Preacher's Assault

by William W. Johnstone

  Bartlett nodded solemnly. “All right, Preacher. I understand. But I hope I won’t have to worry about any of this. I’d like for you to be with us every step of the way to Santa Fe.”

  “That’s the plan,” Preacher said again as he clapped a hand on Bartlett’s shoulder. “Now, I’m gonna go see if I can find me a bear.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Blood was splattered on the short, coarse buffalo grass at the spot where Preacher had confronted the bear. That was proof the creature had been wounded, but it didn’t tell Preacher how bad the bear’s injuries were. He didn’t find enough blood to convince him the bear was mortally wounded.

  The rusty red droplets on the ground made the trail easy to follow. The bear had headed north. Dog bounded out ahead of Preacher and Horse, using his keen sense of smell to track the massive grizzly.

  Preacher wondered if there had been something wrong with the bear to start with. While grizzlies could be found anywhere on the frontier, it was much more common for them to be in the mountains. Something had led the beast to wander out onto the plains.

  Preacher followed the blood trail for several miles before it petered out. Dog still had the scent, and they continued their pursuit of the grizzly almost due north.

  Preacher was convinced the bear wasn’t seriously injured. It couldn’t have gone that far if it was on the verge of bleeding to death. The wounds might fester and kill the beast eventually, but it would take time for that to happen.

  He reined in and called, “Come on back, Dog!”

  The big cur stopped and looked back at Preacher. He whined a little.

  “I know, you got the scent and you don’t want to give up the trail,” Preacher said. “But I don’t think we’re gonna find that varmint any time soon and I don’t want to be away from the wagons all day. That bastard Garity and his bunch could still be out here somewhere. Maybe the bear’ll just keep goin’ and not bother us no more.”

  Dog barked.

  “Yeah, I ain’t convinced of that, neither, but we can’t rule it out. Now come on, you fleabitten old coot.”

  Dog rejoined him reluctantly, glaring so fiercely that Preacher had to chuckle.

  “Yeah, I know, you could call me a fleabitten old coot, too, if you wanted to. I’m damn sure gettin’ there.”

  They angled southwest, since the caravan would have put a few more miles behind it. Preacher hoped to intercept the wagons, but when he and his companions reached the Santa Fe Trail, the canvas-covered vehicles were nowhere in sight.

  Preacher swung down from the saddle and knelt to study the ruts. The dust in them had been disturbed recently. He glanced at Dog and said, “Looks like they beat us here. They’re makin’ good time. Probably be at Mullberry Creek crossin’ before the day’s over.”

  Confident that the wagons were in front of him, Preacher let Horse rest for a little while, then mounted up again and rode after the caravan. He could see the silvery ribbon of the Arkansas River off to his left as he followed the trail.

  By early afternoon he spotted the wagons in front of him. Urging Horse to a slightly faster pace, he soon caught up. The bullwhackers paused in their incessant yelling and cursing to wave greetings to him as he rode past the wagons.

  Lorenzo, Casey, Bartlett, and Roland were riding together in front of the wagons. They heard Preacher coming and reined in to wait for him to catch up. As the mountain man brought Horse to a stop, Bartlett asked, “Well, did you find the carcass of that bear?”

  Preacher shook his head. “Nope. He was wounded, sure enough. I found blood to prove that. But he was still movin’ just fine, headin’ north. I followed the trail for several miles before I turned around and came back.”

  “You think he’s going off to die?” Roland said.

  “Don’t know that,” Preacher replied. “Fact is, I’ve got a hunch he wasn’t hurt that bad. But I’m hopin’ he’s been stung enough by our guns to teach him he ought to leave us alone.”

  Bartlett frowned. “I wish he was dead. That way we’d know he couldn’t threaten us anymore.”

  “Even if he was, there’d still be plenty of other things you got to look out for.” Preacher nodded toward the edge of the trail. “Like that rattler over yonder.”

  The others looked where he indicated. Lorenzo said, “Lord have mercy. That there is the biggest snake I ever seen.”

