Preacher's Showdown

by William W. Johnstone

  “Another week, maybe two.”

  Jerome sighed. Preacher supposed it was because he didn’t want to spend that much more time watching Corliss and Deborah act like lovebirds. Preacher didn’t care about that. He just wanted Jerome to behave himself, and so far, that was happening.

  The pines that grew thickly on the slopes of the foothills gave the landscape ahead of the wagons a dark green cast. Preacher could almost smell the sharp tang of the pines. It was a scent that called to him, as some men might be drawn to the smell of bread baking, or the sea, or even the smoke of industry. Any smell that meant home, whatever it might be, reached out to a man with strength that could not be denied. Preacher was more than ready for it when the wagons rolled through a natural saddle between two pine-covered hills and the scent washed over him for real.

  The others seemed to sense that this represented a significant change from the plains where they had been traveling for the past few weeks. Even the oxen appeared to have more energy.

  Their route followed the shallow valleys between the foothills. Jake cried out in joyful surprise as they spooked a herd of antelope in one such valley. The animals bounded off gracefully. They had seen buffalo on several occasions during the journey, but there was no comparison between those shaggy, lumbering beasts and the sleek, fleet-footed antelope.

  They camped that night at the head of a long, grassy valley with a creek meandering through it. The stream was shallow, but it flowed swiftly over a rocky bed, and when Preacher dipped up a handful of water and tasted it, it was as clear and cold as could be. Fed by snowmelt, the creek would stay cold all summer.

  Preacher told the others it would be all right to have a small fire again. “We’re out of Pawnee country now,” he explained. “They won’t come up here after us.”

  “What sort of Injuns live around here?” Jake asked.

  “Cheyenne mostly. A few Arapaho.”

  Jerome asked, “Are they hostile?”

  “They can be,” Preacher replied with a nod. “Mostly it depends on how you treat ’em. None of ’em are as bad as the Blackfoot. Blackfoot’ll kill any white man he comes across, no matter what the fella does. They’ll try to anyway. It was a bunch o’ Blackfoot that grabbed me one time, tied me to a tree, and planned on torturin’ me to death the next mornin’.”

  Jake’s eyes widened with awe. “And you got away?”

  “I’m here, ain’t I?” Preacher said with a grin.

  “How’d you do it? Did you get loose and kill all of ’em?”

  Preacher thought about it and decided it wouldn’t do any harm to tell them the story of how he came by his nickname. If they were going to stay out here on the frontier, they were going to hear it sooner or later anyway.

  He put a hand on Jake’s shoulder and said, “I’ll tell you all about it after supper. Now, why don’t you hustle up some wood for the fire?”

  “Sure, but I’ll hold you to that promise. I want to hear the story.” Jake hurried off to follow Preacher’s orders.

  Preacher started to turn away from the valley that spread out before the wagons, but then something caught his eye. The valley was a couple of miles long, and at the far end it narrowed down to a canyon where it passed between two rough, rock-strewn ridges. Preacher thought he had seen something move up there in the canyon, even at this distance.

  But as he stood there for a long moment, watching the place with his keen eyes narrowed, he didn’t spy anything else. He didn’t think he had imagined the movement, but it could have been anything—an antelope, a moose, a grizzly bear, even an eagle or an owl swooping low to flit through the canyon. Didn’t have to mean a damned thing. Taking note of it had been just a matter of instinct and habit.

  Despite being aware of all that, Preacher knew that come morning, when the wagon train passed through that canyon, he would be especially watchful.

  Because that was a mighty fine place for an ambush, if he had ever seen one.

  Twenty-four

  After Schuyler, Fairfax, Burns, and Loomis rejoined the rest of Beaumont’s men, the entire group pushed on west toward the mountains, riding fairly hard. By nightfall, Fairfax judged that they were far enough ahead of the wagon train to turn back to the southwest. That would keep them ahead of the Hart expedition, but still allow them to intercept the wagons in a day or two.

  Another day’s travel found them in the foothills, with the snowcapped peaks looming ahead of them and an even taller range farther west that could be glimpsed from time to time. Fairfax led the group to the top of a thickly wooded ridge and called a halt there.

