“But right now . . . ?”
“Right now it appears nobody’s fixin’ to try to kill you.” Preacher grinned. “Count your blessin’s, eh?”
“Oh, yes. Most definitely.”
After getting very little sleep the night before, the men were exhausted, but they pushed on until early evening, finally making camp beside a small creek.
“Three men will stand guard all the time, in two-hour shifts,” Preacher said as they sat around the campfire finally having a hot meal.
“But you said the Indians weren’t chasing us,” Elkins said.
“I said they ain’t close. That don’t mean they couldn’t catch up to us durin’ the night.”
“You’ve gotten us this far, Preacher,” Courtland said. “We’ll do whatever you think is best.”
“Yeah, I didn’t mean anything by what I said,” Elkins added. “Hell, I’ll bet you’ve forgotten more about staying alive out here than all the rest of us will ever know, put together!”
The night passed quietly, and the party was on the move again early the next morning. The terrain was rugged in places, but for the most part they made good time. Preacher stayed with the group part of the time, but he and Dog also scouted ahead and behind quite a bit.
When the day passed with no sign of the Blackfeet, Preacher began to hope Red Knife—or whoever was in charge—had been killed or had given up. Not wiping out the party of white men would be a bitter pill to swallow, but losing more warriors would likely be worse.
Two more days passed, with the men once more falling into a routine—easier to do when nobody was trying to kill them. Preacher made sure they didn’t relax too much, though. As he had told Courtland, just because there was no immediate threat didn’t mean they were out of the woods. The frontier always held dangers, often unseen and unexpected.
The middle of the fifth day, they reached a broad valley with mountains to the north. A line of trees in the middle of the valley marked the course of a stream. Preacher saw sunlight winking off the flat, slow-moving surface of the water. “That’ll be the Big Muddy,” he told Courtland. “The Missouri River.”
“At last.” Courtland frowned. “But I don’t see the fort.”
“It really would’ve been a stroke of luck if you’d hit the river right at the spot where they built the fort. We should be in the right area, though. You said it was about fifty miles west of Fort Union. I’ve been through here before, a few years ago, and I calculate we’re in the general vicinity.” Preacher lifted a buckskin-clad arm and pointed. “The Missouri and the Yellowstone flow together ’bout fifty miles over yonder, so we can’t be far from Fort Gifford. You fellas hold the herd here and let ’em graze. I’ll find the fort and come back to get you.”
“I can come with you,” Courtland offered.
Preacher shook his head. “No, I want all of you to stay here. Keep your eyes open. Wouldn’t want to get this close and then have somethin’ bad happen again.”
“Certainly not,” Courtland agreed. “All right, we’ll make camp and wait for you to get back.” He paused. “I hope it doesn’t take too long. I’m eager to see civilization again.”
Calling an isolated fur company outpost “civilization” was stretching things a mite, thought Preacher, but he supposed Courtland was right. Fort Gifford was the closest thing to civilization they were liable to find out there.
CHAPTER 14
Preacher headed west along the river, figuring it was the most likely direction for the fort to lie. He followed the southern bank, since he was already on that side and didn’t know on which side of the river the fort had been built.
The spot where he had left the wagons and the horse herd fell out of sight behind him. He estimated he had ridden about two miles when he suddenly spotted movement on the riverbank ahead of him. Three men on horseback had ridden out of the trees.
Preacher reined in sharply. He lifted his rifle from where it lay across the saddle in front of him and rested it in the crook of his left arm. The thumb of his right hand went around the hammer as he gripped the stock. He used his knees to nudge Horse into motion again and said quietly to the big cur, “Stay close, Dog.”
The three men had seen him and reined in for a moment, too. Then they rode forward cautiously, just like Preacher. As the distance between them lessened, Preacher could see the men were bearded, which meant the strangers were all white.
But just because they weren’t Indians didn’t mean they were friendly. Preacher had plenty of enemies out there who were white.
Suddenly, though, the man on the right, who sported a bristling red beard, let out an excited whoop. “Preacher!” he yelled. “Preacher, is that you, you mangy ol’ coyote?”