  Coiled in the short grass at the edge of the trail was a thick-bodied rattlesnake. It was watching them intently with its inhuman eyes. Preacher moved Horse a little closer, and the rattles on the end of the snake’s tail started making their eerie buzzing sound as they vibrated.

  Horse shied a little. “Take it easy,” Preacher told the stallion as he pulled his rifle from its sheath. “I know you don’t want to get any closer to that varmint. I don’t blame you.”

  He cocked the flintlock, drew a bead with it, and squeezed the trigger. As the rifle boomed, the snake’s head, which had raised in a threatening posture, exploded in a spray of gore as the lead ball struck it. The thick, ropy body immediately uncoiled and began whipping about in death convulsions. Casey made a noise of disgust and looked away.

  “See, that’s just what I mean,” Preacher said as he lowered the flintlock. “Out here, if it ain’t one thing that’ll kill you, it’s somethin’ else.”

  The wagons reached the Mullberry Creek crossing of the Arkansas River late that afternoon, late enough so that Preacher decided it would be better to wait until the next morning to ford the river.

  Nobody had forgotten how close the grizzly had come to the camp, so even though Preacher didn’t believe the bear was anywhere nearby, the guard was doubled again and those who slept did so lightly.

  After a quiet night, the bullwhackers hitched the teams to the wagons and drove them into the broad, slow-moving river. The surface of the water sparkled in the early morning sun. The wagons crossed without incident and headed southwest with full water barrels, following the ruts of the Cimarron Cutoff that Preacher pointed out.

  The landscape soon proved Preacher right again. It wasn’t long before the terrain grew flatter, the air hotter and drier than it had been on the other side of the river. The grass was sparse, and there were long stretches of rocky, sandy ground that didn’t look like it would ever be good for much of anything.

  As Casey rode next to Preacher, she asked, “Nobody lives here in this wasteland, do they?”

  “You’d be surprised,” he told her. “There are a lot of Comanch’ in these parts.”

  “Comanche Indians, you mean?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Like those Pawnees we saw not long after we left Independence?” Leeman Bartlett said.

  Preacher had to smile at that. “The Pawnee are good fighters, and I wouldn’t want ’em mad at me if I could avoid it, but to say that they’re like the Comanch’ . . .” He shook his head. “There ain’t no other Injuns like the Comanch’. The Sioux are probably better when it comes to ridin’, and the Blackfeet got ever’body beat when it comes to bein’ plumb mean, and the Apaches can sneak around better’n any of the other tribes . . . but the Comanch’ can do all of that, almost as well as them other tribes. Pound for pound, I reckon they’re the most dangerous critters I ever seen, including that grizzly bear.”

  “Are we going to run into any of them?” Roland asked. He had started scanning the horizon nervously as Preacher spoke.

  “It wouldn’t surprise me a bit.”

  “Will they attack us?”

  The mountain man shrugged. “That depends on how many of them there are . . . and what sort of mood they’re in. All Injuns like to barter, and that includes the Comanches. There’s a good chance they’ll let us trade some bright-colored geegaws for safe passage through their land. Or they might decide to attack us and try to take the wagons and everything in ’em. We just won’t know until the time comes.”

  From the worried looks on the faces of his companions, Preacher knew it would be all right with them if they didn�
�t encounter any Comanches on the journey. He felt the same way . . . but he didn’t expect it to happen.

  When they made camp, Leeman Bartlett asked, “Should we forego having a fire tonight? It might be wise not to announce our presence to those savages.”

  Preacher shook his head. “Go ahead and build a fire. Build a big one. It won’t make any difference. You can’t take this many wagons through the desert without the Comanch’ knowin’ you’re here. Two or three people might be able to dodge ’em by layin’ low and makin’ cold camps, but not a party this big. They’ll know.”

  “Then we might as well make them think there are a great many of us,” Bartlett said. “I’ll tell the men to walk around a lot and make it look like there are more of them than there really are.”

  “Now that’s not a bad idea,” Preacher said.

