Preacher's Fire

by William W. Johnstone

  “Look at those tracks,” he told Uncle Dan.

  The old-timer had brought his mount to a stop, too. Now he edged the horse forward and leaned over in the saddle to study the faint markings on the ground.

  “Unshod ponies,” he said after a moment. “Looks like about twenty of ’em, too. That’d be Standin’ Elk and his glory boys, just like ol’ Bent Stick said.”

  Preacher’s eyes narrowed. “Headin’ north toward the river, I’d say. Maybe figure on ambushin’ a flatboat or some pilgrims who come along on horseback, headin’ for the mountains.”

  Uncle Dan spat on the ground. “None of our business. Anybody venturin’ into this here country had damned well better know there’s Injuns about. It’s ever’ man’s duty to keep his own eyes open and his powder dry.”

  “You’re right,” Preacher said. “Looks like Standin’ Elk and his war party passed through here early this mornin’. I’m glad we missed ’em.”

  “You and me both, Preacher.”

  Preacher lifted the reins and heeled Horse into motion. With Dog bounding out ahead, as usual, and the pack animals trailing them, the two men rode across the trail left behind by the Pawnee war party.

  They didn’t see any other signs of human beings until later in the day. The solitude was magnificent, with just the two men and their horses—insignificant specks, really—moving leisurely across the vast, open prairie. Eagles cruised through the arching bowl of blue sky. Antelope raced by, bounding over the landscape with infinite grace and beauty. Herds of buffalo as seemingly endless as a brown sea drifted slowly this way and that, following the grass and their instincts. Preacher always felt more at home in the mountains than anywhere else, but the prairie held its own appeal, too.

  Came a time, though, late that afternoon, when Uncle Dan pointed to the northeast, toward the river, and said, “Look at that dust up yonder.”

  Preacher nodded. “Saw it ten minutes ago.”

  “Well, why in blazes didn’t you say somethin’ about it then?”

  “Wanted to see how long it’d take you to notice it,” Preacher replied with a grin.

  “Uh-huh. And if you hadn’t spotted it first, you wouldn’t admit it, would you? Let a feeble old man beat you to it.”

  “You’re about as feeble as a grizzly bear. You are old, though.”

  “You will be, too, one o’ these days, if you live long enough. Which means you better stop mouthin’ off to your elders. Now, what’re we gonna do about that dust?”

  “Why do we have to do anything about it?” Preacher asked as he shrugged his shoulders. “Probably just some buffs driftin’ along the river.”

  “You know better’n that,” Uncle Dan said. “Buffler move too slow to raise a cloud o’ dust except when they’re stampedin’, and if that was the case, there’d be even more of it in the air. No, I seen dust like that before. It comes from ox hooves and wagon wheels.”

  “A wagon train, in other words.”

  “Damn right.”

  Preacher sighed. The same thought had occurred to him, but he had pushed it out of his head. He didn’t want anything else interfering with the mission that was taking him back east to St. Louis.

  Now that Uncle Dan had put the problem into words, though, Preacher knew he couldn’t very well ignore it.

  “And you know what them pilgrims may be headed right into,” Uncle Dan went on. “They keep movin’ upriver, they’re liable to run smack-dab into Standin’ Elk and that Pawnee war party.”

  “They’re bound to know they might encounter hostiles. You said it your own self this mornin’, Uncle Dan. Anybody who’s gonna come out here on the frontier needs to keep his eyes open and his powder dry.”

  The old-timer ran his fingers through his beard and scratched at his jaw. “Yeah, I did say that, didn’t I? But I was thinkin’ more o’ fur trappers and river men. Fellas who can take care o’ themselves. There’s liable to be women n’ kids with that wagon train.”

  Preacher figured it was a safe bet there would be women and children with the wagon train. He had seen it happening all too often in recent years. With the population growing back east, folks were starting to get crowded out. They wanted to come west to find new land and new opportunities. He supposed he couldn’t blame them all that much. He had done pretty much the same thing himself, after all.

  But he hadn’t dragged a wife and a passel of young’uns with him when he lit out for the tall and uncut. In fact, he’d been nothing but a youngster himself, with no one else to be responsible for. He couldn’t imagine a man packing up his family and bringing them out here.

