Preacher's Assault

by William W. Johnstone

  “He’s sweet,” she said, “but I’m afraid he’s going to be disappointed.” She looked at Preacher with a smile.

  He tried not to frown. He didn’t want Casey getting any ideas about him. He had been in love a time or two in his life, but it had never worked out. The first girl he’d ever had real feelings for had been murdered, and a couple of other gals he had been close to had wound up getting themselves killed, too.

  He was bound and determined another tragedy like that wasn’t going to take place again, even if it meant never letting himself get too involved with a woman. If Casey was starting to think about the two of them settling down together, she was whistling up the wrong tree.

  Preacher was too fiddlefooted for that, and he thought Casey knew that.

  But it wasn’t the time or place to discuss it. The three of them rode alongside the wagons, gradually moving closer to the front of the caravan. They saw Bartlett and Roland up ahead, leading the way along the trail that had been worn into the ground by the wide wheels of hundreds of wagons in the past dozen years. The pops of bullwhips and the curses of the bullwhackers filled the cool, early morning air.

  The oxen pulling the wagons never got in any hurry. The massive beasts simply weren’t capable of speed. Men on horseback who accompanied wagon trains had to hold their mounts to a slow walk to keep from drawing too far ahead. Preacher knew that creeping along like that was going to chafe at him and make him impatient, but in the long run, it was safer for Lorenzo and Casey to travel with the wagons.

  If he had been alone, he would have struck out for Nuevo Mexico as fast as the rangy gray horse under him could carry him.

  Dog roamed far ahead, but Preacher didn’t worry about the big cur getting lost. He and Dog could always find each other. They had been trail partners for many years and an almost supernatural connection existed between them. The same was true of Preacher and Horse. At times it was like they could read each other’s minds.

  Preacher moved up alongside the Bartletts. The sun was completely above the horizon, an orange ball that cast its garish light over the plains ahead of them.

  “We’ve made a good start, don’t you think, Mr. Preacher?” Bartlett asked.

  Preacher glanced over his shoulder and said, “Well, considerin’ that you can still see Independence back there about half a mile away, it’s sort of early to say. And you can forget about that mister business. The handle’s just Preacher.”

  “What about Miss Casey?” Roland asked. “What’s her last name?”

  Preacher ran a thumbnail down his jawline. “You know, I never asked her, and she never offered it,” he mused. “I reckon it just never seemed important enough to bother about.”

  “I’ll ask her sometime.”

  “You do that,” Preacher said dryly.

  “Tell us more about the journey we’re facing,” Bartlett urged. “Have you traveled the Santa Fe Trail numerous times?”

  “Half a dozen, maybe. Most of my time in the mountains has been spent farther north, up around the Grand Tetons. But I’ve done some trappin’ down in the Sangre de Cristos. Last time I was in Santa Fe was a couple years ago.”

  He didn’t mention the trouble he had run into on that visit. Since trouble seemed to dog his trail just about everywhere he went, it didn’t really seem worth going into.

  “They say that Santa Fe is quite some town.”

  Preacher nodded. “It’s a nice enough place, I reckon, if you don’t mind the fact that the streets are a mite loco and run ever’ which way. Folks say it’s like they were laid out by a drunk man on a blind mule. Or was it a blind man on a drunk mule? Anyway, once you learn your way around, it ain’t bad.” He grinned. “Lots of pretty señoritas, that’s for sure.”

  “Yes, well, I’m not interested in that, and my son doesn’t have time for such things,” Bartlett said.

  Preacher thought the old man ought to let his son speak for himself, because from what he had seen so far, Roland had plenty of time to make calf eyes at Casey.

  The wagons rolled on through the morning. The flat, grassy prairie was so featureless, it was hard to tell if they were making any progress. For all the difference in the landscape, they might have gone five miles or five hundred yards. It was all the same.

  The sun was what marked time, rising higher in the sky until it reached its zenith. When it did, the wagons halted so the teams could rest and the men could eat lunch.

  While the caravan was stopped, Bartlett asked Preacher, “Is there any need to send a man ahead to scout the trail?”

