by Cole Shelton
“I told him I’d sleep out under a wagon, or maybe by the fire,” she told him.
Abel Sorenson looked aghast. “You mean—out in the open?”
“Where else?” Juanita spread her hands. “I don’t own a wagon. Mind you, if someone I liked was to offer to share a wagon, then I might consider it.”
Sorenson swallowed.
“Juanita!” he chided her. “You must not even dream of such things! And you certainly must not mention them to a man of the cloth!”
“Way I see it, Abel,” she smiled, an unmistakable twinkle in her eyes. “A preacher’s a man, like any other. The fact that he preaches makes no difference.”
“But it makes all the difference!” There was an air of pomposity in Sorenson’s voice.
Juanita’s left foot was tapping in time with the music. She watched old Jonah Jones executing a jig to the accompaniment of clapping from the wagoners.
“Juanita,” the preacher man ventured, “there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you all day. Just what is a young, single woman like you doing on a westbound wagon train?”
“Reckon I ought to put you straight about a few things, Abel.” Juanita’s toe was still tapping. “First, I’m not much younger than you. Second, I ain’t single—”
Sorenson’s face fell and she heard him draw in his breath.
“I’m a married woman, Abel, on the run from my husband.”
“Husband!” he exclaimed.
“Lastly,” she grinned, “you might be a preacher man, but on this frontier, it sometimes pays to mind your own business!”
He stared at her. “A husband!” he repeated.
“Yes, Preacher man,” she said, delighting in teasing him. “An evil buzzard of a man!” She moved gaily away.
Pastor Sorenson compressed his lips. The fact that she was married definitely meant that any relationship between her and Preacher Abel Sorenson was stifled at the outset. A man of the cloth could have nothing to do with a woman running away from a marriage. He would have been surprised had he known what thoughts were passing through the girl’s mind.
“Not getting on too well with the preacher man?” Damien Blake’s hand snaked out of the darkness to grip her bare arm.
“Please! You’re hurting me!”
Blake’s bear-like figure barred her path, and the fire glow gave him a sinister look as he stared down at her.
“Reckon a purty little thing like you should be dancing—with a real man,” Damien Blake smirked, his claw-like fingers still around her arm.
Even the smell of him revolted her. He had bulging eyes, a long hooked nose, and when he parted his lips, his broken, decaying teeth stood up like stunted yellow stumps. But she knew how to handle men.
She said, lightly, “Maybe later, huh?”
“What’s wrong with now?” Blake growled.
He didn’t wait for her answer. He hustled her over to where the others were dancing, and as Craig continued to play his violin, he clutched her close to his hefty body and began to jig around. After a time, Juanita tried to break away but he tried to kiss her and she wrenched her head to one side. Seeing her distress, Brett Craig stopped fiddling.
“Reckon it’s time for a smoke,” Brett said, reaching for his tobacco sack.
“Hell, no!” Damien Blake bellowed. “Everyone’s just started to have fun. Start that fiddling again!”
Brett Craig hesitated.
“Start playin’!” Blake snarled. “Or I’ll bust that fiddle over your head!”
Juanita watched a vein pulsing in Blake’s temple. For a long moment, he glared at the musician, and in the silence Craig’s eyes narrowed. Then, reluctantly, he picked up his violin. The music flowed from his moving bow, and Blake pulled Juanita hard against him as he danced her around, with his boots alternately crunching the ground and her feet. Trapped and miserable, Juanita had no choice but to allow him to enjoy the limp warmth of her body and to let his hand fondle the back of her hair.
Out of the shadows a man stepped.
“Ma’am,” Shane Preston drawled, “didn’t you promise me this dance?”
The music stopped.
“Why—yes, Mr. Preston,” Juanita breathed gratefully. “I remember now. This one was yours!”
Blake fixed his dark, brooding eyes on the tall gunfighter.
“Just get the hell outa here, Preston,” he grunted. “Me and the girl are dancin’.”
“Didn’t you hear her, Blake?” snapped Shane. “She saved this dance for me.”
“Then where in hell were you?” Damien Blake challenged him.
