“Hang in there, ol’ feller. We’s a pair, we be,” he said softly to his distant brother.
That night, Preacher slept well under a blanket of stars that frosted the night as a harbinger of the coming winter.
* * *
Marcus Quintus Americus hurled a gold-rimmed wine cup across the room to splinter on the plinth of a bust of Augustus Caesar. Thin, red wine washed over it and stained the first Roman emperor purple. Shocked, Legate Varras of the cavalry watched as the liquid pooled on the marble floor.
“Are you totally incompetent? How can you come to me with a report like this?”
Varras answered mildly. “Because it is my duty, and it is the truth. Beyond the territory of New Rome, we found no trace of them. A large body of the fleeing prisoners rode south on the main trail for some while; then their tracks faded out.”
He did not know of the drags that Sparticus had rigged on the last horses in the column, which spread out from side to side on the trail and obliterated every trace of their passage. It was an old trick Sparticus had learned on the Underground Railroad. It would not have fooled a Blackfoot, Cheyenne or a Sioux, but it did confound the inexperienced trackers of the cavalry legion. Quintus fumed a long, silent moment, then turned partly away from Varras. His voice dropped from its previous furious bellow.
“How could four barbarians and that lot of pitiful Christians defeat professional gladiators and outwit my well-trained soldiers to make good this escape?”
Varras was smart enough to remain silent. His first sword centurion stood rigidly at his side, helmet tucked under one arm like his commander. He cut his eyes to Varras and grimaced. Quintus collected himself after his rhetorical question.
“Well, they’ll not get away with it. I want you to get out there by an hour after sundown. Best possible speed. Catch up to those vermin, kill only those you must, and bring back the rest. Take what supplies you need and don’t leave any area unsearched. Now, leave me. I must talk with the commanders of the other legions.”
Glaubiae and Bruno entered together. Quintus eyed them coldly, arms folded over the front of his toga. When they both grew uneasy enough, he poured wine around and handed each general a cup.
“Your health, gentlemen. I must compliment you on the thoroughness of your search of our city. Unlike that incompetent ass, Varras, who lost all trace of the fugitives, you did come up with three escaped slaves. That they were not involved with those from the coliseum is not important. Given that those condemned prisoners had already ridden out of the gates, you did the best you could. Now, I have to ask more of you. I am not convinced that we have seen the last of those miscreants. Here is what I want you to do.”
He began to pace the floor as he spoke. “I want you to establish watch towers completely around the rim of this basin. Staff them with enough men to be alert around the clock. Also set up heliographs and signal fires. Have horses so a messenger can reach the city well ahead of whoever comes back.” His pacing grew faster. “Set your engineers to manufacturing ballistas, catapults and arbalests.”
“You are certain they will attack us?” Gaius Septimus asked.
“Of course,” Quintus snapped. “I have learned only this morning that there are enough of these barbarian mountain men with savage allies to form a force that will outnumber us. The important thing is not to let the Senate and the people know that. If we are prepared, if we have advance warning, the quality of the legions and the power of some—ah—weapons I have provided will assure our victory.”
That caught the interest of both generals. “What weapons are these?”
Quintus answered guardedly. “Some firearms. Also a few cannons that will far out-perform our other artillery.” A wicked smile illuminated his face.
Septimus and Bruno caught up his enthusiasm. “How many firearms? What sort of cannon?” Septimus urged.
Thinking on it, Quintus answered evasively. “Enough to tip the scale.”
Bruno wasn’t buying into it. “And when do we train men to use them?”
Quintus surprised him with his answer. “We start this afternoon. Now, get out of here, get orders published for what is needed, and get to work.”
* * *
Buck Sears had traveled the trails of Texas, driven teams on the Santa Fe Trail, and most recently, had rented his talents to those seeking to take goods overland to the Northwest Territory. It made him fairly savvy about movement where Indians were a factor, and how to repair wagons when the nearest wheelwright or coach shop lay five hundred miles behind. It had not taught him how to find mountain men when sent to round up any who remained in the ranges of the Rocky Mountains. In fact, it was they who found him, more or less.