  “This close to Independence, you’re not liable to run into any trouble,” Preacher said, “but it never hurts to have a look at where you’re goin’. Why don’t you let me and Dog do that?”

  “You don’t mind?”

  “Nope.” To tell the truth, Preacher was glad for the excuse to get away from the slow-moving wagon train for a while. It would also give Horse a chance to stretch his legs.

  Bartlett said, “You know, we agreed to travel together, but we never did discuss the matter of wages.”

  “You don’t have to pay me anything,” Preacher told him. “We’ll be usin’ some of your supplies. That’s enough.”

  “But I’m taking advantage of your expertise.”

  “And I’m takin’ advantage of the extra guns if we happen to run into trouble,” Preacher pointed out. “I reckon we’ll come out square enough.”

  “Well, if that’s the way you feel, I won’t argue with you.”

  “It is.”

  Preacher went to mount up. Casey followed him. “I’ll come with you, Preacher.”

  Preacher saw the frown that suddenly appeared on the face of Roland Bartlett. He shook his head and said, “Naw, you should just stay with the wagons. I’m not gonna be doin’ anything all that interestin’.”

  She frowned, too, but her expression was a little offended. “Preacher . . .”

  “Maybe next time,” he told her.

  He didn’t want to hurt Casey’s feelings. She was a good-hearted gal, no doubt about it, and smart and brave, too. She had proven that during the trouble back in St. Louis. But he couldn’t have her getting ideas in her head about him. Roland seemed like a decent youngster, just wet behind the ears. Casey would be better off with him, or at least someone like him.

  Or someone who wasn’t Preacher, anyway.

  Leaving the wagons to get started when the rest period was over, Preacher mounted up and rode west along the trail. Dog trotted along beside him. He loosened the reins and gave Horse his head, and the big gray stallion responded by tossing his head and breaking into a run. Dog bounded ahead, and Preacher grinned. All three of the old friends were glad to be out on their own again.

  A few minutes later Preacher saw riders ahead of him, angling to cut across his path and intercept him. He knew instantly that they were Indians.

  CHAPTER 4

  Preacher wasn’t going to ride right into the middle of that bunch. If they wanted him, they could come to him. He reined Horse to a halt and called, “Dog!” The big cur whirled around and raced back to Preacher’s side. He unslung the flintlock rifle and rested it across the saddle in front of him. The rifle was loaded and primed, as were the pistols behind his belt and the second set of pistols he carried in the saddlebags. His thumb was looped over the rifle’s hammer, ready to cock it.

  The Indians reached the trail. Instead of crossing it and continuing on their way, as he had hoped but not expected, they turned and rode directly toward him. Preacher waited calmly. He knew the worst thing he could do was turn and try to get away from them. That would just encourage them to chase him and get their blood up.

  As they came closer, he saw the Indians weren’t painted for war. More than likely a hunting party. From the way they wore their hair and the markings on their buckskins, he recognized them as Pawnee. They weren’t all that friendly toward white men, but as a rule they didn’t go out of their way to be hostile.

  There were seven war
riors in the group, most of them young along with a couple older, more weathered men. One of those veterans edged his pony ahead as the others came to a stop. The leader raised a hand in greeting.

  Solemnly, Preacher returned the gesture. “My friends,” he said in the Pawnee tongue. After so many years on the frontier, there weren’t many Indian languages and dialects he didn’t speak.

  “You use our words,” the Pawnee warrior said, sounding slightly surprised.

  “When a man goes among those who are not his own people, he should learn to speak their tongue.”

  The warrior nodded slowly. “This is wise. How are you called?”

  “I am Preacher.”

  Recognition flared in the Pawnee’s eyes. Preacher was pretty sure he had never met the man before, but clearly the warrior had heard of him.

  “The one known to the Blackfeet as Ghost-killer?”

  Preacher nodded. He had picked up that name because of the way he had slipped into camps of the Blackfeet and slit the throats of several warriors before crawling away without anyone knowing what had happened.