  These days, a lot of men did just that, though. Preacher didn’t figure the trend would stop any time soon, either. Once it had started, trying to stop it was like standing in front of an avalanche and hollering, “Whoa!”

  “You think we ought to go warn ’em,” he said now to Uncle Dan. “Tell ’em to be on the lookout for Standin’ Elk.”

  “Seems like the neighborly thing to do.”

  “I don’t recollect askin’ a bunch of immigrants to be my neighbors,” Preacher pointed out. “Fact of the matter is, I wish they’d all stayed back east where they belong.”

  “Wishin’ that’s like tryin’ to push water back up a waterfall,” Uncle Dan said, which worked just as well as thinking of the tide of immigration as an avalanche, Preacher decided. “We won’t have to go all that far out of our way, and it won’t take that long. We can just tell ’em about them Pawnee and then go on our way.” Uncle Dan paused. “Or they might invite us to stay the night with ’em. Might be nice to eat a woman-cooked meal for a change, or unlimber that fiddle o’ mine and play a few tunes with some other fellas.”

  Preacher had to admit that didn’t sound so bad. At most, detouring to warn the wagon train about the war party wouldn’t cost him and Uncle Dan more than part of a day. And that wouldn’t make a bit of difference in the long run.

  “All right,” he said. “Let’s go see if we can head ’em off.”

  They turned their horses and rode due north toward the river. That would put them in front of the wagon train. Fifteen minutes later, they came to the broad valley of the Missouri. The Big Muddy had some size to it here. In fact, it wasn’t even muddy at the moment. It was a wide, pretty blue stream that flowed between green, grassy banks. Preacher and Uncle Dan rode down to the edge of the river and reined in.

  Dog ran at some ducks floating around at the edge of the stream and barked enthusiastically at them. The ducks continued paddling around regally, ignoring the big cur until Dog couldn’t stand the temptation anymore and splashed out into the water. Then the ducks squawked and took flight, rising above the water. Preacher had to laugh as Dog emerged from the water, dripping wet, and then shook off sheepishly.

  “Yeah, you showed them ducks who’s boss, all right,” Preacher told him.

  “Yonder come the wagons,” Uncle Dan said.

  Preacher looked along the stream. The wagon train was on the same side of the river he and Uncle Dan were. Several men rode out in front of it on horseback, about fifty yards ahead of the lead wagon. They ought to have at least one scout farther ahead than that, Preacher thought, and wondered if the man had already gone past this spot. Behind the outriders came the wagons themselves, a line of canvas-covered prairie schooners so long that Preacher couldn’t see the end of it, each wagon being pulled by a team of either four or six oxen.

  “Fella in charge is probably one of those out in front there,” Preacher said. “Let’s go talk to him.”

  He and Uncle Dan heeled their horses into motion and rode toward the wagon train. The four riders leading the way brought their mounts to a halt, evidently waiting for Preacher and Uncle Dan to get there. As they came closer, Preacher saw that one man was sitting his saddle slightly ahead of the other three. He was a barrel-chested hombre wearing a flat-crowned hat. A brown beard came halfway down his chest. Preacher pegged him for the boss of the wagon train.

  As they came up a
nd brought their horses to a stop again, Preacher lifted his right hand, palm out, in the universal sign that said their intentions were peaceful.

  Those fellas with the wagon train must not have known that, though, because the one with the beard snapped, “Now!” and the other three suddenly jerked pistols from their belts and leveled the weapons at Preacher and Uncle Dan.

  Chapter 3

  Preacher fought down the impulse to lift the rifle he carried in front of him across his saddle and blaze away at the men before they could open fire. He didn’t cotton to having guns pointed at him, and his instincts wanted him to do something about it.

  But he noticed that the men hadn’t cocked the pistols. Their thumbs were looped over the hammers, so they could cock and fire in a matter of a second or two if they needed to, but it seemed that gunplay wasn’t imminent.

  “Hold on there!” Preacher said. “We’re peaceable men.”

  The big, bearded wagon master, if that’s who he was, glared at Preacher and said in a booming voice, “You look more like highwaymen to me, mister! If you have any thoughts of robbing these poor immigrants, you’d better put them out of your head right now.”

