Amelia flushed. A hand flew to her mouth. “Do—do you think so?”
“Pert’ near a certain thing,” Sparticus answered with confidence as the downed man recovered consciousness.
Kreuger started to roundly curse Preacher, and Amelia covered her ears with her hands. Her eyes went wide when Preacher treated the swearing man like one would a foul-mouthed boy. The sound of Preacher’s backhand slap cracked through the chill, high mountain air.
“Lighten up, Bloody Hand, or you’ll be sleepin’ with a pitchfork in your hands tonight.”
“Go diddle yourzelf, you zon of a—” The hand returned with more punishment.
“I’m gonna leave it at this, Kreuger. Someone dump a bucket of water over this sorehead. It’ll cool him off.” Preacher turned to walk away, only to stop in surprise. “Well, I’ll be. You folks been there long?”
“Long enough,” Amelia Witherspoon responded snappishly, only to stop and blush in confusion as she realized how in conflict were her spinsterish words of criticism and the emotions in her heart.
Preacher cut his eyes to a spot on the ground somewhere between them. “I apologize for what you had to witness. That man’s got him a mean one like a boil. You folks got here without any trouble?”
“We did,” she responded, then gushed out her true feelings, “and I’m so glad you’re here.”
It became Preacher’s turn to be embarrassed. “Aw, that’s kind of you to say, but I ain’t nothin’ special.”
Crimson glowed in Amelia’s cheeks. “I think you are,” she gushed out.
She reached out a hand, and to her surprised relief, Preacher took it. Without another word, the lean, powerful mountain man led her away into the woods behind the trading post.
* * *
“I’m cold.”
Terry looked at his sister, seated across the small fire from him. “So am I.”
“It will be winter soon,” Vickie added meaningfully.
“I know that. We’ve just got to find Preacher.”
Vickie offered an unwelcome suggestion. “We could always go back?”
“No, we can’t. We stole and lied to those folks. It wouldn’t be fittin’.”
“They’d understand, Terry. I’m cold and hungry and so tired. Why haven’t we found Preacher yet?”
Frustration at his failure goaded Terry. “I don’t know. Leave it alone, will you?” He thought it over awhile, forced himself past pride and stubbornness. “I tell you what. We’ll wait it out two more days, keep going north. If we don’t find Preacher by then, we ... we can start back.”
“But I want to go back now. I’m scared out here, Terry.”
Terry sighed off a heavy burden for a twelve-year-old. “All right. I’ll take you back. At least until we’re in sight of the house. Then I’m headed for the tradin’ post.”
* * *
Over the next day, some ten long-legged, rangy men clustered in the trading post compound. Well accustomed to the rigors of the High Lonesome, they had heard the call for aid for a fellow and dropped what they worked upon and headed to the small settlement. To Preacher’s surprised relief, that swelled their number to thirty-five. Now, if only the Arapaho came in, they stood a chance, he reasoned. Amelia Witherspoon provided him pleasant distraction from the preparations for war.
They sat under a huge juniper, redolent with the scent of resin and ripe berries. There had not yet been a sharp frost, so the small, round balls, which served as the base flavor in what the English called geneva, had not turned their characteristic dark blue. Amelia had brought a picnic basket, and they lunched on cold fried chicken and boiled turnips. When the last crumbs of a pie had been devoured, she got to the heart of her purpose in being there.
“I know that those people are simply awful, sinful and terribly vicious. But isn’t it up to our army to do something about them?”
Preacher snorted. “I ain’t seen a soldier-boy in nigh onto a year an’ more. They keeps to their little block-house forts and ride the Santa Fe Trail to protect what folks back east call commerce. Now that Santa Fe, an’ all New Mexico, is American, business is boomin’. That’s what the politicians will want the soldiers to guard. I hear there’s even talk of openin’ a stagecoach line. Civilization,” he spat. “It gums up ever’thin’ wherever it goes.”
Amelia smiled and patted him on the arm. “I’m not so sure. People are ... so much more tranquil in the East.”