“Checking the horse-lines,” Shane said. “Maybe I arrived back a mite late, but that makes no difference. The dance is mine.”
Damien Blake relaxed his grip on the girl, and in a moment, she wormed under his arm and stepped back from him. Breathing easier now, she moved over towards Shane.
“All right,” Blake grated. “So this one’s yours! But I’m linin’ up for the next one. In fact, I might just dance with this little ’breed all night!”
“Forgot to tell you, Blake,” Shane murmured. “Juanita's booked up for the night’s dancing. After me there’s Jonah, and then Huss Whittaker comes next on the list before I come in again. Of course, if Juanita wants to change things—” He let it hang.
“I want it just like that,” she said quickly.
Damien Blake let his hand edge towards the brown butt of his six-shooter. His narrowed eyes burned like twin coals and his hand trembled with fury. Suddenly, Shane shoved the girl to one side, facing Blake squarely. There was a coldness in Shane’s eyes and for a bleak moment Blake saw the gunfighter’s stark challenge. He decided to bluff it out with a laugh. He planted his hands on his hips and bellowed out a loud guffaw.
“Who in hell wants to dance with a ’breed?” he roared, then turned on his heels and marched over to the whisky keg.
No one moved as Blake drew a mugful from the tap, but as the burly settler downed the drink with an exaggerated flourish, Craig played a few cautious bars on his violin and the dancing started up again.
“Thank you for rescuing me, Shane,” Juanita murmured, as the gunfighter danced with her.
“I could see he was getting mean,” Shane said.
Deliberately, the girl moved closer to the tall gunslick, and when his eyes met hers, she molded her soft body against his. Soon Brett Craig was in full swing, and the music floated out over the darkness of the prairie. As the music swelled, Juanita happened to glance over at Abel Sorenson’s wagon. She grinned as she saw the preacher man’s fingers drumming out the tune on the rim of one of the wheels. Then, as she danced around his side of the campfire, she whispered a word to Shane and he released her. She grabbed Abel Sorenson’s hands. The preacher’s mouth opened to protest, but the girl whirled him into the dance. At first, Sorenson looked around desperately, trying to escape, but as Craig’s violin music turned into an infectious jig, the preacher began to prance in time. His sermonizing was forgotten, and as if mesmerized by Juanita’s laughing eyes and the stomp of feet on the hard earth, Abel Sorenson lost his inhibitions. He even looked like he was enjoying himself.
“Quite a girl, Damien,” Eli McKay remarked aside to Blake as they stood in the shadows between two wagons.
Blake drew on his cigarette and the glowing tip illuminated the angry frustration on his face.
“Yeah,” Blake drawled softly. “And before I’ve finished with her, she’ll be eating outa my hand.”
“And Preston?”
“Eli.” Damien Blake lowered his voice and now it carried a sinister ring. “Both of us know damn well what’s gonna happen to Shane Preston—the same as’ll happen to everyone else on this wagon train!”
Three – Raw Fists at Sunup
Abel Sorenson awoke with the dawn.
Yawning, he stretched beneath the blankets and looked sleepily up at the flapping canvas over his bunk. He could hear the rustle of the wind in the grass and a draught filtered into his wago
n to ruffle his hair.
The preacher eased himself from the blankets and pulled on his pants. He’d bedded down between two large cases, the ones which held all his theological books. Just three months ago, he’d been a graduate from Bible College, with the choice of two well-paid pastoral jobs. Abel had rejected them both, feeling the call of the raw frontier where as yet there were no stately churches with plush pews. He was in effect a missionary.
And then he remembered last night.
At first, he felt a trifle ashamed of himself for joining in the dancing but he reminded himself that to become a successful pastor he had to be one with his people. His thoughts strayed to the half-breed girl. She was married, which closed the door on anything more than friendship with her. He’d have to keep his feelings for her a secret!
Abel Sorenson climbed down out of his wagon.
To the east, pink fingers of light were tipping the far rims and stretching out over the prairie grass. The preacher glanced at the dead fire in the center of the wagon square. Sprawled beside the charred logs lay old Jonah Jones, snoring loudly. As yet, the wagons were shrouded in silence, and Abel’s eyes caught the only sign of movement just beyond the circle of wagons. Shane Preston was with his palomino.
