“No more so than every other man since Adam went traipsin’ through the garden.”
Jerome looked around and saw that the drivers were watching them. He snapped, “What are you men gaping at? Let’s all get busy. The sun’s up, for heaven’s sake. We’re burning daylight!”
Preacher smiled as Jerome stalked off toward the wagons. The expression didn’t last long. Despite the fact that things seemed to be resolved once more, he had a feeling that the trouble was a long way from over. When Corliss and Jerome had been arguing about which group he would accompany if they had split up, he had been just about disgusted enough to declare that all of them could go to hell.
But he knew he couldn’t bring himself to abandon them this far from civilization.
These pilgrims wouldn’t stand a chance on their own.
* * *
The tension that gripped the wagon train that morning lingered for the rest of the day, and for several days afterward. Jerome’s face was set in grim, stony lines as he drove the lead wagon. He said little, speaking only when he had to, and never smiled, despite the fact that Jake rode beside him on the seat and chattered incessantly.
Deborah rode with Corliss now, perched beside him on the seat, with her arm looped through his most of the time. Occasionally, she rested her head on his shoulder. It was domestic as all hell, Preacher thought as he tried to contain his disgust with the sit uation. He supposed that what had happened wasn’t really anybody’s fault, but he wished that Deborah hadn’t driven such a big wedge between the cousins, whether that had been her intention or not.
“See that blue line on the horizon?” Preacher said to Jake one day, pointing as he rode alongside the lead wagon.
“Yeah. What is it?”
“Those are the mountains,” Preacher told the boy.
Jake leaned forward, his eyes widening in excitement. “Really? I never seen any real mountains before, only just pictures in books. How long will it take us to get there?”
“Another week, maybe more. It’ll look like they’re only a few miles off, when really they’re still a long ways away, so don’t get too excited just yet.”
By nightfall, however, they had drawn close enough so that Preacher’s eaglelike eyes could make out the pale areas that marked the snowfields at the top of the peaks. That snow, which never melted, gleamed in the fading light and gave the Rockies their sometime name of the Shining Mountains. Preacher pointed out the snow to Jake, but he wasn’t sure if the boy ever really saw it.
The next day, Jake was able to see the snow for sure, though, and so was everyone else. The feelings of anticipation grew stronger. These people were ready to reach the mountains. Even Jerome perked up a little after days of moping.
After getting sidetracked from his scouting mission on the night the trouble had broken out between Corliss and Jerome, Preacher still hadn’t gotten around to it. But there had been no more gunshots from behind them and no sign of anyone following them. Preacher’s mind hadn’t really been put at ease—he was too naturally wary for that to happen—but he was beginning to wonder if he had been worried about nothing.
Disappointment set in among those with the wagon train as day after day passed and they seemed to get no closer to the mountains. Preacher had seen it happen again and again when folks came west for the first time. He had warned them that the distances were deceptive, but the sight of the mountains had made them forget what he’d said.
“Are we ever gonna get there Jake asked with a sigh as they sat around the campfire one night.
“If we keep goin’ long enough, we will,” Preacher said. “Got to, ’cause them mountains are between us and the ocean. If they weren’t, we could keep goin’ all the way to the Pacific.”
“That’s what people are going to do, isn’t it?” Corliss asked. “Take wagons over the mountains to the Pacific?”
Preacher nodded. “Some already have. Most of the folks who’ve settled up in the Oregon country got there by takin’ ships all the way around South America. Leastways, that’s what I’ve been told. Couldn’t swear to it myself since I never been on anything bigger’n a keelboat, goin’ up and down the Mississippi. But plenty o’ folks have traveled the overland route, startin’ with ol’ Lewis and Clark. I knew some o’ those boys who went with ’em. They went back to the mountains to trap beaver later on, fellas like John Colter, Jacob Reznor, and the Holt brothers. Now some missionaries have gone that way, too, provin’ that you can take wagons through South Pass and on over the mountains. Just a matter of time before there’s a whole bunch more folks doin’ the same thing, because there’s land up there for the takin’ and people are always hungry for land. Pert’ near everybody wants to find a place where he can look around and call it his own.”