“Controlled, you mean. I’ve been there. It’s like one great big prison. A feller can’t carry a shootin’ iron down the street without being gawked at, or even arrested in some places. Folks that live like that ain’t free.”
“But they are safe, and protected.”
Preacher looked long and hard at her. “Miss Amelia, I don’t mean to pry, or to offend, but that makes me wonder. If that be the case, then why in tarnation did you folk come out here?”
Amelia tried to find the right tone of answer and failed. Instead, she laughed and leaned a shoulder against Preacher. “You have me there, Preacher. I could say it was our calling. Or that adventure beckoned. Truth to tell, I suppose it was to be away from the strictures of society.” She frowned and returned to her original theme. “Though, when I think of the price to be paid, the terrible things that happened to Deacon Abercrombie and the others, all the blood spilled—and more to come. It makes me question the purpose behind fighting those sick people out there.”
Preacher’s voice took on an edge. “Because we’re the only ones to do it, Miss Amelia. An’ it dang-sure needs doing.” He bent in the silence that followed to help her pick up the picnic leavings.
Back at the trading post, Karl Kreuger nursed his bruises and aches and avoided eye contact with Preacher. He would go along, he allowed. “Because I giff my vord.”
* * *
The next day, three more mountain men straggled into the gathering. That called for another whooping, foot-stomping, powerful drinking welcome. The assorted company had hardly settled down when a lone Arapaho warrior appeared at the gate to the compound. Preacher went out to greet him.
“Yellow Hawk, it is good to see you.”
Yellow Hawk returned Preacher’s sign of greeting and made the one for peace. “It is good to see you, Ghost Wolf. We have come. There are six hands of warriors from the village of Bold Pony and four hands from the village of the people who lost their braves to the Ro-mans.”
Fifty warriors, Preacher tallied. Better than he had hoped for. He nodded his acceptance. “We number nearly as many. More will be picked up on the trail. An’ maybe some of my Cheyenne friends would like to get in on this.”
Yellow Hawk made a face. All was not love and roses between the Arapaho and the Cheyenne. Yet, they had fought together before and perhaps would again. He signed acceptance. Preacher read the thoughts of Yellow Hawk on his stern visage. No matter. They would get along or not. The Cheyenne could always fight alongside the mountain men.
“Bring ’em on in. You can make camp outside the stockade. We leave tomorrow at first light.”
* * *
A bit after mid-afternoon the next day, Preacher came upon a complication that left his jaw sagging a moment before he let go a low, controlled roar. “What in hell are you doin’ here, boy?”
Saucy as ever, Terry Tucker stood at the side of the road, face beaming, while he waved at the man he so admired. “I want to go with you, Preacher.”
Preacher’s eyes narrowed. “We’ve been over this before. Where’s your sister?”
“I took her back, then come to find you.”
’Back? That mean the both of you runned off?“
“Yes, sir. We tried to find you north of here. Saw a lot of fellers dressed like you, but you didn’t come along. Vickie got scared and tired and so I took her back. I can come along, can’t I?”
“No. Not only no, but hell no.”
Terry looked as though he might cry. “I want to join the fight. I can do it, you know that. I—I’m grateful to you for helping Vickie an�
�� me escape a life of crime, and I want to make amends. I can do odd jobs around the camp, care for the horses, that sort of thing.”
What a quandary. Preacher removed his old, slouch hat and scratched the crown of his head with a thick fingernail. “I swear I don’t know what to do with you. It’s more than dangerous where we’re going. I’ve been there onecst an’ it ain’t no pony ride. Still . . .” he faded off, considering the alternatives. “I can’t spare a man to return you. Nor can I trust you to go on your own, given your stubborn outlook. So, I reckon you’ll have to come along.”
Terry’s face came alive, and he gave a little jump of joy. “Really? Oh, Preacher, thank you.”
Preacher bent toward the boy. “You’ll not be thankin’ me five days from now when we run into them Romans. Now, you cain’t walk all the way. We got to scare up a horse for you.”
With the same coy expression, an impish light in his clear, blue eyes, Terry asked the identical question he had put to Preacher before. “Why can’t I ride with you?”