  That evening, Lorenzo asked Preacher, “What you said about two or three folks bein’ able to slip through here by layin’ low and not buildin’ no fires . . . is that what you intended for us to do if it was just you and me and Casey?”

  Preacher shook his head. Keeping his voice low, he said, “Hell, no. If it was just the three of us, I never would’ve brought us this way. We’d have taken the northern route, gone over to Bent’s Fort, and then cut down to Santa Fe through Raton Pass. Wouldn’t have been any trouble on horseback.”

  Lorenzo narrowed his eyes shrewdly. “Then the only reason we’re goin’ the way we are is so you can try to keep these pilgrims from gettin’ theirselves killed.”

  “Since we’ve come as far with ’em as we have, it didn’t seem right to just go off and let ’em shift for themselves. The northern route may not be quite as dangerous as the cutoff, but it ain’t exactly what you’d call safe, neither, and it takes a week longer. That’s more time for trouble to happen. I reckon it all sort of balances out in the end.”

  Lorenzo grunted. “If you say so, Preacher. You ain’t steered us wrong yet. I sure hope we don’t run into any of them heathen redskins, though.”

  Preacher lifted his coffee cup. “I’ll drink to that.”

  A heavy guard was put on again. Preacher knew that contrary to what some folks thought, Indians would attack at night if it struck their fancy. In fact, down along the Colorado River in what was now the Republic of Texas, folks had recently started using the term “Comanche moon” to describe the sort of full moon the Comanch’ liked to raid by.

  He thought it was more likely, though, that the Indians would wait until they had gotten a better look at the wagon train before they struck. They would have to gauge whether they wanted to fight . . . or bargain.

  Another day and more endless, desolate miles rolled past. Following Preacher’s advice, Bartlett and his men were careful about how much water they drank. The oxen got a full ration from the barrels, because without those beasts of burden the wagons weren’t going anywhere, but the men could make do with less.

  Preacher figured they were halfway to the springs where the Cimarron River made its northernmost loop. He had stopped at that marshy pool a couple times before and hoped nothing had happened to it since the last time he was in those parts. If the spring had gone dry for some reason, it would be a long and mighty thirsty trip to the next water.

  Roland and Casey were spending nearly all their time together, Preacher noted. With the threat of the Comanches hanging over them, it really didn’t make much sense to worry about affairs of the heart, but Preacher couldn’t help but be pleased anyway.

  As they rode alongside the wagons, Lorenzo caught him smiling at the two youngsters during the third morning since hitting the cutoff. The old-timer said, “Mighty pleased with yourself, ain’t you?”

  “What are you talkin’ about, old man?”

  “You know dang good and well what I’m talkin’ about,” Lorenzo shot back. “You wanted that boy to court Casey, and he’s sure doin’ it. Best he can, anyway, out here in the middle of the most godforsaken country I ever seen. Any fella out here who wanted to bring a bouquet of flowers to his sweetheart would be purely out of luck.”

  Preacher shrugged. “I’m thinkin’ she’ll be better off with young Bartlett than she ever would be with me. I never intended on draggin’ her all over the mountains with me. That’s no fittin’ life for a woman.”

  “What about for an old colored man?”

  “That’s up to you,” Preacher said. “You’re welcome to come along when I leave Santa Fe, assumin’ we both get there alive. You might decide to stay there, though. Find you some Mexican mamacita to look after you in your old age.”

  Lorenzo snorted. “Slave or not, I been bossed around my whole life. I’d like to know what it’s like to really be free for a spell.”

  Preacher was about to say something in response when he suddenly stiffened in the saddle. He stood up in his stirrups and peered off to the left of the trail.

  “What is it?” Lorenzo asked sharply.

  “Saw somethin’ out yonder. It’s so hot and hazy in these parts, it’s easy to see things that ain’t really there. Mirages, I think folks call ’em. But I’d swear I saw somebody movin’ out there.”

  Lorenzo pointed in the other direction. “Like them over there?”