“You there, stumblin’ around in the bush,” a voice called out as Buck floundered around in an attempt to find the trail he had been following, which had abruptly disappeared a quarter of an hour earlier. The unknown voice called again.
“If you be friendly, sing out an’ let us know who you might be.”
“Hello. The name’s Sears. Buck Sears. I’m a freight wagon teamster.”
A low chuckle answered Buck, then words made soft by amusement. “You’re sure an’ hell a long ways from any wagon route. C’mon in, set a spell, an’ have some coffee.”
That completely amazed Buck. “You—uh—you’ve got a camp out here?”
“Shore enough do. Head yourself due north an’ you’ll run into it.”
Buck blundered through the brush, leading his mount, until he came to a small clearing surrounded by ash and juniper trees. Three men sat around a stone-guarded, hat-sized fire over which a coffeepot steamed. Buck ground reined his horse and came forward.
“Well, here I am. Buck Sears.”
The one who had called out to him spoke first. “M’name’s Abel Williams, but folks most call me Squinty. This here’s Jack Lonesome and that other feller is Three-Finger. Git yourself around some Arbuckles,” he invited, with a gesture toward the blue granite pot.
“Obliged,” Buck responded.
Settled on a mat of aspen leaves, Buck sipped the strongest coffee he had ever tasted, worried for the lining of his stomach, and exchanged incidentals with the three mountain men for several minutes. Then, when Squinty Williams hinted delicately at what business brought Buck into the mountains, he unveiled his story of New Rome.
They listened in amazement, doubt written plainly on their faces. Buck noted this and concluded his personal story to get to the heart of the situation. “The thing is, six years after I was taken by these lunatics, two of you mountain men were captured; Philadelphia Braddock and Preacher.”
“Naw. Couldn’t be,” Jack Lonesome rebutted. “No amount of fellers runnin’ around in skirts could best Preacher.”
“All the same, it’s true,” Buck insisted. “He said I might run into some—ah—resistance. Sent along this note.” He dug into his shirt pocket and produced the scrap of paper upon which Preacher had scribbled his appeal.
Squinty took it and peered intently at it. At last he nodded. “That’s his name, right enough. An’ his Ghost Wolf mark. What’s it say, Jack?”
Jack Lonesome took the message and read it aloud. This is to advise any fellers contacted by Buck Sears that we has us a large problem needs solvin’ right fast. Buck will explain it to you an’I ask you to come fast to Trout Creek Pass and lend a hand. Yours for old times, Preacher.
Squinty cocked his head to one side. “Well, I’ll be damned. You got our help, Buck. Tell us about this place again; then we’ll make use of the rest of this day gettin’ out of here.”
Buck related the final days in New Rome and what Preacher and Philadelphia were up to at the moment. All three mountain men thought on it; then Squinty came to his boots. “We know where half a dozen of our friends are fixin’ to hang out for the winter. We’ll go get them and then head for this rendezvous with Preacher. I ain’t never seen me a man in a skirt before, but I reckon we can sure put the fear of God in a bunch of ’em.”
* * *
On his fourth day away from New Rome, Philadelphia Braddock ambled into a camp in the Medicine Bow range occupied by Blue Nose Herkimer. There he also found Four-Eyes Finney, a wild Irish brawler turned mountain man; Karl “Bloody Hand” Kreuger; Nate Youngblood; and, surprisingly to him, Frenchie Dupres. After a few bear hugs, some foot stomping, and a lot of genial cussing, Philadelphia filled them in on what had been happening in the Ferris Range. Bloody Hand Kreuger did not believe it.
“Pferd Scheist! That’s all it is, horse shit. I was through there back a ways, and I never saw anything like that.”
“How long ago was that, Karl?” Philadelphia asked, using the German mountain man’s given name because he knew Bloody Hand did not like it.
Bloody Hand thought on it a moment. “Ten . . . maybe twelve years ago.”