Deborah smiled and said, “I think that’s the longest speech I’ve ever heard you make, Preacher. What about you? Where’s the place that you call your own?”
Preacher lifted a hand and moved it in a gesture that took in all their surroundings, north, south, east, and west. “When the sun comes up in the mornin’, stand out on the prairie and turn all the way around in a circle. You’ll be lookin’ at it.”
Deborah nodded in understanding. The whole frontier was Preacher’s home.
Twenty-two
Schuyler thought the mountains were mighty fine-looking, and he couldn’t wait to get there. The summer heat on the plains had grown worse over the past week. He was looking forward to the weather being a little cooler once they reached the peaks.
And of course, once they got to the mountains, they were going to kill Preacher and all the others and take those wagons and all the goods they carried.
Schuyler was looking forward to that, too. It was the first step toward being rich.
Actually, Fairfax planned to strike once the wagons reached the foothills. He wasn’t going to wait until they were in the mountains proper, because it would be harder to set up an ambush once the terrain became too rugged. They sat beside the tiny fire built in a hole some of the men had dug earlier, so the flames wouldn’t be visible, and figured out what they were going to do.
“The first thing is to get around that wagon train and move on ahead of it,” Fairfax said. “Once we’ve done that, we can find a suitable spot for a trap.”
One of the men said, “As many rifles as we’ve got, we ought to be able to kill all of ’em in one volley. They won’t never know what hit ’em.”
“Preacher’s mine,” Schuyler said.
Fairfax frowned. “You’ve had three shots at him and missed with all three. I think anyone who can bring that bastard down should go ahead and do it.”
“Damn it, Colin! I had good reasons for missin’ him those other times.”
“Yes, like the fact that you’re a poor shot.”
Schuyler swallowed the anger he felt. He trusted Fairfax and wouldn’t go against anything he decided, but all the same, Fairfax hadn’t had to bring up the bad luck that had dogged Schuyler the other times he’d tried to kill Preacher. There’d been no good reason to do that.
“Preacher is too dangerous to take any chances with him,” Fairfax went on. “Anyone who has a good shot at him, take it. I want that son of a bitch dead as soon as possible when we hit the wagon train.”
Schuyler knew his partner was right, but it rankled him anyway. If he got the chance, he promised himself, he was going to take Preacher down. Then Fairfax would be proud of him.
The next morning, the gang of killers and thieves crossed the Platte River so they could begin swinging farther north and west to get around the wagon train. They had to be careful because of the treacherous mud and quicksand, but they were able to make the ford without any incidents. Schuyler was surprised when, a short time later, they came to another broad, shallow, muddy stream.
“If that was the Platte we forded back yonder, what river is this?” he asked as he and Fairfax reined their horses to a halt and the rest of the gang followed suit.
“According to
the maps I studied back in St. Louis,” Fairfax said, “the Platte splits somewhere out here. That must have been the South Platte we crossed earlier, and this is the North Platte. I never noticed the split when we passed it. This river is such a maze of channels, it’s hard to tell where it ends and where it begins.”
They forded this stream, and then rode almost due north for several hours before turning west again. Ever since leaving St. Louis, they had held their horses back to keep from gaining too fast on the wagon train. Now the men pushed their mounts at a faster pace, and the horses responded, loping easily across the prairie toward the still-distant mountains.
During one of the times when they had stopped to rest the horses, Schuyler gazed off to the south and spotted something jutting up on the horizon. “What’s that?” he asked Fairfax as he pointed at it.
“I don’t know,” Fairfax replied with a frown. “Let me get my spyglass.”
He studied the distant landmark for a few moments, then passed the spyglass to Schuyler. When Schuyler peered through the lens, he was able to tell that the thing was a spire of rock that rose straight up into the air from a broader base.