  He and the Blackfeet were old enemies. As a young man, he had been the prisoner of a Blackfoot band. To save his life and make his captors believe he was touched by the spirits, he had begun to preach, like a street minister he had seen back in St. Louis. All night and all day the words had tumbled from his mouth, and when he could talk no more, the Blackfeet spared him. Once the story spread among his fellow mountain men, they dubbed him Preacher, and the name had stuck.

  Luckily, the fact that the Blackfeet hated him wouldn’t mean much to those Pawnee. Most of the other tribes didn’t get along that well with the Blackfeet. The Pawnee wouldn’t try to kill him just because the Blackfeet wanted him dead.

  However, the power the warriors might obtain by killing a famous fighting man such as Preacher might be too strong a temptation to withstand. He saw the eagerness in the eyes of the younger men and knew he was on the knife edge of deadly danger.

  “Ghost-killer does not come often to the land of the Pawnee,” the spokesman said. “Do you travel alone?”

  Preacher shook his head. “I have many friends with me.” It wouldn’t do any good to lie. The caravan would be in sight at any minute. “They take wagons full of goods to Santa Fe, to sell to the Mexicans.”

  Preacher didn’t think there was any chance the small hunting party would attack a large, well-armed group such as the Bartlett wagon train. But they might come back with more warriors from their village, so Preacher knew he would have to be extra watchful until the wagons were through the area.

  “This is Pawnee land,” the spokesman said with a frown.

  Preacher nodded. “I know. That is why we will give gifts to the Pawnee, so we may pass through in peace.”

  He didn’t have any right to commit Bartlett to such an exchange, but on the other hand, Bartlett had wanted him to come along because he knew what he was doing and how to deal with the Indians. If the man had any sense, he would follow Preacher’s advice in the matter.

  The older warrior nodded gravely. “This is fair,” he said. “We will wait here.”

  “Good. We can talk of places we have been and things we have seen.”

  Preacher’s keen eyes had spotted another warrior sitting on his pony about half a mile away. That Pawnee would watch the coming confrontation, and if there was trouble, he would race back to the village and bring help. Preacher was going to do his best to see to it that there was no trouble.

  The wagons lumbered into sight. Preacher saw the outriders moving back to the wagons and knew they had spotted the Indians waiting in the trail. A few minutes later, the wagons lurched to a halt, and one of the men rode forward to find out what was going on.

  Preacher waved the man in. The outrider came up wearing a nervous expression. His rifle was across the saddle in front of him. He asked, “What’s going on here, Preacher?”

  “These are Pawnee,” he said with a nod toward the Indians. “They’re friendly, but they want gifts in exchange for safe passage across their land. Tell Bartlett I figure that’s a good idea. Have him bring up a bolt of the most colorful cloth he’s got in those wagons, along with some knives and maybe a handful of whatever bright, sparkly geegaws he’s got. That ought to do it.”

  The outrider nodded. “I’ll tell him. I ain’t sure he’ll go along with it, though.”

  “He will if he’s got any sense.”

  “Hell, no offense, Preacher, but there’s only about half a dozen of these savages.”

  “There’s only half a dozen right here, right now,” Preacher said meaningfully. “We don’t know how many more there could be later on.”

  “Well, that’s true, I reckon.” The man turned his horse. “I’ll pass the word.”

  He galloped back toward the wagons. Preacher turned to the Pawnee and said in their tongue, “I have sent word to my chief to bring gifts.”

  The warrior nodded. Preacher could tell he was pleased, even though the man was careful to keep his face impassive.

  Preacher talked with the Pawnee leader for several minutes before three riders set out from the wagon train. As they approached, Preacher recognized one of them as Leeman Bartlett. The other two were outriders, including the one who had talked to Preacher a few minutes earlier.

  One of the men was carrying a bolt of bright yellow cloth. Preacher saw the Pawnee leader’s eyes light up at the sight of it. Bartlett had a canvas bag that clattered metallically as the men rode up.

  “This is robbery, you know,” he said as he held out the bag to Preacher.

