“I done got sidetracked, though. I was tellin’ the boy how I come to be called Preacher. Back then, ever’body knowed me as Art, ’cause of my real name bein’ Arthur.”
“I thought you didn’t remember your real name,” George said.
“Well, that part of it come back to me. Just don’t ask me about the rest of it, ’cause I disremember.” Preacher leaned forward, caught up in his storytelling, which made him forget to complain for the moment. “So there I was in the Shinin’ Mountains—that’s what we called the Rockies back in them days—and I made me some friends amongst the other trappers . . . a few amongst the Injuns, too. But one bunch o’ redskins didn’t have no use for me atall, and I didn’t have no use for them, neither. Them were the Blackfeet.”
Mrs. Bates said, “Is this going to be a very violent story, Mister—I mean, Preacher?”
The old mountain man rubbed his chin. “Well, not as violent as it coulda been, but that’s sorta the point of the whole story.”
“Let him tell it, Grandma,” George urged.
Mrs. Bates sighed and nodded. “Go ahead. I just hope it doesn’t give you nightmares, George.”
“It won’t.” The boy turned back to Preacher. “What about the Blackfeet?”
“They was a pretty mean bunch, at least where I was concerned. Fact of the matter is, they wanted to kill me.”
The Blackfeet had had good reason to hate and fear Preacher, Smoke reflected. Preacher had killed untold numbers of them, usually in battle. But he had also been known to creep into Blackfoot camps at night and slit the throats of half a dozen warriors, sending them on to the spirit world without ever waking them. And then he would sneak back out, with no one in the camp aware that he had been there until they made the grisly discoveries in the morning.
Those lethal, nocturnal raids had led the Blackfeet to dub Preacher the Ghost Killer. Some called him the White Wolf, thinking that he had to be some sort of supernatural, animalistic creature to carry out those deadly errands.
Smoke hoped Preacher wouldn’t go into those particular details. If he did, Mrs. Bates might be too spooked to even ride in the coach with the old mountain man.
Preacher did skip over that part. “So when a bunch of those varmints grabbed me one time, I figured I was done for. A plumb goner. That seemed even more likely when they tied me up to a stake. Come mornin’, they planned to heap up some wood around my feet and set it on fire.”
“They were going to burn you alive?” George exclaimed.
“Oh, dear!” Mrs. Bates said.
Catherine Bradshaw looked like she found the whole conversation crude and distasteful.
“What did you do?” George asked. “You must’ve escaped somehow, since you’re here now.”
“I wouldn’t exactly say that I escaped. You see, back in St. Louis, ’fore I ever went off to the mountains, I saw a fella standin’ on one of the street corners a-preachin’. He could really sling them words around, and it didn’t seem like he ever got tired. He just kept goin’. Seemed plumb loco to me.” Preacher paused, then continued. “But that got me to thinkin’. You see, Injuns don’t like to kill a fella if they think he ain’t right in the head. They believe that the Great Spirit watches over folks like that, and if they hurt ’em, then the Great Spirit’s liable to have a grudge against them.”
“Those are heathens you’re talking about,” Mrs. Bates said. “You can’t put any stock in their so-called beliefs.”
“Well, I ain’t arguin’ that one way or the other, ma’am,” Preacher said. “The only thing important to me at the time was that they believed it. So I figured if I could make ’em think I was loco, they might decide not to kill me. Seemed like the best way to do that was to preach at them, the same as that fella I seen back in St. Louis.
“So I started in a-preachin’, and I just let them words flow, never worryin’ too much about what I was sayin’, just keepin’ it up without stoppin’ ’cept to take a breath ever’ now and then. It got dark, and I kept preachin’. The Blackfeet gathered around to look at me, and I could tell they was startin’ to wonder if I was crazy. I kept on all night, just a-preachin’ away, and by mornin’ they was plumb sure I’d lost my mind. Their war chief, who hated me particularlike, wanted to go ahead and burn me anyway, but the rest of ’em wouldn’t go along with it. They turned me loose, and since there was a bunch o’ them and only one o’ me, and since they’d took all my guns and knives and tomahawks away from me, I run off through the woods, still hollerin’ whilst I skedaddled. They didn’t come after me.” Preacher paused again. “Some of ’em mighta had reason to regret that later.”
