Preacher's Assault

by William W. Johnstone

  Preacher felt as much as heard the hum of a rifle ball passing closely by his head. The sensation was nothing new to him, so he didn’t let it spook him. Instead he kept riding, drawing ever nearer to the attackers. Soon he was close enough to recognize some of them, and just as he’d expected, the man called Garity was among them. Preacher saw clearly the man’s beard and rawboned shape.

  He was also close enough to use the pistols, and as Garity tried to draw a bead on him with a rifle, Preacher whipped up his right-hand gun and fired.

  The two balls spread out as they flew through the air. One of them missed Garity entirely, but the other tore through his left arm. The impact of the shot made him drop his rifle and slew around in the saddle. He had to grab his horse’s mane to keep from falling.

  Preacher heard Garity yell in a hoarse voice, “Let’s get the hell out of here!”

  The men turned their horses and jabbed in their boot heels. The animals took off at a run, headed west along the trail.

  Preacher started to fire his second pistol after them, but he let go of the trigger before the weapon went off. The chances of him hitting any of them were slim, and he wanted to have a loaded gun handy if they happened to turn around and try another attack.

  It didn’t look like that was going to be the case. The raiders showed no signs of slowing down as they gave up their attack and galloped off along the Santa Fe Trail.

  Preacher rode straight to the wagons. Bartlett, Roland, Casey, and Lorenzo crawled out from under a couple vehicles and hurried to meet him. Their clothes were smeared with mud, but he didn’t see any bloodstains on them.

  A wave of relief went through him as he realized the young woman and the elderly black man hadn’t been hurt. In the time he had known them, he had grown quite fond of them both.

  That was true the other way around, too. Casey asked anxiously, “Preacher, are you all right?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” he told her as he dismounted. “They threw a little lead at me, but none of it came close.”

  Bartlett said, “It was that man Garity and his friends, the ones who were here yesterday! I got a good look at the scoundrels.”

  “Yeah, it was them, all right,” Preacher said, “and a dozen other polecats to boot. Garity’s bunch must’ve been plannin’ on meetin’ up with those other fellas, and when they did, he told them about these freight wagons.”

  “Were they always planning to rob us?” Roland asked.

  Preacher shrugged. “No tellin’. They may have been on their way to the mountains to do some trappin’ just like Garity said, and decided to take advantage of the opportunity fate put in their way. Or they could’ve been highwaymen all along.”

  “Well, the important thing is that we defeated them and sent them packing,” Bartlett said.

  Preacher shook his head. “No, the important thing, the thing we got to remember, is that they’re still out there. Only one man got hisself killed.” Preacher jerked his head toward the corpse that lay on the ground about a hundred yards away. The man’s horse had deserted him, following the other horses when the rest of the bunch galloped away. “And at least one of them is wounded,” Preacher went on, “maybe more, but really, we didn’t do all that much damage to them.”

  “Then you think they’ll come back?” Roland asked with a frown.

  “They don’t have to,” Preacher said. He pointed west along the trail. “They’re between you and the place where you’re headed. All they’ve got to do is wait for you to come to them.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Bartlett sent a couple of the bullwhackers to fetch in the body of the dead man. The powerfully muscled freighters were able to carry the corpse without much trouble. They laid it out next to one of the wagons so Preacher could have a look at it.

  The man was skinny and had a scraggly black beard. One corner of his mouth was twisted grotesquely because of a knife scar that ran raggedly up his cheek. It looked like somebody had shoved a blade in his mouth and cut his face half open.

  Preacher had never seen him before.

  “This ain’t one of the fellas who was with Garity yesterday,” he said as he hunkered on his heels next to the corpse. “I’ve seen his sort before, though.”

  “What sort is that?” Bartlett asked.

  “The one that’ll do some trappin’ or some other kind of honest work if he absolutely has to, but he’d rather steal from other folks and enjoy the fruits of their labor.”

  “Then we shouldn’t be mourning him too much, I suppose.”

  Preacher snorted as he straightened to his feet. Since Casey was out of earshot at the moment, he said, “Hell, when we pull out you can leave the bastard layin’ here for the wolves, for all I care.”