  “All right, we’ll wait here while you locate the wagon train and determine where it’s going, Schuyler,” he said. “Take Burns and Loomis with you. They seem like good men.”

  Burns chuckled and said in a dry voice, “Thanks for the vote o’ confidence, Boss.”

  “I meant it just like it sounded,” Fairfax snapped. “But I can choose someone else if you’d prefer.”

  All of Beaumont’s men were aware of how Schuyler and Fairfax had handled themselves against the pair of burly bodyguards back in St. Louis. None of them wanted to tangle with the two new additions to the gang, so Burns was quick to say, “No, Boss, that’s fine. I’m glad you’ve got faith in me and ol’ Loomis.”

  Fairfax nodded, satisfied that he had asserted his authority. “We’ll camp here,” he said, “and you can start scouting for the wagon train in the morning.”

  Schuyler, Burns, and Loomis were on their way before sunrise, riding back out to the edge of the foothills. Being careful to remain in the cover of the trees, they ranged up and down for several hours, searching the approaches to the slopes for any sign of the wagons.

  Around the middle of the day, Schuyler thought he spotted something. He still had Fairfax’s spyglass, so he took it out, opened it up, and lifted the lens to his eye. He needed a few minutes to find what he was looking for, but then he settled the spyglass on the six wagons with their white canvas covers. The canvas was patched in numerous places. Schuyler supposed that was where arrows had torn through it during the battle with the Indians.

  He closed the spyglass and said in satisfaction, “There they are.”

  “Yeah,” Loomis agreed, “I can kinda see the wagons, too, even without that glass.”

  “Are they all there?” Burns asked.

  Schuyler nodded. “Yes, and they don’t look like they were damaged during the Indian fight. Colin’s gonna be happy. I’ll bet all the trade goods are just fine.”

  “What do we do now?”

  Schuyler thought about it. He wasn’t used to making decisions and giving commands. Finally, he said to Burns, “You go back and tell Colin that we’ve found them. Loomis and I will stay here and watch until we’re sure where they’re goin’.”

  Burns nodded and turned his horse, accepting the order without hesitation. That felt pretty good, Schuyler thought as he watched Burns ride off toward the ridge where they had left Fairfax and the others.

  For the next couple of hours, the two men watched, well concealed in the pines, as the wagons drew closer. They were less than five hundred yards away when the vehicles entered the foothills, not following any trail that Schuyler could see.

  But Preacher seemed to know where he was going. He rode in front of the wagon train, leading the way, and the pace of the rangy stallion the mountain man rode never faltered.

  Schuyler and Loomis let the wagons get well ahead before following them. The two men stayed back and used every bit of cover they could find as they stalked their quarry. The wagon train wound through the foothills, and Preacher still rode with the confident certainty of a man who was sure of not only his surroundings, but also his destination.

  By late afternoon, the wagons had come to a stop at the head of a long, shallow valley. As soon as it became obvious that the expedition was going to make camp there for the night, Schuyler told Loomis that they had better get back to the others. He had watched the landmarks closely durin
g the day and had a pretty good idea where the rest of the gang was.

  In order to get there, though, they would have to go around Preacher and the others who were making camp.

  Schuyler led the way around the far side of one of the long hills that formed the valley. Preacher couldn’t see them from where he was, and they walked the horses so that the drumming of hoofbeats wouldn’t be audible at the wagon camp.

  But when they came to the far end of the hill, they were greeted by a sheer cliff. A man might have been able to climb the rugged rock face, but a horse sure couldn’t. Schuyler and Loomis stared at the cliff for a minute before Loomis asked, “Now what?”

  They could backtrack and go around the other side of the valley, Schuyler supposed, but a glance at the low-hanging sun told him it would be dark before they could do so. He wasn’t confident that he could locate Fairfax and the others after night fell.

  “We’ll go over the hill and through that canyon,” he decided.

  Loomis frowned. “Preacher’s liable to spot us.”

  “We’ll have to risk it. There’s nothing else we can do.”