Sorenson gazed north to where the flat prairie seemed to dip, and he remembered the creek that the wagons had been hauled across the night before. He decided on a cold water wash.
The preacher man was stripped to the waist as he strode through the grass. Halfway to the creek, he heard the sound of splashing. One of the other men was already there, he told himself.
Humming a hymn, he walked to the bank and peered down at the creek.
Right below him, a bronze, naked body was twisting and turning in the water, and Abel Sorenson froze in horror. A shapely form surfaced in a flurry of foam and the early morning light glistened on Juanita’s copper-colored curves. Acutely embarrassed, Abel Sorenson stepped back in case she caught him watching her.
But just then he glimpsed another figure farther along the bank, a man crouching in the brush, watching intently. Momentarily stunned, Sorenson stared at Damien Blake as the hefty teamster’s eyes feasted on the raven-haired beauty bathing in the creek. Righteous anger rose in the preacher’s chest. Blake was edging closer to the bank, trying to get a better view.
“Mr. Blake!” The preacher’s yell was intended as a warning to Juanita just as much as a reproof for Damien Blake.
The burly teamster stood bolt upright, a snarl curling his lips as he whipped around to face Sorenson. Below him, Juanita stifled a little scream, then let out a most unladylike curse as she saw the towering figure of Blake silhouetted against the glowing pink of sunrise.
“Get the hell back to your prayers, Preacher!” Damien Blake raged as Sorenson advanced towards him.
“You’re not to—to spy on that girl!” Sorenson blurted out.
“Yeah?” sneered Blake. “And since when have you been givin’ orders around here, Preacher man? Get back to the camp! I’m gonna get better acquainted with this ’breed girl!”
“No!” Sorenson breathed, and stood his ground.
Below them, Juanita was hastily clambering out of the creek, the water gleaming on her skin as she groped for her clothes.
“Listen here, Preacher man,” Damien Blake growled, “last night just about everyone, including you, was slaverin’ around that ’breed, and I hardly got a look in. Well, I’ve decided to have my share—so like I said, get back to the wagons!”
Ignoring Sorenson, Blake began to blunder down the muddy bank, his heavy boots squelching in the mud. Juanita screamed as he came closer.
“Blake!” Abel Sorenson cried, clambering down the bank after him.
Blake whipped around as Sorenson grabbed at his thick arm to stop him. Surprise and fury registered on Damien Blake’s face as the young preacher caught him off-balance, and with an oath, the teamster smashed an iron fist full into Sorenson’s face. The missionary was plastered into the mud, blood spurting from his nose. Desperately, Sorenson scrambled to his feet, black mud smeared on his pants, and with an ugly grin, Blake measured him with his fists.
“No!” Juanita shrieked. “He’s a preacher!”
“I don’t give a damn what he is!” Damien Blake drove his first blow into the soft flesh just above Abel’s belt. “I’m gonna preach him a sermon!”
Sorenson folded, wincing in pain as Blake’s clenched fist thudded onto the back of his head. Gamely, the preacher lashed out with his fists, but only one blow connected, and Blake countered his onslaught with three knife-like punches to Abel’s kidneys.
“Oh, God, no!” Juanita moaned. “He’s not used to fighting! Stop—before you kill him!”
But Blake was enjoying himself. He thrust a knee into the preacher’s belly, and as he jack-knifed, Blake slammed him in the neck. The preacher dropped face down in the soft mud.
Damien Blake stood triumphantly over him, a twisted smile on his lips.
“He’s had enough, Blake!” Juanita wept, clutching her clothes to her body, but he thrust her aside.
“I haven’t finished with him yet!”
Ruthlessly, Blake ground his boot into the back of Abel Sorenson’s head, shoving his face deeper into the slush. Next he drove his other boot hard into the preacher’s heaving ribs.