  Bartlett shook his head. “No, he’s still a human being. We’ll give him a decent burial.”

  “Suit yourself. Don’t expect me to pray over him.”

  “I can do that. I brought a Bible with me, of course.”

  Digging a grave in the mud proved to be a difficult chore, and the men given the task by Bartlett were muttering curses under their breath before they were finished. The hole kept filling up with water. Finally they got the grave deep enough, and Bartlett had the dead raider wrapped in a blanket. A couple of the bullwhackers lowered him into the soggy earth.

  Bartlett got out his Bible, asked God to have mercy on the soul of the departed, whose identity was unknown, and then motioned for his men to fill in the grave. By the time that was done, it was early afternoon and the sun had passed its zenith.

  Preacher walked out on the trail and tested its firmness with his boots. Hours of sun and wind had dried the ground somewhat. Bartlett followed the mountain man and asked, “Do you think we can leave now?”

  “We’ll give it a try,” Preacher replied with a nod. “If it looks like the wagons are about to bog down, we can always stop again.”

  Bartlett called orders, and the bullwhackers hitched up their teams. Roland saddled Casey’s horse and then his own. Preacher grinned as he heard Lorenzo grumbling about how nobody saddled his horse for him. He had to do it himself despite the fact that he was an old man.

  “I reckon it’s better to be a pretty girl than a old geezer,” Lorenzo muttered.

  “I don’t know about that,” Preacher said. “Casey’s had a hard life at times.”

  “Yeah, well, so have I. It don’t matter none. Nobody fusses over me.”

  Preacher suddenly lifted up Lorenzo’s hat and planted a kiss on top of the old man’s bald head. “There,” he drawled. “That make you feel better?”

  “Gimme that hat!” Lorenzo snatched it away from Preacher and started swatting at the mountain man with it. “Didn’t nobody ever teach you about respectin’ your elders?”

  Despite the tomfoolery, several worries nagged at the back of Preacher’s brain, and hoorawing Lorenzo wasn’t going to make them go away.

  When everything was ready, Bartlett rode along the line of wagons and waved his hat over his head. “Move out!” he shouted. “Wagons ho!”

  The bullwhackers popped their whips and bellowed at their teams. The oxen leaned forward against their harnesses and lurched into motion. With loud sucking sounds, the wheels pulled free of the mud. The sounds continued as the wagons rolled along the trail.

  Preacher watched the wheels. They left deep ruts behind them, but they kept turning. It was the best he could hope for. Progress would be slower than usual as the oxen trudged through the mud and fought its clinging grip on their hooves, but any progress was better than none.

  Bartlett, Roland, and Casey were at the head of the caravan. Preacher rode up alongside them and said, “Looks like there’s a good chance the wagons won’t get stuck.”

  “Splendid!” Bartlett said. “Finally we can put more ground behind us.”

  “Well . . . maybe not as much as you’d hope.”

  Bartlett looked over at Preacher with a frown. “What do you mean? The wagons are moving.”

  “This morni
ng while I was out trying to track the critter that was lurkin’ around camp last night, I came across a creek. Reckon in normal times it wouldn’t be much more’n a trickle, maybe even a dry wash, but after that gullywasher yesterday, these ain’t normal times. The stream was flooded.”

  “You mean we won’t be able to ford it?” Roland asked.

  Preacher nodded. “That’s what I’m sayin’. I don’t know for sure that it crosses the trail, but it was runnin’ northeast to southwest, so there’s a good chance it does. And if it does, we’ll probably have to wait for the water to go down before we can get to the other side.”

  Bartlett said, “How long will that take?”

  “Depends on how much water’s runnin’ in it. Might just be a few hours, in which case we might be able to ford today while it’s still light. But it could be as long as another day.”

  “Another day lost!” Bartlett exclaimed. “My God, does everything out here in this wilderness conspire to cause trouble for a man and ruin his plans?”