  Loomis shrugged in acceptance. He followed as Schuyler urged his mount up the slope, weaving in and out of the clumps of pine trees.

  They crested the rise and started down. Schuyler was nervously aware that they were where Preacher could see them now, if the mountain man happened to be looking in just the right spot. He took as many precautions as he could, using trees and boulders and thickets of brush for cover. By the time he and Loomis had worked their way down almost to the mouth of the canyon, Schuyler wasn’t quite so worried anymore.

  The wagons were all the way at the other end of the valley, a good two miles away. Surely not even someone with the eyes of a hawk, like Preacher was reputed to have, could see two men on horseback at that distance, especially when they were moving against a background of dark green pine trees, the brown of tree trunks, and gray, jumbled rock.

  They had nothing to worry about, Schuyler assured himself. Preacher didn’t have any idea that there was anybody within a hundred miles.

  * * *

  Stars were beginning to be visible here and there in the sky, which was turning purple and blue with the approach of night, by the time Schuyler and Loomis rejoined the rest of their group. Burns was already there, having brought back the news earlier that the wagon train had been located.

  “Where are they?” Fairfax asked, unable to keep the eagerness out of his voice.

  “Camped at the head of a valley about three miles from here,” Schuyler replied. He had been thinking about the layout of the terrain all during the ride back here, and now he ventured to add, “I’ve got an idea where we can hit them.”

  Fairfax arched his eyebrows. “Really? Then let’s hear it, by all means.”

  Schuyler couldn’t really tell if his partner was being sarcastic or not. Fairfax hadn’t had to sound so surprised that Schuyler might have a good idea, but at least he was willing to hear him out.

  Schuyler began explaining about the valley and the canyon. “That’s got to be where they’re goin’,” he said. “It’s a natural path through the foothills.”

  “Yeah, and you can’t get through to the east because there’s a damn cliff there,” Loomis put in. “They’ll be goin’ right straight down that valley to the canyon at the far end.”

  Schuyler was a little irritated that Loomis had butted in, but he tried not to show it. Instead he said, “The canyon is the best place to set up our ambush. Both sides are pretty steep, and there are plenty of trees and rocks we can use for cover. If we get up there tomorrow mornin’ and hide while the wagons are comin’ up the valley, Preacher and the folks with him won’t have any idea what’s waitin’ for them.”

  “Yes, it sounds like it could work,” Fairfax agreed. “I’ll have to see the layout for myself, of course—”

  “I’m tellin’ you, it’s a sure thing!” Schuyler interrupted with newfound boldness.

  “Yes, so was shooting Preacher and stealing his furs when he was paddling that canoe down the river above St. Louis. And you saw how that worked out.”

  Schuyler frowned. Fairfax hadn’t had to remind him of that. He’d done his best to kill Preacher that day, just as he had when they broke in on Preacher at the tavern. The fact that bad luck had caused them to fail both times wasn’t Schuyler’s fault.

  But his partner would always blame him for those failures, Schuyler realized, until Preacher was dead—and preferably, at Schuyler’s own hands.

  “You set up the ambush in that canyon and you’ll see,” he said, stubborn in his belief. “And you can just leave Preacher to me. This time, that long-legged son of a bitch is gonna die!”

  * * *

  “It sure smells nice here in the mountains,” Jake said to Preacher that night as they sat beside the campfire.

  “These ain’t the mountains yet,” Preacher corrected, “but yeah, I do like the smell o’ pine. Makes a man feel glad to be alive.”

  Jerome came up and sat down beside them. He made a point of not even glancing toward Corliss and Deborah, who sat next to each other on the far side of the fire, but other than that he didn’t seem quite as much like the gloomy cuss he had been for the past few days.

  “I’ve been thinking, Preacher,” he began. “After we reach South Pass and find a suitable location for Corliss’s trading post, would you be willing to come along with me and help me decide where mine will be? I’d be glad to pay you an additional fee for your help.”

  Preacher frowned at him. “You ain’t given up on that crazy idea yet?”