  “Highwaymen?” Uncle Dan repeated. “We’re just poor, honest fur trappers, on our way to Sant Looey.”

  “That’s right,” Preacher said. It was getting harder and harder to just sit there with those guns pointed at him. It made his trigger finger itchy. “His name’s Dan Sullivan, and I’m called Preacher.”

  The wagon boss shook his head. “Those names mean nothing to us. We don’t know any of the trash that currently inhabits the Rocky Mountains.”

  “Trash, is it?” Preacher muttered under his breath. He was starting to like this pompous windbag less and less.

  But he kept a tight rein on his temper and went on, “The only reason we rode up here is to tell you folks that there may be a Pawnee war party waitin’ up ahead for you, somewhere in the next few miles. If Uncle Dan and I spotted the dust from your wagons, you can damned well bet the Pawnees did.”

  One of the other men lowered his gun slightly and said, “You hear that, Mr. Buckhalter? Savages!”

  “I heard,” the barrel-chested, bearded man said. “And I told you, Donnelly, that there was a chance of encountering Indians on our way to Oregon. You knew the risk when you joined the wagon train.”

  “Yeah, but shouldn’t we listen to these fellas?” the man called Donnelly asked. “They’re bound to know this part of the country. I mean, just look at ’em.”

  “I know the country, too,” Buckhalter snapped. “This isn’t the first wagon train I’ve guided west. And I know that this isn’t Pawnee territory. The only Indians in these parts are friendly ones.”

  Uncle Dan couldn’t stand it anymore, and Preacher understood the feeling. “Why, you tarnal idjit!” the old-timer burst out. “Half a dozen o’ them so-called friendly Injuns tried to lift our hair yesterday, and they was just scouts from a bigger war party. You keep goin’ the way you’re goin’ and they’ll jump you, sure as shootin’!”

  Preacher looked along the line of wagons, which had come to a stop while he and Uncle Dan talked to the riders. “How many men do you have along with you?”

  Buckhalter gave him a stony stare and didn’t answer, but Donnelly said, “Between fifty and sixty, counting the boys who are almost grown. There are thirty-eight wagons in the train.”

  “Well, then, you’ve got that war party outnumbered almost three to one. Maybe they’ll see that and decide not to attack.”

  “Do you think we can count on that?”

  Preacher leaned over in the saddle and spat on the ground. “Mister, you can’t count on nothin’ where Indians are concerned. Just when you think you’ve got ’em all figured out, they’ll do somethin’ else to surprise you. I reckon it’s a fifty-fifty chance on whether that war party will jump you. It all depends on how they’re feelin’ at the time.”

  Donnelly turned to Buckhalter and said, “I think we should do something about this.”

  “What would you have us do?” Buckhalter demanded. “Turn back to St. Louis? Give up on all your hopes and dreams?”

  “I didn’t say that—”

  “Nothing worthwhile in this life comes without risk,” Buckhalter went on.

  Preacher couldn’t argue with that sentiment. He knew it was true. But that didn’t mean a fella had to be foolish when it came to risks.

  “None of you folks asked me for my advice—” he began.

  “That’s right, we didn’t,” Buckhalter said.

  “—but I’m gonna give it to you anyway,” Preacher went on as if he hadn’t been interrupted. “Get some scouts on fast horses well out in front of the wagons. When you make camp for the night, pull the wagons in a tight circle and get all the livestock inside. Post plenty of guards and make sure they’re hombres who can stay awake and alert. The Pawnee will slip up on a man and cut his throat before he knows what’s goin’ on if he ain’t mighty careful. Make sure everybody who can use a gun has one handy, and keep ’em loaded. They ain’t gonna do you any good otherwise, ’cause the Indians won’t wait around until you’re ready to put up a fight.”

  “Is that all?” Buckhalter asked coldly. “Or would you like to insult our intelligence some more?”

  “Mister, what the hell is wrong with you?” Uncle Dan said. “Preacher and me are just tryin’ to help you, and you go outta your way to insult us.”

  Preacher lifted a hand and said, “Forget it, Uncle Dan. Some fellas just don’t like havin’ their authority challenged. I reckon Buckhalter’s the boss here, and what he says, goes.”