Preacher relaxed and a grin spread over his rugged face. He lifted his rifle with one hand and held it over his head in greeting. “Quint Harrigan!” he shouted back. He urged the stallion into a trot.
The redbearded man hurried toward him, too. Harrigan’s two companions followed at a more deliberate pace. Preacher didn’t recognize either of them, but Quint Harrigan was an old friend. If the other two men were riding with him, Preacher figured they must be all right.
The mountain men brought their horses alongside each other and reached out to clasp hands.
“Dang it, how long’s it been, Preacher?” Harrigan asked. “Four years?”
“More like five,” Preacher said. “At that rendezvous where three different Arapaho gals realized poor ol’ Audie had been romancin’ ’em at the same time.”
Harrigan whooped with laughter and slapped his thigh in its buckskin leggings. “Yeah, Nighthawk told me later he coulda warned Audie, but he didn’t say nothin’ ’cause he wanted to see Audie’s reaction when he got found out. That Crow’s one hell of a jokester!”
That comment would have surprised anyone who didn’t know Nighthawk well. The Crow never smiled and seldom said anything except “Umm.” But Preacher grinned and nodded knowingly.
“You seen those two lately?” Harrigan went on. “I ain’t heard how they’re doin’.”
“Just wintered with ’em, in fact,” Preacher replied. “They’re fine. They never really change.”
“No more than you or the mountains do, you ol’ stone face.” Harrigan waved the other two men forward. “You know Rollin Brown and Bob Mahaffey?”
Preacher shook his head. “Don’t think I’ve had the pleasure.”
“They’ve only been out here a few years. They ain’t old-timers like you and me. Boys, say howdy to Preacher.”
Brown, who had a curling blond beard, shook hands. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Preacher. Didn’t know I’d ever have the honor to cross trails with you.”
“It’s my pleasure, Rollin,” Preacher told him.
Mahaffey was dark and lean, his beard cropped so closely it wasn’t much more than stubble. He shook hands as well and gave Preacher a friendly nod. “Hear tell you’re the big skookum he-wolf in these parts, Preacher.”
“Folks like to talk,” Preacher replied with a grin and a shrug. “That don’t make it all true.”
“In this case, though, it is,” Quint Harrigan put in. “Ain’t nobody from Canada to the Rio Grande who’s been as many places and done as many things as Preacher here. Or fought as many fights, for that matter.”
“What brings you to this neck of the woods?” Brown asked.
“I’m lookin’ for an outpost called Fort Gifford.”
The three men exchanged glances, and Harrigan pointed over his shoulder with a thumb.
“It’s back that way about a mile. We just come from there. We was about to do a little huntin’. The Booshwa hired us to bring in some fresh meat for ever’body.”
Preacher was relieved to hear the fort was so close. That meant the likelihood of hostile Indians venturing into this area was small. He was curious about something else, though. “You’re workin’ for the American Fur Company now, Quint?” Ever since he’d known him, Harrigan had been an independent t
rapper, like Preacher himself.
Harrigan shook his head. “Naw, not so’s you’d notice. We just took on this huntin’ job to help out and earn some extra supplies. Soon as we’re done outfittin, we’ll be headin’ for the mountains to get us some pelts. Ain’t that right, boys?”
Brown and Mahaffey nodded.
“You’re plannin’ on spendin’ the season trappin’, ain’t you, Preacher?” Harrigan went on.
“Yeah, but I got another chore to finish takin’ care of first. Been helpin’ out some pilgrims who are bound for Fort Gifford with a herd of horses.” Preacher inclined his head back the way he’d come. “They’re camped a couple miles downriver. I need to go back and get ’em.”
“Horses, you say?” Harrigan scratched his beard. “They brought a whole herd of horses out here?”
“Yep. Good saddle mounts. They figure on tradin’ some of ’em to the Injuns and sellin’ the rest to fellas like you.”
“We’ve got good horses,” Mahaffey said. He added with a shrug, “But not everybody does. Those fellas might make out all right.”