“Chimney Rock,” Fairfax said. “I remember seeing it marked on some of the maps. The trail Preacher and the others will be following goes right past it.”
“Damn, it must be tall to stick up like that when we’re miles away from it.”
“Indeed.” Fairfax closed the spyglass. “I hope Preacher and his companions are suitably impressed when they pass it.” He smiled. “It may be one of the last such natural wonders they ever see.”
* * *
As with everything else out here, the travelers saw Chimney Rock long before they reached it. Jake leveled an arm at it and asked in an excited voice as he pointed, “What’s that?”
“Chimney Rock,” Preacher explained from his saddle as he walked Horse alongside the lead wagon. “Tomorrow we’ll pass Scott’s Bluff, and a couple of days after that we’ll be in the foothills, skirtin’ around the Laramies so we can cut over to South Pass. Another week and we can start lookin’ for a good place to start buildin’ that tradin’ post.”
“Another week,” Jerome muttered. “My God, is this trip never going to end?”
Jerome still hadn’t recovered from Deborah going back to Corliss. Preacher figured that was understandable. Jerome wasn’t what you’d call handsome, nor was he as big and strong as Corliss. He’d probably always played second fiddle to his cousin. For a few days, though, he’d had something that Corliss had failed to hold on to—Deborah’s affections. Sure, it had been hard on Jerome when she’d slipped through his fingers through no fault of his own and he’d lost her back to Corliss.
But out here on the frontier, a fella couldn’t afford to spend too much time brooding over lost loves and suchlike. There was too much work to do, and too many dangers that could come out of nowhere.
Like the war party that suddenly boiled around the base of chimney rock and galloped straight across the prairie toward the line of wagons.
Preacher saw them coming and bellowed, “Circle the wagons! Circle the wagons!” He could tell from the way the Indians drove their ponies over the grassy plain that they meant business. There wouldn’t be any negotiating with these fellas.
By now, the men had had enough practice so that drawing the wagons into a circle was second nature to them. They had to keep their wits about them now, though, and perform the maneuver faster than they ever had before. There wouldn’t be time to unhitch the teams and move the oxen into the protection of the circle, so some of the beasts would probably die. Corliss and Jerome had brought along extra oxen, of course, and as the wagons were circled, Preacher drove those animals into the center of the formation.
He saw Jake jump down from the seat of the lead wagon and run to the back of the vehicle. The boy reached inside and pulled out an armful of powder horns and shot pouches. He was getting ready to perform his reloading chores, and that was good.
Corliss pushed Deborah inside their wagon and told her, “Stay down!” The vehicle’s thick sideboards would stop an arrow or a lance and most rifle balls, too. As long as Deborah hugged the floor of the wagon, she ought to be safe.
Gil Robinson, Lars Neilson, and Blackie all hurried to find good positions from which to fire. Pete Carey ran over to Jake and gathered up some of the powder horns and shot pouches. Rifles in hand, Corliss and Jerome crouched at the rear of their wagons. The Indians were only about a hundred yards away when Preacher surveyed the circle and gave a curt nod of satisfaction. The men had spread out so that they could defend in every direction.
The fact that the Indians hadn’t started shooting yet probably meant that they didn’t have any rifles, Preacher thought. That was a good thing. The fact that the wagon train’s defenders were armed with good, accurate rifles would help them counter the war party’s superior numbers. Preacher figured there were at least thirty of the Indians.
He swung down from the saddle, knelt beside one of the wagons, lifted his rifle to his shoulder, and set out to cut down some on the war party’s numbers.
The weapon belched smoke and flame as its charge of black powder detonated with a roar. Preacher barely felt the recoil. As he lowered the rifle and began the process of reloading, his muscles functioning without conscious thought, he squinted through the cloud of smoke and saw one of the Indians lying sprawled on the ground. The others continued the attack. More shots blasted out from the defenders. Preacher heard the faint flutter of arrows flashing through the air. One of them buried itself in the side of the wagon with a solid thunk! The shaft quivered from the impact, no more than a couple of feet from Preacher’s head.
