherlin had maybe ten men counting himself, and Malachi had about that many, maybe a few more. Say, twenty-five men all told. If Preacher could just figure out where Malachi and his pack of no-goods were hiding.

  He linked up with a Yakima hunting party and ate and smoked and talked with them, slowly edging the conversation around to where he wanted it. Many Indians were notorious about not responding to direct questions, so a body had to work his way to that point little by little.

  Preacher finally belched and wiped his hands on his buckskins and smiled at the subchief who was leading this hunting party. “Many bad white men live around here, so I was told.”

  The Yakima returned the smile. “Preacher walks all around what he has on his mind. Preacher is like us, one with the land and all things living on it. We are free people. Say what you wish, Preacher.”

  “Any white men livin’ clost-by that you know of?”

  The subchief opened and closed one hand three times. “That many live in old lodges that were abandoned. They are unclean people. Smell very bad. One of them is a child of the gods.” That would be Ansel – crazy. “None of them wash properly. My people will not go near them for fear of catching some horrible disease.” He pointed west. “Two days ride.”

  “You seen any other white men?”

  The subchief nodded, his face grim. “Ten men ride one day ahead of you. Are more wagons coming, Preacher?” he asked abruptly changing the subject.

  “Yes. And they will c
ome always, each time bringing more people.” Preacher was totally honest with Indians – just another reason he got along well with most of them. “Don’t even think of stopping them. It would be impossible and the punishment would be harsh for your people.”

  “Little Hawk knows this. But he does not have to like the knowledge.”

  “I don’t like it either,” Preacher said.

  “The whites come in and steal our land and we are supposed to behave as the Sanpoils?”

  The Sanpoils were a small tribe who lived along about a one hundred miles stretch of the Columbia River. They were totally peaceful, and did not believe in warfare of any kind. They would not even revenge loss of life. Preacher doubted that any of the tribe would survive when the wagon trains really started moving through.

  Preacher chose his words carefully before speaking. “I can’t answer that, Little Hawk. Not an’ give you no answer that would please everybody concerned.”

  “Whites are that many?”

  “Oh, yes. More than ten of you could ever count in a lifetime. A hundred times over the number of buffalo that used to roam the land. A thousand times over. Makes my head hurt just thinkin’ about it.”

  Little Hawk shook his head, his expression sad. “We are doomed, then.”

  “You will be if you fight them,” Preacher said solemnly, thinking: And you damn sure will be if you don’t fight them. Preacher knew that massive changes in everybody’s lives was just around the corner. And he didn’t like it any more than the Indians did. “You can’t win by fighting them.”

  The Yakimas moved on, hunting game to feed their hungry camps, and Preacher moved on toward the west. He, too, was hunting game, so to speak.

  Preacher was closing in on the gang fast, while still riding with caution. But even with all that going for him, he nearly got his head blowed off.