Laughing, Preacher reached for the boy. “I suppose we can make an exception this one time. At least until I can scare up another mount.” He swung the boy aboard Cougar, noting that the improved victuals had added to Terry’s weight.
* * *
Messengers arrived at the palace from the watch towers on a regular schedule. The one that was just shown in to Marcus Quintus brought worrisome news.
“Reporting from Watch Tower Three, First Citizen. We have observed increased movement by the red savages to the east. All appear to be men, heavily armed and moving to the south.”
Quintus scowled. That did not sound good at all. “Do you have a count of them?”
“Yes, sir. They number approximately thirty-six.”
“Not an exact figure?” Quintus goaded.
Independent service in an isolated command had loosened the reins of discipline for the messenger. “We weren’t about to send someone out to parlay with them and count heads, sir.”
Anger flared for a moment in Quintus; then he regained control. “No. Of course not. Standing orders remain not to provoke the savages. I wonder where they are heading?”
21
Some ten miles out into the Great Divide Basin, Preacher’s small army came upon the advance scouts of the Cheyenne party seeking them. Some grumbling ran through the Arapaho warriors at this, though the two war party leaders, Yellow Hawk and Blind Beaver, kept their men in check. Crow Killer, leader of the Cheyenne, had been a small boy when Preacher first met him. That had been over twenty years ago. He still had the sunny disposition and good sense of humor of his childhood, and greeted Preacher warmly.
“I thought you to be with the Great Spirit by now, Preacher.”
“You ain’t no spring chicken yourself,” Preacher growled good-naturedly.
Crow Killer made a face. “Have you grown as mean as you have old?”
“Dang right. An’ fit to wrassel a griz.” Preacher let go a big guffaw. “How’er ya doin’, Crow Killer?”
“I have a wife now, and three children.”
Preacher blinked and cocked his head to one side. “Is that a fact? You had no more than thirteen summers the last time I saw you.”
“It has been a long time, Ghost Walker. I have twice that number of summers now.”
“An’ three youngins. You got started early.”
Crow Killer cracked a white smile. “I went on the war trail first time the summer after you hunted buffalo with our village. I took a wife five summers later.”
Grinning, Preacher shook his head knowingly. “Ah, but it is the winters that count in catchin’ babies, right?”
Grinning, the Cheyenne motioned his men into the column. “We scout for you, Preacher?”
“Yes, that would be good.”
Crow Killer’s next words surprised Preacher. “We saw these people you go to fight.”
“Did you now? When was this?”
“Three suns ago. We rode past their valley of shining lodges. They make ready to take the war trail. Aha! We have known of it for some time. We did not know how evil these men are, so we left them alone. I will grow much honor fighting at your side.”
“The honor is mine,” Preacher responded modestly. “What can you tell me from what you saw?”
Crow Killer considered it. “They have built some platforms, like burial racks, put up on the ridge around their basin.”
“Watch towers. Reckon they saw you?”
“Oh, yes. We did not try to hide.”
Preacher chuckled at that. “That must have given ol’ Marcus Quintus a tizzy.”
“Who? I do not know that name.”
“The he-coon that runs that strange place. Injuns make him nervous.”
Crow Killer scanned the ranks of Arapaho and his own Cheyenne. “Then he will soon be very nervous.”
Laughing together, they rode on. An hour before sundown, the column pulled into a circle, the Arapaho and Cheyenne on the outer two rings, and settled in for the night. Two of the Cheyenne scouts had taken a small elk, and the savory odor of roasting meat filled the air inside the campsite. Most of the mountain men had brought along ample supplies of stoneware jugs full of whiskey, and the mood became festive. Not so for Preacher and the more experienced among them, nor for the Indian leaders.
“We can’t let any of them Arapaho or Cheyenne get a hand on that likker. We’d have us one hell of a war on our hands if they did. Keep a good watch,” Preacher advised the war leaders, Philadelphia, and Frenchie Dupres.
* * *
Early the next morning, Terry Tucker rode beside Preacher. Blind Beaver noted this and rode over. “You have a son now, also, Preacher?”