Thankfully, he didn’t elaborate on that, either.
“Once word got around about what had happened,” the old mountain man went on, “some o’ my pards started callin’ me Preacher, and the name stuck. I ain’t answered to nothin’ else for a long time now . . . that’s why I ain’t Mister Preacher.”
“That’s a great story,” George said. “I’ll bet you know a bunch more.”
“I might. We got a long ride in front of us. I reckon I could spin a few more yarns, like the one about the time when I run into these fellas who dressed and acted like ancient Romans, like the ones you read about in the history books.”
Smoke had heard that story. He hoped Preacher would have the good sense to clean it up some if he told it.
The stagecoach rolled on through the late afternoon.
CHAPTER 17
The stagecoach stopped only once to change teams between Gila Bend and Ajo. By then it was pretty late in the afternoon, but Scratchy Stevenson told the passengers they would continue on to the settlement, arriving there after dark. “We’ll be stoppin’ there for supper and to let you folks get some rest. Then we’ll roll on first thing in the mornin’.”
Smoke had ridden some stagecoaches that continued on through the night, but in those cases the company had plenty of drivers and could switch them out with almost the same frequency that they switched teams. The Saxon Stage Line, barely hanging on like it was, couldn’t afford that luxury. Scratchy and Mike would make the entire run to Tucson, where another driver and guard would take over. They couldn’t keep going around the clock, so rest stops had to be taken.
Night fell with its usual suddenness. The moon hadn’t risen yet, but Scratchy knew the trail well enough that he was able to drive by starlight without any trouble. It helped that the landscape was mostly flat and the stage road ran straight.
After a while, Smoke saw lights appear ahead and knew the coach was approaching Ajo. The last time he had been through those parts, the place had been a mostly abandoned mining camp.
Since then, several copper strikes had caused the place to grow by leaps and bounds. Some of the richest veins of copper in the whole country could be found in the area, and as the mines grew, so did the need for stores, restaurants . . . and the less savory elements that followed any boom.
“Comin’ in to Ajo, folks!” Scratchy called as he wheeled the coach past the adobe huts on the outskirts of the settlement. Most of the buildings in Ajo were made of adobe, although a few frame buildings had been put up. As the coach rolled past, Smoke noted a bank made of brick, evidently the only such structure in town.
Scratchy brought the stagecoach to a stop in front of the line’s local office, which was one of those few frame buildings.
“Thank God,” Catherine Bradshaw murmured. “I was beginning to think this day was never going to end.”
“The trip will start again early in the morning,” Ballard told her. “You’d better try to get some good rest tonight.”
“I will. Although I’m not sure where in a place like this.”
“There’s a hotel across the street,” Sally said. “It doesn’t look too bad.”
The building in question was a sprawling, one-story adobe with the simple legend HOTEL written across its front window in an arch of letters.
Smoke opened the coach door without waiting for Scratchy or
Mike to do it and stepped out, then turned back to help Sally down from the vehicle. Catherine came next, then Mrs. Bates.
Earlier, George had gotten sleepy and stretched out on the bench in the middle of the coach.
Preacher leaned forward. “Little fella’s sound asleep, ma’am. I’ll gather him up and hand him out to Smoke.”
“Thank you, Preacher,” Mrs. Bates said. “And not just for helping with George. Your stories helped pass the time. They were certainly, ah . . . colorful.”
“Yes’m, I reckon you could say I’ve had a colorful life.” The old mountain man got his arms around George, lifted him, and passed the boy out into Smoke’s waiting arms.
“I’ll carry him over to the hotel for you, ma’am.”
Preacher climbed out next, leaving Tom Ballard to emerge from the coach last. The newspaperman cast a glance toward the boot at the back of the stagecoach.
He was reluctant to leave that trunk, Smoke thought, but he didn’t want to call attention to it by making a fuss about it.