  “On the contrary, I’m more convinced than ever that it’s the right thing to do. And it’s hardly a crazy idea. As large as the frontier is, there should be plenty of room for dozens of trading posts, maybe hundreds!” “

  Preacher couldn’t argue with that point. The frontier was vast enough to hold just about anything.

  “You really don’t have to leave on account of us, Jerome,” Deborah said.

  Without looking at her, he said, “I believe that’s my decision to make, and I’ve made it.” Turning back to the mountain man, he went on. “How about it, Preacher? Are you willing to come along with Jake and myself?”

  Before Preacher could answer, Corliss said, “Wait just a minute, Jerome. What makes you think that Jake is going with you?”

  “Well, he’s been riding next to me on the wagon for the entire trip. We’ve become good friends, haven’t we, Jake?”

  The boy shrugged. “Yeah, sure, I guess.”

  “And you didn’t even want him to come along to start with,” Jerome added.

  “That’s different,” Corliss insisted. “I’ve gotten to know him since then. He’s not as big a brat as I thought he’d be.”

  “Gee, thanks,” Jake said.

  “Corliss!” Deborah scolded. “Jake’s not a brat at all. He’s a fine boy, and I’d like for him to stay with us.” She smiled across the fire at the youngster. “I’ve come to think of you almost like a son, Jake. You should stay with us. It’ll be like you have a real father and mother again.”

  Jerome gave a grunt of humorless laughter. “Please! Corliss is hardly an appropriate father figure for anyone, let along an impressionable young lad.”

  “That’s not true,” Deborah said as she took hold of Corliss’s arm. “He’s going to be a fine father to our children.”

  “That’s right,” Corliss said. “So it’s settled. Jake stays with us.”

  “It’s not settled at all—” Jerome argued.

  “Damn it, stop fightin’ over me! ”Jake burst out.

  Jerome turned to him with a frown. “Really, Jake, that’s not appropriate language for a boy to be using.”

  “I don’t care what’s ’propriate,” Jake said as he came to his feet. “I don’t like all this fussin’. And it don’t matter, because I ain’t goin’ with either of you.”

  Jerome, Corliss, and Deborah all stared at him. “You’re not?�
� Deborah said after a second. “Then where are you going to go?”

  Oh, Lord, Preacher thought. He should’ve seen this coming.

  Jake grinned. “I’m gonna go with Preacher here. He’s gonna teach me how to be a mountain man!”

  “Dad-gum it! I never said nothin’ of the sort,” Preacher protested.

  Jake turned to him. “Aw, come on, Preacher. Ain’t you never had a partner before? I’ll work hard, I swear it.”

  “I ain’t doubtin’ that, and yeah, I’ve rode with partners before from time to time, but none of ’em was kids.”

  “You were a kid once.”

  “And I done what I was told, too,” Preacher lied. He got to his feet and shook his head firmly, so Jake would know he wouldn’t put up with any more arguments. “You can stay with Corliss or Jerome, whichever you decide; it don’t make no never-mind to me. But I got beaver to trap once I’m done with these folks, and you ain’t comin’ with me.”

  Jake stared up at him for a long moment, eyes wide. Those eyes started to shine in the firelight as they filled with tears. Preacher saw that and felt like cussing, but he kept his face stony. Better to go ahead and disabuse the boy of that damn fool notion right now, he told himself.

  Suddenly, with a choked sob, Jake turned around and plunged out of the circle of firelight at a run. Preacher heard the crackle of brush as Jake left the camp.

  Jerome, Corliss, and Deborah all jumped up. “You’ve got to go after him!” Jerome cried as he flung a hand toward the darkness where Jake had disappeared.

  “That’s right,” Corliss said. “You can’t let a youngster like that go wandering around in the wilderness in the middle of the night.”

  “He’s just a helpless little boy,” Deborah said.

  Even the drivers seemed worried about Jake as they gathered around the fire. Preacher looked around, saw that everyone was looking at him like it was all his fault, and said, “Jake ain’t helpless. He’s got a pistol and a knife and knows how to use both of ’em. Besides that, he ain’t gonna go far. He’s mad. Like any kid, he’s gonna go off and sulk for a spell, and then he’ll come back.”