Preacher looked surprised, then embarrassed. “No. Not likely. It—it’s just something that growed to me.” For all his denial, Preacher gave Terry a wink.
Blind Beaver beamed. “I have two. One is five summers, the other one. The other is a girl. And she is beautiful.”
“I’m sure she is.” Preacher gave Blind Beaver a hard, direct look. “When we make camp tonight, we will hold council. I want to paint a word picture of how we will attack these bad men.”
Grunting in agreement, Blind Beaver made his thoughts known. “It is good. Are they truly Moon Children?”
Preacher considered it. “I don’t think so. Ol’ Marcus Quintus might be a lot tetched, but he’s sane enough to know right from wrong. So do the others. I figger it this way. They’re just lettin’ themselves go. The pleasures evil can offer can be mighty temptin’.”
“Most true, mon ami,” Frenchie Dupres agreed from the other side.
“Tell me about this boy,” Blind Beaver urged Preacher.
Preacher reached out and ruffled Terry’s white hair. “He’s a stray. Attached himself to me a while back an’ I found a home for him and his sister. Now he’s run off to help me in this fight.”
“You are young for your first war party,” Blind Beaver told Terry in Arapaho, with Preacher translating.
“I’m twelve,” Terry responded sharply, with only a hint of his usual defiance.
“When I had twelve summers, I still used a boy’s bow and hunted rabbits.”
“It was meant as a compliment,” Preacher added to his translation.
Terry surprised Preacher yet again with his depth of diplomacy. “I’d really rather be.”
“You are brave. You will do well,” Blind Beaver told the boy. Then, to Preacher he added, “1 will go forward, see what has been found.”
What the Cheyenne scouts had found would astonish all of them.
* * *
Only the day before, one century of Varras’ cavalry (actually only fifty-seven men, not one hundred) had at last discovered the tracks left by the fleeing missionaries. They followed it to the southeast now, hungering for contact. Shouted jests as to what they would do to the survivors flew through the air, flung from their mouths by a quick canter. Their concentration so centered on the anticipated targets, they
failed to take note of an eagle feather that seemed to flutter incongruously from the center of a large sage bush.
A close study of that out-of-place object would have informed them that the tip had been dyed red. So had the white goose fletchings on the arrows the watcher carried, the shafts of which bore two red bands of paint and one yellow. The watcher’s cousins, the Sioux, called them Sahiela—which translates loosely into English as “they-come-red”—and the white men called them Cheyenne.
Red Hand had been scouting ahead for hours, and had only swung directly back onto the trail a short while ago. He lived, as did all his brothers, by “Indian time” which took no notice of seconds, minutes, or hours, only of day and night, before high sun and after, of suns (days) and moons (months). So he had no exact idea how long he had ridden forward before his keen hearing picked up the rumble of many mounted men. Alerted, he guided his pony off the trail and dismounted.
His experience quickly led him to the large clump of sage, and he concealed himself there. A hundred heartbeats later, these strange men rode into view. Were they contraries? What odd clothing. That bright red cloth could be seen for miles. And only four hands of them carried bows. What sort of warriors were they? He waited until they had ridden far beyond his hiding place. Then he came out of the brush, gathered dry sticks, and clumps of green grass.
Quickly Red Hand built a small fire. When it went well, he weighted two corners of a blanket with stones, threw the greenery on the blaze and covered it with the square of cloth. He counted heartbeats, then quickly raised the blanket. A large ball of smoke formed and drifted lazily upward. He waited, fed the fire, then repeated the process twice. Crow Killer would soon know.
* * *
Crow Killer returned to the mixed column of mountain men and Indians at a gallop. His pony snorted and stamped hooves in excitement at the run when the Cheyenne war leader reined in. He had plenty to tell.
“You weren’t gone long,” Preacher dryly observed.
“You saw the smokes?”
Preacher nodded.
“There are many. I watched them. Two of my scouts are behind them, to give warning if more come.”
Preacher and the Mountain Caesar Page 22