Mike Olmsted hopped down from the driver’s box and stood with the short-barreled shotgun tucked under his arm. “Don’t worry about your bags and other gear, folks. The coach’ll be parked inside the barn, and Scratchy and I will be sleepin’ in there, too. Nobody’ll bother your things. You got my word on that.”
Smoke wasn’t sure that would be enough to reassure Ballard, but it seemed to be the best the newspaperman would do.
Ballard brought up the rear as they all headed for the hotel. He looked back over his shoulder a couple times as he followed the others. They went into the hotel to find a short, chubby Mexican man with a ready smile standing behind a counter in the lobby.
“Welcome to the Ajo Hotel, señors and señores,” he greeted them. “I am Hector Gonzalez, the proprietor of this fine establishment. We offer special rates to passengers of the Saxon Stage Line, thanks to an arrangement between myself and Señor Saxon.”
“We’ll need five rooms.” Smoke still had George cradled against his shoulder. The boy hadn’t budged. He wasn’t light, but Smoke’s great strength allowed him to carry George as if the youngster weighed almost nothing.
“Could get by with four,” Preacher said. “Me and Tom could bunk together.”
“We have plenty of rooms,” Gonzalez said. “Whatever you prefer is fine with me.”
“I, uh, think I’d like to have my own room.” Ballard glanced at the old mountain man. “No offense, Preacher.”
“None taken. That way I don’t have to worry about you snorin’.”
Smoke chuckled. “I think you’re the one who dodged that particular bullet, Tom.”
Arrangements were soon completed. Gonzalez waved the guests toward the arched entrance of a hallway and told them that their rooms were located along the corridor. “And there is food and coffee in the hotel dining room. Only tortillas and frijoles and beef, but after a long day, it will be filling.”
Catherine looked like she found the idea distasteful, but whether or not she ate would be up to her.
“I can’t wait,” Sally said. “I’m hungry.”
Mrs. Bates held her arms out for George. “Give him to me, Mr. Jensen. I’ll take him and put him to bed. Once he goes sound asleep like that, you’re doing good to wake him in less than twelve hours.”
After Smoke handed George over to his grandmother, he, Sally, Preacher, and Ballard went into the dining room. Catherine said she was more tired than hungry and went the other way from the lobby.
An attractive middle-aged woman who told them she was Señora Gonzalez was waiting for them in the dining room. She soon had cups of coffee and plates of food in front of them.
The meal was simple but filling, as Hector Gonzalez had promised, and the coffee was excellent. As they ate, Tom Ballard seemed to relax a little, but Smoke still caught him glancing in the direction of the stagecoach station from time to time.
They were just finishing up with supper when Smoke heard the hotel’s front door open. Several sets of heavy footsteps clomped in, accompanied by raised voices. The men who had just entered the hotel weren’t shouting, but they were definitely arguing.
Three figures came through the arch into the dining room. Smoke recognized two of them immediately—Scratchy Stevenson and Mike Olmsted.
The third man was a barrel-chested hombre with a shock of white hair and a bushy mustache of the same shade. He was saying, “It’s loco, I tell you, and you fellas ought to know that!”
“Won’t be the first time in my life I’ve done something loco,” Scratchy responded, “and it probably won’t be the last!”
“I wouldn’t be so dang sure of that!” The white-haired man stalked past Scratchy and Mike and came straight toward the table where Smoke and his companions were sitting, the only table in the dining room that was currently occupied.
Smoke and Preacher had both tensed, preparing for trouble. As far as Smoke could see, the stranger wasn’t armed, just upset.
“You folks are the passengers from the stage?” he asked.
“Most of them,” Smoke replied. “A couple ladies and a youngster went to their rooms.”
“My name’s Jack Cordell, and I run the stage station here in Ajo. I got some bad news for you. The coach ain’t goin’ on to Tucson.”
“What!” Any relaxation Ballard might have achieved vanished in an instant. “That’s impossible. The coach has to go on!”
“Not on my say-so, it ain’t. Too dangerous. The Apaches are out!”