  “Sometimes it seems like it,” Preacher admitted. “But your plans ain’t ruined, just delayed a mite. We’ll get across sooner or later. It’s still possible we won’t have to ford that creek at all.”

  That much luck was not with them, however. Less than an hour later, Preacher spotted the dark, muddy line of the flooded creek stretching across the trail in front of them. He reined in and pointed it out to Bartlett.

  “Should we stop the wagons?”

  Preacher shook his head. “No, there’s no reason not to push on until we get to the creek. That way we’ll be ready to ford it as soon as we’re able to. I’ll ride ahead and take a look.”

  He had barely pulled out ahead of the others with Horse moving at an easy lope when he heard hoofbeats right behind him. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Casey following him. She came up even with him.

  “No need for you to come along,” he told her. “You can go back with Roland and his pa if you want to.”

  “But I don’t want to,” Casey snapped. “I want to talk to you, Preacher.”

  He bit back an exasperated curse. If she wanted to have that conversation, then maybe it was time. They could clear the air instead of having the future hanging over them all the way to Santa Fe.

  “All right,” he said. “Go ahead and talk.”

  “You’ve made it clear over the past few days that you don’t want to have anything to do with me.”

  “Now that just ain’t true,” he said. “I think you’re a fine gal, and I like havin’ you around.”

  “So if I come to your bedroll tonight, you won’t turn me away?”

  “I didn’t say that. Just because I like you don’t mean I think it’s a good idea for the two of us to, well, you know . . .”

  “Is it because I was a whore? Because you can’t stop thinking about all the other men who have been with me?”

  Preacher snorted. “Hell, no. You know better’n that, Casey. If there’s one thing the frontier’s taught me, it’s that yesterday’s dead and gone. What we did then don’t matter anymore. Since nobody knows if he’ll be around to see the sun come up the next mornin’, tomorrow don’t mean a whole hell of a lot, neither. What we do today, that’s what counts the most.”

  “That’s what I think, too,” she said. “I just don’t understand why you don’t like me as much anymore.”

  They had reached the rain-swollen creek. As they sat on their horses beside it, Preacher said, “Likin’ you don’t have anything to do with it. I just figure you’d be better off with somebody besides a shiftless old goat like me.”

  “I keep telling you, you’re not that old. Anyway, that’s not your decision to make.”

  “I reckon I’ve got a say in it, though.”

  Casey laughed. “You know a lot about a lot of things, Preacher, but evidently not that much about women.”

  He frowned and said, “I don’t mean to hurt you, Casey, and I reckon we’ll be travelin’ together until we get to Santa Fe, for sure, but after that I don’t know yet where I’ll be goin’ or what I’ll be doin’.”

  She looked out over the churning water. “You want to abandon me in Santa Fe, is that it?”

  “I’d never abandon you,” Preacher said.

  “Well, that’s what it sounds like to me.”

  With that, she wheeled her horse around and rode back toward the wagons. Preacher shook his head and muttered a curse. That hadn’t gone the way he wanted it to, but that was pretty much the story of his life where gals were concerned. Casey was right about one thing. Despite his experience, women were mostly a mystery to him and probably always would be.

  He forced his mind onto a more pressing problem, namely the flooded creek. The stream was wider there, so the water level wasn’t as deep as it was farther upstream, but it was still deep enough and flowing fast enough that Preacher didn’t think it would be a good idea to take the wagons into it just yet. He had a hunch that by morning, the creek would have gone down enough they could ford it without too much difficulty.

  When the wagons arrived, he gave that bit of good news to Leeman Bartlett. The man nodded and said, “Thank goodness. We’ll only lose a few hours that way.”

  “Yeah. We’ll make camp right here and wait it out.”

  The wagons were arranged in a circle with the livestock in the middle, and the men searched the surrounding prairie for buffalo dung that was dry enough to burn. By the time dusk began to settle over the landscape they had gathered enough to make a decent fire. They could have hot food and coffee again, and that would make everybody feel better.

  As they were tending to their horses, Lorenzo said quietly to Preacher, “I saw Casey cryin’ a while back, after she talked to you. What’d you say to the gal, Preacher?”