“It ain’t really my business one way or the other. I’m just tryin’ to get ’em there alive. We’ve had some run-ins with the Blackfeet. A war party led by Red Knife dogged our trail for a while.”
Harrigan let out a low whistle. “Red Knife,” he repeated. “I’ve heard plenty of stories about him. All bad ones, too.”
“He lives up to that reputation,” Preacher said without hesitation. “He wiped out half the bunch I’ve been travelin’ with. He finally gave up, but not before I began to have my doubts about makin’ it through.”
Harrigan snorted. “I ain’t seen the redskin yet that can keep Preacher from goin’ where he wants to go.” He turned to his companions and went on, “Fellas, I think I’ll help Preacher herd them pilgrims on to the fort, if you don’t mind makin’ this huntin’ trip without me.”
“You mean we’ll split the money the Booshwa promised us two ways instead of three?” Brown asked with a smile. “I reckon I can live with that.”
“Me, too,” Mahaffey nodded. He lifted his reins. “See you later, Quint.”
The two men waved their farewells and turned their horses to ride back into the trees. They quickly disappeared from view.
“I appreciate the company, Quint,” Preacher told Harrigan, “but I didn’t really need the help.”
“Nah, I didn’t figure you did. But we got old times to catch up on. Like you said, it’s been five years.” As they rode east along the river, Harrigan added, “I see you still got that mangy ol’ mutt.”
“Yeah, Dog and Horse and me are still trail partners.”
They traded reminiscences and talked about old friends for a mile or so, then Preacher asked, “Tell me about this fort. I thought Fort Union was as far west as the outposts had come.”
“Gifford’s been there less than a year. John Jacob Astor sent some fellas out to build it last spring. Took ’em all summer because they kept havin’ to stop to fight the Injuns.”
“Blackfeet?”
“Yeah. The Arapaho, the Crow, even the Arikara seem to be settled down a mite right now, if you can believe that. They didn’t give no trouble.”
“The Arikara have tried to lift my hair more times than I can remember. Seems hard to believe they’ve turned peaceful.”
“Well, I said they ain’t givin’ no trouble right now,” Harrigan reminded him. “Might be different tomorrow. Anyway, once the fort was established, even the Blackfeet left it alone. Don’t know how long things’ll stay that way, though. You know how those varmints are. Just knowin’ the fort’s there probably sticks in their craw.”
Preacher nodded. He could well imagine the Blackfeet would attack the fort sooner or later, especially with firebrands like Red Knife always stirring up trouble. Fort Gifford, like the other outposts belonging to the American Fur Company, was probably pretty sturdy and well defended. John Jacob Astor wasn’t in business to lose money.
“How about the booshwa?” Preacher asked. “What sort of fella is he?”
“Mr. Langley? Mighty fine fella, if you ask me. He’s fair in his dealin’s. Sharp enough, mind you. Nobody’s likely to snooker him, and anybody who tries likely won’t try twice. But I like him.”
That was important, thought Preacher. The booshwa—a frontier corruption of the word bourgeois, brought to these parts by French trappers who came down from Canada—ran the fur company’s outposts. He had to be part businessman, part military leader, and all fighter, otherwise the rough-edged mountain men with whom he dealt would never respect him. A good booshwa made the difference in whether an outpost thrived or failed and was abandoned, left to rot and disappear back into the wild.
“Mr. Langley’s got somethin’ else goin’ for him,” Harrigan continued. “But I’ll let you find out about that for yourself.”
Preacher frowned. “Dang it, Quint, you know I never did like it when folks go to actin’ mysterious-like.”
“Maybe not, but I don’t want to ruin the surprise for you.” Harrigan changed the subject by standing up in his stirrups and peering along the riverbank. “Doggoned if you weren’t tellin’ the truth! That’s a whole herd of horses.”
“Of course it is,” Preacher said with a snort. “I ain’t in the habit of lyin’.”
“Didn’t mean to make it sound like you were. That’s just the most horses I’ve seen in one place for a long time. It’s pretty impressive.”
Spread out on the grassy bank like they were, the horses were a pretty sight.
As Preacher and Harrigan trotted toward the wagons, Wiley Courtland and Otis Freeman rode out to meet them.