“A lot can happen in that time. An’ it surely did. That’s about the time this crazy feller, calls himself Marcus Quintus Americus, came out here. Boys, I’ve been there, saw the buildings, took baths in a fancy buildin’, and fought for my life in a place where folks come an’ watch ya die for the fun of it. Preacher was there with me, like I said. Now, fellers, what’ll it be? Are you goin’ to join us in doin’ away with this place of corruption or not?”
An old and dear friend of Preacher, Frenchie Dupres rose and dusted off the seat of his trousers. “I am ready, mon ami. These people sound to be tres evil. If Preacher needs our help, I say we give it to him.”
“You can count on me,” Nate Youngblood agreed.
“I’m with you, Philadelphia,” Blue Nose Herkimer added.
Four-Eyes Finney tugged at a thick forelock of sandy hair. “Sure an’ it sounds like a fine donnybrook. Count me in.”
Although the Kraut mountain man had a long list of grievances against Preacher, Karl Kreuger sighed heavily and nodded in acceptance. “I’ll go. What the hell, Preacher is one of us, and no fancy Roman is gonna put down a mountain man.”
Philadelphia could not hide his happy smile. “By jing, that shines. Ya can all head out at first light; it’s a ways to Trout Crick Pass. I’m leavin’ now to see if I can scare up some other fellers.”
19
Preacher found Bold Pony and his band settled down in their winter camp in a tidy little valley. He was welcomed with stately courtesy. Then Bold Pony noticed Preacher’s injuries. He sent at once for the medicine man.
“I coulda taken care of that for myself,” Preacher protested without sincerity. The poultices the shaman put on his cuts and bruises felt cool and soothing. And the Arapaho medicine man could get to the claw marks on his back better than he had been able to.
“Not while you are in my camp, friend,” Bold Pony responded. “You will speak of how you received these injuries at the council fire tonight?”
“Yes. I sort of hunted you down for that exact reason. There’s some mighty bad people out there that need a lesson taught them.”
“We eat first. And drink coffee.”
After filling himself with elk stew, Preacher sat back and belched loudly, rubbed his belly to show how much he had enjoyed it, and allowed as how he was ready to talk to the council. They gathered around a modest fire in the center of the village. Bold Pony spoke first, as was his right, then formally introduced the man well known to them. Preacher rose and addressed the council while Bold Pony translated.
He told them of New Rome and what had happened there. “Until some dozen years ago, only the Crows and the Blackfeet roamed through the Ferris Range,” he began. He went on to describe the city that had grown there, of the cruelty of the people who lived in it. When he came to the games, Bold Pony used the Arapaho words for “savage” and “barbarian.” That amused Preacher. Although he knew the Arapaho tongue well enough to pass the time of day, Preacher wanted to be sure the whole sordid story of New Rome came across clearly. It appeared to him that Bold Pony was doing that right enough.
Angry mutters rose when he described the Arapaho warriors who had been enslaved and killed, and added, “We sang their death songs after the gladiators finished with them.” He concluded his account with the escape and an appeal for help in destroying this menace. Buffalo Whip, an aged former peace chief, rose to speak against the Arapaho involvement. “We do not know these people. They have done us no harm. Those men you told about are not of this band. It is not for us to avenge them. It is not wise to take the war trail against people who do not have anger toward us.” He rambled on awhile, then repeated the admonition to avoid war.
Preacher rose again. “Thing is, they’ve got anger toward everyone. They call us barbarians, an’ you folks, too. A feller who had been there six years told me they plan on fighting everyone out here. An’ he tells the truth.”
Another older councilman stood to argue against joining in Preacher’s fight. A third followed him. Preacher considered that it wasn’t going well. Then came the turn of some of the younger men. Yellow Hawk took his place in front of the assembly.
“There are too many white men out here now. Most are like our friend, Preacher. These men have bad hearts. They hurt women and children. I say we fight them.”
Badger Tail agreed. Buffalo Whip spoke again. Two more of the fiery, youthful warriors responded, urging that a war party be organized. The debate raged on into the night. The fire burned low, and young boys, apprentice warriors, built it up again. At last, Bold Pony put a hand on Preacher’s shoulder.