  “Dadgum it! I tried to get her to see that there ain’t no real future for her and me. Sooner or later she’s gonna want to settle down, and I ain’t cut out for that.”

  “Has she said anything to you about settlin’ down, Preacher?” Lorenzo asked.

  Preacher frowned. “Well . . . no, now that you mention it, she ain’t.”

  “Then maybe you done jumped the gun a mite. Maybe you should’a just let things stay like they were until we get to Santa Fe. You coulda worried about it then.”

  “Yeah, could be you’re right,” Preacher muttered. “Would’ve been simpler that way, that’s for damn sure. I don’t know how well it would’ve gone over with young Bartlett, though.”

  “Roland ain’t a bad sort, but he ain’t near man enough for a gal like Casey. He’s got a heap of growin’ up to do first.”

  “Maybe I’ll go talk to her. Try to set things right for a while, anyway.”

  Lorenzo nodded. “Be a good idea, I’m thinkin’.”

  The sun had gone down, and the night shadows were gathering. Preacher walked toward the fire, looking for Casey as he approached it. He didn’t see her, but Leeman Bartlett was there.

  “Did you happen to notice where Casey got off to?” Preacher asked the older man.

  “She was over by that wagon with Roland.” Bartlett pointed to one of the big, canvas-covered vehicles. He frowned worriedly. “Preacher, what sort of woman is Miss Casey? I’m afraid that Roland has, ah, developed an affection for her.”

  “She’s one of the finest gals I ever met,” Preacher answered honestly.

  “Are the two of you . . . I mean, I hope you’ll bear no ill will toward Roland because of what I just said.”

  Preacher shook his head. “Don’t worry about it, Mr. Bartlett. I ain’t lookin’ for trouble. Not woman trouble, nor any other kind.”

  Leaving Bartlett by the fire, he walked toward the wagon the man had pointed out. He didn’t see Casey and Bartlett at first, but then he glanced underneath the vehicle and spotted their feet. They were on the far side of the wagon, inside the circle with the oxen and the horses.

  Preacher was about to step over the wagon tongue when he heard sobbing. That made him move even quicker. He
came around the wagon and saw Casey and Roland standing there. Roland had his arms around her, but he wasn’t actually hugging her. His arms just sort of encircled her, and he patted her awkwardly on the back with one hand as he said, “Casey, don’t cry. Please don’t cry.”

  She had her hands to her face. She sagged a little against Roland.

  “Casey,” Preacher said. “There ain’t no need to carry on so. I didn’t mean—”

  “You!” Roland said as he looked past Casey at Preacher. He put his hands on her shoulders and moved her gently aside. He came toward Preacher, saying, “Leave her alone. You’re the reason she’s crying, you—”

  “Careful there, boy,” Preacher warned in a low rumble. “I don’t cotton to bein’ called names.”

  “Oh? Well, let’s see how you cotton to this!”

  With that exclamation, Roland leaped at Preacher, swinging a fist straight at the mountain man’s face.

  CHAPTER 10

  Preacher’s instincts took over, as they always did when he was attacked. He pulled his head to the side to avoid the punch. Roland’s fist sailed past, missing Preacher’s ear by a couple inches. The miss threw Roland off balance and made him stumble forward.

  Preacher’s right fist came up hard, burying itself deep in the young man’s belly. Roland bent over, gasping for breath.

  Preacher gained control of himself and grabbed Roland’s shoulders. He slung him to the side, sending him sprawling on the muddy ground.

  “Stay down, boy,” Preacher warned him. “Don’t you come at me like that again.”

  “Preacher, no!” Casey cried. “Leave him alone.”

  “That’s what I’m tryin’ to do, damn it,” Preacher snapped.

  Panting, Roland lifted his mud-splattered face. “I won’t let you . . . treat her that way,” he said as he struggled back to his feet. As soon as he had them planted under him, he launched himself at Preacher again.

  Preacher didn’t want to hurt the young man, but it wasn’t in him to let someone attack him without fighting back. When the Good Lord made him, He hadn’t included the ability to run from trouble.