“You don’t know that, Jack,” Scratchy drawled. “You got some rumors floatin’ around, that’s all.”
“It wasn’t rumors that burned that supply wagon down by the Santa Cordelia mine.”
“That’s a good ways south of here, nearly clear down to the border,” Scratchy argued. “And you don’t know for sure what happened. The men who were with that wagon disappeared, didn’t they? For all you know, they stole everything valuable and burned the rest so nobody would know what they’d done.”
Cordell blew out an explosive, obviously disgusted breath. “You know good and well the reason those fellas vanished is because the ’Paches drug ’em off to torture ’em. They don’t believe in killin’ a white man quick when they can take twelve hours o’ screamin’ agony to do the same thing.” Cordell jerked a curt nod in Sally’s direction. “Beggin’ your pardon for bein’ blunt, ma’am.”
“That’s all right, Mr. Cordell,” she said. “I’ve been exposed to a considerable amount of unpleasantness in my life.”
Preacher said, “This was down close to the border, you say?”
“Yeah,” Cordell replied.
“So if the Apaches are to blame, they could’ve ducked right back over the line after hittin’ that supply wagon.”
Cordell’s beefy shoulders rose and fell. “I suppose that’s true. But it could have been just the start of a bigger raid. They may plan to hit every way station and ranch between here and Tucson!”
“You’ve got crews at those way stations, don’t you?” Smoke asked.
“Yeah, but when the coach don’t show up, they’ll know somethin’s wrong and they’ll fort up. Those stations are built to defend. The line may lose some horses, but our men will have a fightin’ chance, anyway.”
“Wouldn’t it be better for us to go ahead and warn the fellas at the stations? That way they’ll know for sure to be on the lookout.” Mike looked at the four people sitting around the table. “You folks wouldn’t have to go on. You could wait here until we know it’s safe to travel.”
“If you’re going on to Tucson, then I’m coming with you,” Ballard declared firmly. “I’m not going to miss Christmas with my family if I can help it.”
Cordell grunted. “Christmas. There’ll be another Christmas next year, mister. A holiday ain’t worth getting yourself caught by those Apaches!” He made a slashing gesture. “Anyway, the coach ain’t goin’ through, with passengers or without!”
“That ain’t your decision to m
ake, Jack,” Scratchy said coldly. “I’m the jehu on this run, and I’ll decide whether or not we keep goin’.”
“Like hell! Old John Saxon would have my hide if I was to let you folks get killed.”
“Write out a paper sayin’ that I made the decision and the responsibility is all mine,” Scratchy said. “I’ll sign it. I can sign my name, you know.”
“You think that’d be enough to satisfy Saxon?”
“I reckon it would. That old man’s fair. He wouldn’t blame you if he knew you tried to stop Mike and me.”
“And me,” Ballard put in. “I’m going, too.”
Cordell let out another explosive grunt and threw his hands in the air. “Why don’t we just put it to a blasted vote? Get the rest of the passengers in here, and you can all have your say.”
Sally stood up. “I’ll get Mrs. Bates and Miss Bradshaw. Maybe they’re not asleep yet.”
“Even if they are, it’d be a good idea to wake ’em up,” Scratchy said. “They’ve got a right to know what they’ll be gettin’ into if they decide to come along.”
Sally hurried out of the dining room and came back a few minutes later with the other two women. Both of them wore dressing gowns, and their slightly tousled hair indicated that they had indeed been asleep.
Catherine Bradshaw was wide awake now, though, and not happy. “What’s this about not going on to Tucson?”
“I run the station here, and I say it’s too dangerous,” Cordell said. “There are hostiles on the loose.”
Mrs. Bates clutched the throat of her robe closer. “You mean the Apaches?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Catherine said, “I thought the cavalry had them under control.”
“Most of ’em are on reservations,” Scratchy said. “Havin’ ’em under control . . . well, that might be a bit of a stretch.”
“Not to mention the ones that ran across the border and started hidin’ in the mountains in Mexico, except when they decide to raid on our side of the line,” Cordell added.
An Arizona Christmas Page 12