“You might as well take some sleep, old friend,” he advised. “This will take a while.”
Preacher nodded and came to his boots. Stifling a yawn, he ankled off to the lodge where he would spend the night.
* * *
Birds twittered in the trees outside the Arapaho camp while the eastern sky turned pink. Preacher emerged from a buffalo hide lodge as the velvet dome above magically turned blue overhead. He wore a huge, relaxed smile on his leathery face. He tucked his buckskin hunting shirt into the top of his trousers and paused. He turned back to wave a sappy goodbye to the occupant, one thoughtfully provided by Bold Pony, and received a very feminine giggle in reply.
After his morning needs had been taken care of, he sat down with Bold Pony to a bowl of mush that sported shreds of squirrel meat. They ate contentedly. Then Bold Pony nodded toward the center of camp, where the debaters had already begun to assemble.
“You must have other visits to make, Ghost Wolf. You may as well tend to them now. This will be a long time deciding. Go to the trading post and wait for us. We will be along, if we are coming, within two days.
* * *
In New Rome preparations for war went on at a fevered pace. The two bold legions—actually their strength compared more realistically with two understrength platoons—conducted mock battles on the Field of Mars. The Campus Martius swarmed with armed and armored troops, their faces grim and set in concentration. Centurions raised their swords in signal, and the sergeants of the contaburniae bellowed the command to lock shields and prepare to form the tortoise. The centurions lowered their weapons rapidly.
“Form . . . up!” the leather-lunged sergeants commanded.
At once, the soldiers in the middle of the squares raised their shields overhead, shielding themselves and the outer two ranks as well. Each pilum pointed outward, a hedgehog of defense. A shower of blunted arrows moaned hauntingly to the top of their arcs and descended on the shields. They clattered noisily as the brass-bossed, hardened hides shed them. At another command, the ten squads disengaged their shields and faced the same direction.
“Forward at the quick time,” came the order.
At once the soldiers stepped off at a rapid pace, their javelins slanted forward. Twenty paces along the base course, the commands came again. With more assurance the formation evolved into the famous tortoise. Standing in his white chariot, its basket supports set off in gold, Marcus Quintus Americus looked on with satisfaction. His heart thundered with excitement. Elsewhere, those men who had proven to be passable marksmen drilled wit
h the rifles. What a shock that would be when those mountain rabble returned. Gaius Septimus rode up on a white charger. The stallion snorted at the scent of its fellows drawing the chariot. Wet droplets of slobber stained the sleeve of the military tunic worn by Marcus Quintus.
“A couple more run-throughs and my legion will be ready for a cavalry charge.”
“Excellent. They are learning faster than I expected, and I’m pleased.”
“Here’s the bad news. Some of your spies have ferreted out the information that the condemned man, Arturus, was in fact Preacher.”
Color flared on Quintus’ face. “By all the gods! All that while I had my hands on Preacher and did not know it? How could that have happened?”
Septimus looked embarrassed. “I suspected it when I saw him fight at the school. Yet, I had nothing to prove it.”
“Who verified his identity?” Quintus demanded.
“Bulbus for one. He overheard one of the other gladiators call him that.”
Quintus scowled. “The fool. He should have reported it. We could have kept him in a cell alone, and fought him differently. None of what happened would have been possible.”
“And we wouldn’t be running around like chickens with our heads cut off trying to prepare for war,” Septimus muttered to himself.
“What was that?”
“Nothing, Quintus. I have to get back to my primus pilus.” His need to meet with his first spear—his adjutant—was a convenient excuse to avoid the wrath of Quintus.
Half an hour later, a messenger came from Glaubiae to say that his troops were ready for the cavalry. He sent the man on to another part of the Field of Mars, where the mounted troops had been practicing. With whoops of glee, they whirled into attack formation and rumbled across the turf toward the defensive squares of the Thirteenth Legion. A shower of javelins hurtled toward them.
Preacher and the Mountain Caesar Page 20