The song’s ribald lyrics ended in laughter as Preacher saw the glow of a large campfire up ahead. The party that had made camp had to be a large one. The men didn’t seem to care about the size of the fire or the loudness of their singing. The fire would keep animals away, and a large, well-armed group of men didn’t have to worry much about being attacked.
Still, such boisterousness went against the grain for Preacher. There was a time and a place for everything and nighttime in the wilderness wasn’t for loud singing.
He was close enough to pause and call out, “Hello, the camp!” A fella didn’t just waltz in unannounced at night. That was a good way to get shot.
The men fell silent.
After a moment, someone responded. “Who’s out there?”
“They call me Preacher.”
“Preacher!? Well, the saints be praised! Come on in, you old he-coon!”
The voice was familiar. “Is that you, Miles?”
“Aye, ’tis!”
Preacher hadn’t seen Miles O’Grady since the previous year. He had always gotten along with O’Grady and figured if the Irishman was part of the group, they were all likely to be friendly, but he kept his thumb on the flintlock’s hammer just in case as he strode forward and stepped out of the trees into the circle of light cast by the campfire.
A quick head count told him there were fifteen men in the bunch. He looked around, saw several familiar faces in addition to O’Grady’s broad, ruddy one, and nodded to his acquaintances. It seemed a little odd to him, seeing all of them together.
Most fur trappers were, by nature, solitary creatures, content with their own company except on those rare occasions when they attended a rendezvous. If they partnered up with anybody, only two or maybe three would be in a group.
In the early days of the fur trade, large parties had been common. But like anything else, the customs had evolved over time.
O’Grady moved toward Preacher and stuck out a hand. “Last I heard, you were over in the Wind River country.”
Preacher shook his hand and drawled, “Yeah, but I didn’t have much luck there. Decided to see how the plews are over here. Looks like you fellas had the same idea.” He paused, then added meaningfully, “At the same time.”
O’Grady’s mouth quirked. “Well, that’s not exactly why we’re all here together like this. It’s because of what’s been happening over in Shadow Valley.”
Preacher frowned and shook his head. “I hadn’t heard of anything goin’ on over there.”
“Well, it seems like ’tis not a very healthy place to be these days. Sit down, warm your bones by the fire, and I’ll tell ye all about it.”
“Let me get my horses and my dog,” Preacher said. “I left ’em back in the woods a ways . . . until I found out what all the celebratin’ was about.”
“’Tis not celebrating we are,” O’Grady said with a sigh. “More like trying to hold off the darkness with the power of song.”
Preacher thought about the situation as he fetched Horse, Dog, and his pack animal. O’Grady, like most Irishmen, was given to bouts of melancholy. Whiskey would just make it worse. Maybe that was all that was going on.
Preacher brought his trail partners back to the camp, unsaddled the big gray stallion, and took the supplies off the packhorse. He picketed both animals, although he knew from long experience that Horse would never willingly stray far from his side. Neither would Dog.
He joined the other men and sat down on a log with several of them. O’Grady offered him a jug.
Preacher shook his head. “Not right now. I’d rather hear about whatever it is that’s got you fellas spooked.”
One of the men said, “I ain’t ashamed to admit I’m a mite scared. You don’t know what’s goin’ on in this part of the country, Preacher. It ain’t safe no more.”
Preacher grunted. “Shoot, I don’t think these mountains were ever all that safe. If you don’t have Injuns wantin’ to kill you, bears and cougars and lobo wolves are always around. Not to mention avalanches and floods and forest fires. Seems to me like there’s always been a million ways to die once you get west of the Mississipp’.”
“Yes, but this is worse than usual,” O’Grady said. “Nigh on to a dozen men have disappeared around here this year.”
“What do you mean, disappeared?” Preacher asked with a puzzled frown.
“Just that. Vanished. Dropped off the face of the earth like they never existed. Most of us know someone that’s happened to, and the rest have heard stories.”
The men sitting in a circle around the campfire nodded solemnly.
“That’s not the worst of it, though. We’ve found bodies”—the Irishman shuddered—“and the things that had been done to them.”
It must have been pretty bad to affect O’Grady, thought Preacher.
Although he hadn’t been in the mountains as long as Preacher had, Miles O’Grady was a veteran trapper who had been in his share of fights.
“Indians have been known to torture captives,” Preacher pointed out. “Hell, one time a bunch of ’em planned on burnin’ me at the stake.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard the story,” O’Grady said. “Reckon we all have.”
“I haven’t,” one of the other men said.
Preacher didn’t know him, couldn’t recall ever having seen him before. The stranger was young, probably in his early twenties. Of course, Preacher couldn’t hold youth against a fella. He hadn’t even been shaving yet when he lit a shuck from his family’s farm and headed off to see the elephant.
“Then you don’t know how Preacher got his name.” O’Grady seemed glad for an excuse to change the subject. “By the way, Preacher, this youngster is Boone Halliday.”
Preacher reached over to shake hands. “Boone’s a pretty well-known name back in Kentucky.”
“I know. That’s where I’m from. In fact, my ma named me after Daniel Boone.” The young man grinned. “I reckon that with a name like that, I couldn’t help but turn out to be a trapper and a long hunter, right?”
Preacher wasn’t sure Boone Halliday could make that claim just yet. He appeared to be pretty wet behind the ears, which in his case stuck out rather prominently from the sides of his head. Boone had a shock of brown hair falling down over his forehead under the wide-brimmed, brown felt hat he wore. Actually, he looked more like he ought to be behind a plow somewhere instead of wandering around the high country.
But every mountain man had to start somewhere, Preacher supposed.
“Tell me about your name,” Boone went on.
Preacher shook his head and waved a hand. “I disremember how it got hung on me.”
“Well, I don’t.” O’Grady leaned forward eagerly.
PINNACLE BOOKS are published by
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Copyright © 2016 J. A. Johnstone
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PUBLISHER’S NOTE
Following the death of William W. Johnstone, the Johnstone family is working with a carefully selected writer to organize and complete Mr. Johnstone’s outlines and many unfinished manuscripts to create additional novels in all of his series like The Last Gunfighter, Mountain Man, and Eagles, among others. This novel was inspired by Mr. Johnstone’s superb storytelling.
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ISBN: 978-0-7860-3567-0
First electronic edition: March 2016
ISBN-13: 978-0-7860-3568-7
ISBN-10: 0-7860-3568-4
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