  Buckhalter sniffed and then jerked his head in a nod, as if to reinforce what Preacher had just said.

  “That means the blood of all them folks in the wagons will be on his head if somethin’ goes wrong,” Preacher continued. “It ain’t none of our business.”

  He started to turn Horse away, but before he could do so, Donnelly prodded his mount ahead of the others and said, “Wait a minute.”

  When Preacher looked back at him, Donnelly went on, “I don’t know if you’re right about the Pawnee or not. Mr. Buckhalter hasn’t given us any reason to doubt his experience. But I’d like for you to make camp with us tonight so that everybody can hear what you have to say.”

  Wearing an angry expression on his bearded face, Buckhalter moved his horse alongside Donnelly’s and said, “I’m the chief guide and wagon master of this train, Mr. Donnelly, and I don’t appreciate you casting doubt on me by listening to these tramps. We all agreed that I’m in charge here.”

  “I mean no offense,” Donnelly said, “and it’s true you’re the wagon master, Mr. Buckhalter. But those folks elected me their captain before we left St. Louis, and I feel a great deal of responsibility for them. I don’t think it’ll hurt any of us to listen to these men.”

  “We’ve heard them already,” Buckhalter said. “And I say they’re mistaken.”

  “Hard to be mistaken about six dead warriors,” Preacher drawled. “And one of ’em, a fella called Bent Stick, talked before he died. He told us about a chief named Standin’ Elk leadin’ a war party through these parts. Uncle Dan and I crossed their trail earlier today, back yonder a ways. They number at least twenty men, and they were headin’ for the river. Like I said, you’ve got ’em outnumbered . . . but chances are, most, if not all, of those fellas are seasoned killers. That means they’re more dangerous than a bunch of immigrants.”

  “Ride with us, and make camp with us tonight,” Donnelly urged. “You’ll have a chance to speak your piece, Mister . . . Preacher, was it?”

  “Just Preacher. No mister.”

  “You can speak your piece,” Donnelly said again, “and I promise that we’ll all listen.”

  Buckhalter snorted and shook his head, but he didn’t say anything else.

  Uncle Dan ran his fingers through his beard. “I was just tellin’ Preacher earlier that it’d be mighty nice to eat a woman-cooked meal agai
n. And the strings on my fiddle are just achin’ to have a bow scraped across them.”

  “We have some pretty good fiddle players among us,” Donnelly said with a smile. “We have music almost every evening, and I’m sure they wouldn’t mind if you joined in.”

  “All right,” Preacher said. He agreed almost as much to annoy Buckhalter as anything else. He felt an instinctive dislike for the hombre.

  Donnelly turned to Buckhalter. “It’s fairly late in the afternoon. Should we go ahead and start looking for a place to make camp?”

  Buckhalter jutted his beard toward Preacher and said, “Why don’t you ask him?”

  Then he turned his horse and rode toward the wagons.

  “Didn’t mean to cause trouble betwixt you and your wagon boss,” Uncle Dan said. “We just wanted to let you know about them Injuns.”

  Donnelly shook his head. He was a middle-aged, solemn-faced man with graying hair who looked like he might have been a storekeeper or a lawyer back east.

  “He’s been touchy the entire trip,” Donnelly said. “He’ll get over it. I think he’s just a very proud man who doesn’t like having his judgment questioned.”

  Preacher said, “It’s a good thing for a man to take pride in himself . . . just not so much that he can’t listen to what other folks have to say.”

  The men turned their horses and rode toward the wagons. Donnelly gestured toward his two companions and said, “This is Mike Moran and Pete Stallworth, two more of our scouts and guides.”

  “How many scouts are out now?” Preacher asked.

  “Two. Fred Jennings and Liam MacKenzie. Don’t worry, they’re good men.”

  Preacher figured he’d reserve judgment on that. Not that it was his place to be passing judgment on any of these folks, he reminded himself. He didn’t like it when people did that to him.

  Moran was a tall, burly gent with a face that looked like it had been hacked out of the side of a granite mountain. Stallworth was short and stocky, with thick blond hair sticking out from under a hat pushed back on his head. Preacher said to them, “You fellas work for Buckhalter?”