“Preacher, did you find the fort?” Courtland asked excitedly. He looked at Harrigan. “Who’s this?”
Preacher answered the second question first. “This here’s an old friend of mine, Quint Harrigan. I haven’t yet laid eyes on the fort myself, but Quint knows right where it is. He’s been stayin’ there while him and some friends get outfitted.” He nodded toward the two men. “Quint, meet Wiley Courtland and Otis Freeman.”
Harrigan shook hands with them.
Courtland said, “We’re very pleased to meet you, Mr. Harrigan. I don’t know if Preacher told you or not, but we’ve gone through quite an ordeal to get here.”
“Yeah, he said you’d had a little scrape or two with the Blackfeet,” Harrigan replied dryly. “You shouldn’t have any more trouble, though. Things are tamed down a mite in these parts.”
“How far is it to the fort?”
“About three miles,” Preacher said.
“Then we can get the horses there before dark!”
“That’s right.”
Courtland turned to Freeman. “Otis, tell the rest of the men to get ready. We’re moving out as soon as possible.”
That didn’t take long, since the teams were still hitched to the wagons. Freeman was already mounted, so he told Boylan to handle the lead wagon.
“I ain’t really a horse herder,” Harrigan said, “but I don’t mind pitchin’ in and helpin’ drive these animals to the fort.”
“I appreciate that, Mr. Harrigan,” Courtland said. “I have to say, everyone we’ve encountered out here has been uncommonly helpful.”
“Except for the ones who were tryin’ to kill you and scalp you.”
“Well, yes, there was that,” Courtland agreed with a smile.
The horses wouldn’t be rushed, but it really didn’t take that long to push the herd along the river to the fort. When they topped a hill and came in sight of it, Preacher saw that the place resembled Fort Union and the other outposts he had visited, which were largely self-sufficient. A high stockade fence made of logs, with a blockhouse at each corner, surrounded a compound full of sturdy-looking log buildings. Fort Gifford had a trench dug into it from the river to supply water. There was a smokehouse for meat, what looked like a blacksmith shop, numerous storage buildings, a barracks, and the centerpiece, the big trading post whe
re the booshwa lived and did business.
Preacher noted the outpost even had a small vegetable garden behind the trading post. That was a touch he hadn’t expected.
Smaller blockhouses flanking the gates were built on the parapet behind the stockade wall. The gates themselves were extra thick. It would take a cannon to blow them open, and luckily the Indians hadn’t mastered the concept of artillery . . . yet.
“I better ride ahead,” Harrigan offered as they approached the gates. “All the fellas know me. I reckon it’s this red brush o’ mine. Come on with me, Preacher.”
Not seeing any harm in that, Preacher urged Horse into a trot and fell in alongside Harrigan. Dog bounded ahead of them.
Several men stood on the parapet holding rifles, and more rifle barrels protruded from the windows of the blockhouses on either side of the gates.
“You boys don’t take any chances, do you?” Preacher said.
“You know as well as I do that peace don’t usually last out here,” Harrigan said. “And nobody wants to be took by surprise when trouble comes callin’.”
“That’s sure the truth.”
Harrigan took off his hat and waved it over his head. His long red hair blew in the wind. “Open up, fellas,” he called. “It’s me.”
A man leaned over the parapet and shouted back, “I thought you left to go huntin’, Harrigan!”
“I did, but I found me a whole passel of horses instead!” Harrigan grinned and swept his hat toward the herd.
The heavy gates began to swing open slowly as men inside the stockade heaved on them. When the gap was wide enough, Preacher and Harrigan rode through.
“There’s plenty of room for the wagons,” Harrigan said, “but I ain’t sure what your friend Courtland is gonna do with those horses. The corral ain’t big enough for all of them.”
“He can put the best ones inside and build a pen outside for the others,” Preacher suggested. “Plenty of cottonwoods along the river to use for peeled poles.”
Harrigan nodded. “Yeah, I reckon that’d work.” He smiled again. “Remember I said Mr. Langley, the booshwa, had somethin’ else interestin’ about him?”
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