But as long as the arrows missed, it didn’t matter by how much. Preacher had the flintlock charged, loaded, and primed again less than thirty seconds after his first shot. He lifted it, drew a bead on another of the Indians as the war party split up to encircle the wagons, and fired. Once again, one of the warriors toppled off the back of a galloping pony.
The other defenders weren’t as fast at reloading as Preacher was, nor were they as accurate with their shots. But with the help of Jake and Pete Carey, they kept up a pretty steady fire, and gradually their shots began to take a toll. Several more Indians fell, and a couple of the ponies collapsed when they were hit.
The attackers were doing some damage of their own. Oxen bellowed as they were skewered by arrows. Most of the wounds weren’t fatal, since the beasts were protected by thick slabs of muscle, but they were painful and would prove mortal if enough of the shafts found their targets. One of the Indians came close enough to drive a lance halfway through an ox before a ball from Preacher’s rifle blew half his head off his shoulders in a gory spray of blood and bone and brain matter.
That Indian was also close enough for Preacher to recognize the war paint. These warriors were Pawnee, good fighters and nearly always hostile to whites. Preacher had known there was a good possibility the expedition would run into some of them, although he had hoped they would be lucky enough not to.
The Indians were riding in a circle around the wagons now, the hooves of their ponies kicking up enough dust that it was difficult to see them. That made aiming hard, too. Bloodcurdling whoops came from their throats as they poured arrows at the wagons.
A shout of pain made Preacher look back over his shoulder. On the other side of the circle, Lars Neilson staggered back from his position with an arrow jutting from the upper part of his left arm. The big Swede dropped to his knees, grimacing in pain. At the same time, one of the Pawnee warriors leaped his pony through the gap between wagons that Neilson had been defending. With a savage cry, he lunged his mount toward Neilson, lance poised to impale the Swede.
Preacher’s rifle was empty, so he snatched the tomahawk from behind his belt and flung it. The weapon flashed through the air and struck the Indian in the forehead. The blade buried itself in the warrior’s brain and drove him backward off his pony.
Still wide-eyed
in pain, Neilson looked around at Preacher and managed to nod his thanks. Then Pete Carey hurried over to the Swede and helped him back to his feet. With the arrow still in his arm, Neilson picked up the rifle he had dropped. Carey took it from him and began reloading it.
Preacher turned back to his own killing work.
At least half the members of the war party were down. They must not have been expecting the men with the wagon train to put up such a stiff fight. After a few more minutes of whooping and galloping around and firing arrows at the wagons, they turned their ponies and raced off into the distance. The dust cloud they had caused gradually began to dissipate.
Preacher walked around the inside of the circle, checking on everyone. He started with Jake Brant. “You all right, son?” he asked the youngster.
Jake’s face was smeared with black grime from the powder he’d been handling as he reloaded. His hands were even more stained. But he wasn’t injured, and a grin broke out across his face as Preacher came up to him.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” he said. “I was scared, but I just kept loading rifles and handin’ ’em to Mr. Corliss and Mr. Jerome.”
Preacher clapped a hand on his shoulder. “You done good work. A man who never gets scared ain’t brave, he’s just a durn fool. It’s the fella who’s scared but does what needs to be done anyway who’s really got the most courage.”
Jape beamed at the praise.
Preacher turned to Corliss and Jerome. “How about you two?”
“We’re all right,” Jerome said. He looked over at his cousin. “You shot more of those savages than I did.”
“It wasn’t a competition,” Corliss said. “I just wanted them to go away and leave us alone.” He went to the rear of the wagon and pushed the canvas flap aside. His voice was tight with worry as he asked, “Deborah? Are you all right?”
“Yes,” she said as she appeared in the opening, looking pale and shaken but otherwise unharmed. “I was really frightened because I kept hearing arrows strike the wagon. A few of them tore all the way through the canvas. But I stayed down like you told me to, Corliss, and I was fine.”
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