  Preacher looked that way. Heat waves rippled up from the ground, distorting what he saw, but after a moment his vision focused well enough for him to make out a line of riders moving in a parallel course to the wagons. He looked back to the left and knew he hadn’t been mistaken. There was a column of riders on that side of the caravan, too.

  “Lordy, lordy,” Lorenzo breathed. “Are those fellas who I think they are, Preacher?”

  “That’s right,” the mountain man said. “The Comanch’ have come callin’.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Preacher and Lorenzo were riding a few yards ahead of Casey, Roland, and Bartlett. In a low voice, Preacher told the old-timer, “Drop back and let the others know what’s goin’ on, if they haven’t spotted those Injuns themselves. Tell ’em to stay calm and not start raisin’ a ruckus.”

  Lorenzo nodded. Rather than turning around, he slowed his horse and let the other three riders catch up with him.

  Preacher glanced right and left. There were two outriders on each side of the caravan. They had to have seen the Comanches, but were riding along as if they hadn’t, gradually working their way closer to the caravan. That was smart of them, Preacher thought. If they turned and made a run for the wagons, that would likely prod the warriors into chasing them.

  Preacher noticed a couple rocky humps up ahead, the first real landmarks he had seen in quite a while. The trail ran between those shallow hills. It was the perfect place for an ambush, and he had no doubt Comanche warriors were waiting on both of the knobs. He held up his hand in a signal for the wagons to stop. If they got caught in that gap, they wouldn’t have a chance.

  Preacher wheeled Horse around and waved for the outriders to come in the rest of the way. Leeman Bartlett hurried up to him and asked, “Do we need to pull the wagons in a circle?”

  “If you do that, they’ll know you’re gettin’ ready to fight and they’ll go ahead and jump us,” Preacher said. “We might still be able to talk our way out of this. Let me give it a try. Spread the word, ever’body needs to have his rifle handy.”

  Bartlett nodded. “What are you going to do?”

  “Let ’em know we want to parley.” He urged Horse forward again.

  “Preacher, be careful!” Casey called out behind him. Preacher acknowledged her concern with a slight wave.

  Slowly, he rode out about fifty yards in front of the wagons and stopped. He sat in his saddle, waiting, apparently as calm as if nothing unusual or threatening was happening. The columns of Comanches flanking the caravan halted as well.

  A few minutes dragged by, then a party of half a dozen warriors appeared in the gap between the knobs and rode toward him. They took their time about it. The Indians knew that waiting would stretch the nerves of their potential victims tighter and tighter.
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  The Comanches came to a stop about twenty feet in front of Preacher. He held up a hand, palm out, in the universal sign of peaceful greeting.

  As had happened with the Pawnee, one of the warriors rode forward as a spokesman. When the Comanche brought his pony to a stop, Preacher said, “Greetings, brother.”

  He hoped his grasp of the Comanch’ lingo wasn’t rusty and he hadn’t told the varmint to go do unspeakable things to himself. The warrior didn’t look offended, so Preacher supposed he had made himself clear.

  The man was short and stocky and looked tough as year-old jerky. He said harshly, “Who are you to call a warrior of the Comanche, brother?”

  “I am known as Preacher.”

  If he had been hoping for a sign of recognition at the mention of his name, he was sorely disappointed. Clearly, it didn’t mean anything to the Comanche.

  “I am Lame Buffalo,” the man said, “and I am brother to no white man.”

  “Then I would be a friend, if not a brother.”

  Lame Buffalo shook his head. “The white men are not friends. They are flies, buzzing around the heads of the Comanche and eating the droppings of our horses. They are to be tolerated, not befriended.”

  And you are one arrogant son of a bitch, Preacher thought. He almost muttered it aloud in English but bit back the words in time to prevent them from escaping. He had no way of knowing if Lame Buffalo spoke any of the white man’s tongue. Just because he wasn’t speaking it, didn’t mean he couldn’t savvy it.

  Preacher turned slightly in the saddle and waved his left hand toward the wagons behind him. “We wish to take our wagons through your land safely. We mean no harm to the Comanche people. We are peaceful traders.”