  “Nope, it’s just good business,” Preacher countered. “Man’s got to expect to pay his way in the world.”

  “I suppose.”

  “It’s a pretty small price to pay to keep your hair,” Preacher added.

  He swung down from the saddle and spread out the contents of the bag on the ground so the Pawnee could see them. There were three hunting knives, some spoons, a couple sewing thimbles, and a compass. The only items of any practical value to the Indians were the hunting knives, but they showed plenty of interest in the other items, too.

  Preacher took the bolt of cloth from the man who held it and offered it to the leader. The warrior took it and passed it along solemnly to one of the other men. He looked at the rest of the offerings and nodded his head in approval.

  “It is good,” he said. “The white men and their wagons may pass through Pawnee land unharmed.”

  “You will see that the rest of your people know of this as well?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Then the bargain is sealed.”

  Preacher mounted up and told Bartlett, “You can go back and get the wagons moving again. The Pawnee won’t bother you.”

  “You’re certain? They won’t come back later and demand more tribute?”

  “Nope. Their leader gave his word. They’ll abide by it. Wouldn’t be honorable not to.”

  “What about the next group of savages?”

  “Well, that might be a different story,” Preacher allowed. “But like I said, that’s just the cost of doin’ business.”

  “They don’t actually own this land, you know.”

  “No Indian owns land, at least not in his mind,” Preacher said. “They don’t believe in it. But they use it as hunting grounds, and they believe in protecting what they use.”

  The Pawnee gathered up their gifts and raced off on their ponies, taking the warrior they had left behind as a watcher with them. Preacher returned to the wagons with Bartlett and the other two men.

  Lorenzo, Casey, and Roland were waiting anxiously for them. “Is it all right?” Roland asked. “Are they going to attack us?”

  “Not this group,” his father replied. “According to Preacher, we’ve successfully bought them off.”

  “That’s a relief. I was sure we were going to have to fight.”

  Preacher said, “Likely you will have to, before you get to Santa Fe. But not today.�
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  “Those were real savages, weren’t they?” Lorenzo said. “I never seen any Injuns in St. Louis except tame ones.”

  “They were plenty real,” Preacher said, nodding.

  The wagons resumed their journey. The rest of the afternoon passed without incident. The first encounter with Indians had occurred sooner than Preacher expected it to, but maybe that meant they would be lucky the rest of the way.

  “How far did we come today, do you think?” Bartlett asked over supper.

  Preacher shrugged. “Four, maybe five miles.”

  “Is that all?” Roland asked.

  “You can’t expect much more than that out of those oxen, not with the loads they’re pullin’. That’s why it’s gonna take several weeks to get to Santa Fe. It’s not like just goin’ down the street.”

  “But as you said, the payoff will be worth it,” Bartlett commented.

  When they had finished eating, Preacher and Bartlett discussed the need for guards. Preacher suggested they have four men standing watch in four hour shifts.

  “Lorenzo and I will take our turns,” he said.

  “Mighty quick to volunteer me, ain’t you?” the old-timer said.

  Preacher grinned. “I figured you’d want to do your part to make sure you don’t get your hair lifted.”

  “Well, since you put it like that, I suppose I can give up a little sleep.”

  “I can stand guard, too,” Casey offered.

  Quickly, Roland said, “I’m sure that won’t be necessary. You need a full night’s sleep.”

  “No more than anybody else, I don’t.”

  “We’ve got plenty of men to stand guard,” Preacher told her. “But if we need you to take a turn, we’ll let you know.”

  “All right,” she said. “I’m going to hold you to that.”

  Except for the men standing the first watch, everyone turned in, crawling under the wagons to get some sleep. Preacher curled up in his bedroll, and with the frontiersman’s knack for grabbing any chance he could to sleep, he dropped off as soon as his head hit the saddle he was using for a pillow.

  He wasn’t sure how long he had been asleep—it seemed like no time at all—when he came instantly awake and knew something had roused him. All his senses were alert. He heard the faint rustle of cloth somewhere nearby and smelled the unmistakable scent of a woman’s hair and skin.