Moments later, an iron hand swung the teamster right around, and Shane Preston’s knuckles blasted into his mouth like a hammer. Blake staggered back and Shane bored in. He landed a savage uppercut into the bully’s jaw, jerking Blake’s head back under the impact. Blake frantically tried to steady himself, but the gunfighter was relentless and even as the teamster swung at air, two fists ripped into the hardness of his chest. Gasping for breath, Blake waded forward, walking right into Shane’s rock-hard knuckles. Blood spurted from Blake’s mouth. He reeled, teetering on the brink of the water’s edge. Hazily, he glimpsed Shane Preston charging at him, and seconds later the gunfighter’s punch to his jaw lifted him clean off his feet and pitched him into the water.
Floundering and threshing, the burly bully fell down again as his boots slid on the slippery creek bed. Water was dripping off him as he crawled out of the creek to find a grinning audience watching from the bank. Shane was waiting for him. There was no amusement on the gunslinger’s face, only cold anger, as he surveyed the drenched teamster emerging from the water.
“Hear this, Blake,” he said. “Last night you made trouble, and now this! Next time you cut loose—I’ll kill you.”
The smiles went from the faces of the people of the wagon train. Damien Blake stood very still for a moment, then turned away and retched.
“I’m backing up what Shane did,” called out Huss Whittaker. “Get back to your wagon, Blake.”
Blake stared at him unseeingly, then blundered up the bank. Shane stood with Whittaker, watching him go.
“I don’t like him any more than you do,” Huston Whittaker grunted. “But the three of them in his wagon paid their dues like the others.”
“Know something?” the tall gunfighter mused. “Blake told us he’d heard of gold west of Gun Creek, and that’s where they’ll be prospecting.”
“So?”
“Jonah and I, we’ve lived in this territory for some time,” Shane Preston remarked. “And we’ve never heard of gold anywhere near Gun Creek.”
Whittaker frowned as the gunslinger marched ahead of him, back to the wagons.
“Sowing in the morning, sowing seeds of kindness,
Sowing in the noontide, and the dewy eve:
Waiting for the harvest, and the time of reaping,
We shall come rejoicing, bringing in the sheaves!”
Shane Preston adjusted his steel shaving mirror and applied the sharp razor to his face as Sorenson’s Sunday morning congregation sang a lusty hymn. He could see them beyond the tree to which he’d hooked his mirror. Standing beside the preacher, Brett Craig was providing musical accompaniment on his violin. Even old Jonah was there, singing wit
h the rest of them.
“You’re not a religious man, Shane?”
The gunfighter turned as Juanita came to perch on a boulder beside him.
“And evidently you aren’t either, Juanita,” he grinned.
“I was taught your religion at the Mission,” Juanita recollected. “I even believed in it at the time.”
“And now?” He shaved his chin.
“I’ve shocked Abel,” she admitted. “In fact, he was so worried, he’s spent the last two days on the trail trying to convert me. You see, I’ve reverted back to the religion of mother’s people—belief in Wakonda.”
“The Great Spirit?”
“Yes.” She added: “I think Abel sees me as a challenge.”
“I reckon he sees you as more than that,” Shane Preston said dryly. “He’s got that love-sick look in his eyes.”
“But he keeps reminding me that I’m a runaway wife and he can’t have anything to do with me,” she told him.
Shane dashed cold water over his face, washing away the flecks of shaving soap. “Known a few preachers in my time,” he stated. The congregation was launching into the gusty chorus of another hymn. “Some of them have been so damn self-righteous I’ve been glad I’m a sinner. Others have been men I could walk proud beside, along any street. I mightn’t agree with all of Abel Sorenson’s views, but he’s one man I’d walk with.”
“Me, too,” Juanita whispered.
Shane put on his shirt and built a cigarette. The worshippers had sat down on wooden boxes and Abel was opening a big black Bible. Shane let his eyes wander past the congregation as the preacher read out the Old Testament lesson. The wagons were almost in the shadow of a low ridge which stretched across the prairie like a bald wall. It was a wind-swept ledge of rock and once Sorenson had pronounced the benediction, Shane would be leading the wagons over it. His eyes moved west along the ridge, and quite suddenly Shane froze.
There was a solitary pine reaching into the cloudless sky from the crest of the ridge, a lean, windblown tree etched against the sky like an arrowhead. And right beneath this pine was a lone rider.
