Preacher's Pursuit (The First Mountain Man)

by William W. Johnstone

  “Those are shod hooves,” Uncle Dan pointed out. “Looks like the Blackfeet let the prisoners go.”

  “Why in blazes would they do that?” Sanderson asked. “And if those folks weren’t captives anymore, why didn’t they come back to the settlement?”

  Preacher thought that over for a moment and then said, “Maybe they didn’t think there was a settlement to go back to. The cabins were on fire, the Blackfeet were layin’ siege to the stockade…They may have figured that their best chance to survive was to just keep goin’.”

  “But that means them two Englishers are out there somewhere in the wilderness on their own,” Uncle Dan said. “They’re still liable to get in a heap o’ trouble.”

  “That’s why we’re gonna follow them anyway,” Preacher declared. “They may still need our help.”

  Under his breath, Sanderson said, “Some o’ these fellas only came along so they could kill Blackfeet and settle the score for what happened back at the settlement. They may not like it if they don’t get the chance.”

  Preacher raised his eyes to the mountains and said, “I got a feelin’ that before this is all over…they’ll get the chance.”

  Chapter 22

  Fairfax called a halt around midday when the group was about a mile from the settlement. They dismounted and he motioned his second in command over to him.

  “You’ll go in and see if Preacher is there,” he told Sherwood.

  “Why me?”

  “Because I was there last night, and it’s possible someone might recognize me.”

  “What’s wrong with that?” Sherwood wanted to know.

  Fairfax made a face and snapped, “I had to kill a man while I was there. I don’t think anyone saw me, but I don’t want to take that chance.”

  Sherwood let out a low whistle of surprise. “You didn’t say anything about that.”

  “The bastard saw me take a shot at Preacher—”

  “And miss,” Sherwood couldn’t resist adding.

  “And miss,” Fairfax agreed with a grimace. “I tried to convince him that it was an honest mistake, that I mistook Preacher for an Indian in the bad light, but he wouldn’t accept that explanation. The damn fool tried to raise a commotion about it.”

  “So what did you do, plant a knife in his belly?”

  Fairfax gave his second in command a cold stare. “Exactly.”

  After a second, Sherwood shrugged. “I reckon you’re right. The fella was a damn fool. I can see why you don’t want to go into the settlement. What am I supposed to do?”

  “Like I said, find out if Preacher is there. If he’s not, try to find out where he’s gone.”

  “He might be dead,” Sherwood pointed out. “The redskins could’ve killed him.”

  Fairfax snorted contemptuously. “I’ll believe that when I see it.”

  “Maybe the red devils wiped out the whole settlement.”

  “Then what’s that smoke?” Fairfax asked, pointing to several columns of gray smoke spiraling into the clear blue sky above the valley.

  “Some of the cabins still burning?” Sherwood suggested.

  “It wouldn’t look like that,” Fairfax said with a shake of his head. “That’s chimney smoke. The settlement survived, no matter how much damage the Indians may have done. Now, we’ve wasted enough time…”

  “I’m goin’, I’m goin’,” Sherwood said. He propped his flintlock on his shoulder and started off toward the settlement, taking long strides through the calf-high grass. He glanced back and saw Fairfax watching him depart on the mission.

  Fairfax had been funny-looking enough in that beaver hat he always wore. He hadn’t reclaimed it from Campbell when he rejoined Sherwood and the other men, but still sported the coonskin cap instead. Sherwood thought he really looked ludicrous in it.

  Sherwood had learned, though, not to underestimate Colin Fairfax based on the man’s looks. Back in St. Louis, Shad Beaumont had told Sherwood about the hellish trek Fairfax had made back to civilization from the frontier. The man wouldn’t have survived that ordeal unless he was tough.

  And Fairfax was a cold-blooded killer as well. Sherwood had no doubts about that. Anyone who considered Fairfax not to be a threat because he was an odd-looking little man might find himself with a foot of cold steel in his gut or his brains blown out from a pistol shot to the head.

  Sherwood didn’t intend to let that happen to him.

  A short time later, he came in sight of the settlement. Black smudges in the grass and piles of charred rubble marked where several of the cabins had been. The Indians must have torched them.

  Most of the cabins were still standing, though, and so was the stockade. The trading post and the other buildings inside the log walls appeared to be intact. Sherwood could see them through the open gates.

  As Sherwood approached, he noticed several guards posted on the parapet inside the wall. One of them turned and appeared to call down into the stockade. Warning those inside that somebody was coming, Sherwood thought. After the Indian attack the night before, those folks had to be pretty nervous.

  Sure enough, a few minutes later a party of half a dozen grim-faced men walked out through the gates to meet him. All of them carried rifles and watched him closely, even though he was obviously a white man, not a redskin.

  Sherwood put a friendly smile on his face and raised a hand in greeting. “Howdy,” he called. “Looks like you folks had some trouble here.”

  A well-built, dark-haired man wearing store-bought clothes nodded. “The Blackfeet paid us a visit last night,” he said.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Sherwood said as he put a sympathetic look on his face. “I reckon I’m just lucky I didn’t get here a day earlier, eh?”

  The spokesman for the “welcoming” committee shrugged. “I guess you could look at it that way. What are you doing here today?”

  “Why, I come to try my luck at fur trapping here in the mountains. Anything wrong with that?”

  The dark-haired man seemed to relax a little. “No, of course not,” he said. “When you get right down to it, the fur trade is why all of us are here, I suppose.” He lowered his rifle. “I’m Corliss Hart. My cousin and I own the trading post.”

  So this fella was Corliss Hart, Sherwood thought. He’d heard plenty about the Hart cousins from Colin Fairfax. Corliss was the one who had the pretty wife.

  Sherwood hoped that he got a look at the woman while he was here at the settlement. It had been too damned long since he’d laid eyes on a white woman.

  “I’m glad to meet you, Mr. Hart. Sherwood’s my name.” He didn’t see any harm in using his real name. Nobody here knew him.

  A suspicious glint reappeared in Corliss Hart’s eyes. “If you’re a fur trapper,” he said, “where’s your outfit? Don’t you even have a pack horse?”

  With the skill born of a long time spent as a criminal, Sherwood kept the friendly grin on his face even as he was cursing inside. Neither he nor Fairfax had even thought about that when Fairfax sent him here to the settlement.

  He had to think quickly now, and luckily he was able to do so. Pointing over his shoulder with the thumb of his free hand, he said, “Back yonder a couple of miles. I’m just out scoutin’ for a bigger bunch.”

  “How big?” Corliss asked.

  “Oh, there’s seven or eight of us,” Sherwood lied easily. He wanted a number large enough to sound reasonable, but not so intimidating that these men might regard them as a threat of some sort.

  Corliss appeared to relax again. “We’ll be glad to see you,” he said. “The settlement lost some men during the fight last night, and some others have gone off chasing the redskins who raided us.”

  “Really? Seems to me like you’d want to stay as far away from those savages as possible.”

  “They took some prisoners,” Corliss answered with a solemn expression on his face. “Our men went to try to get them back.”

  “Captives, eh? That’s a damned shame.” Sherwood wanted to ask if
Preacher had accompanied the rescue party. That sure seemed like something the mountain man would do.

  But he didn’t want to appear too curious, so instead he asked, “Reckon I could get a drink before I head back to my bunch and bring ’em on in?”

  Corliss nodded and motioned for Sherwood to follow him and his companions into the stockade. “Sure. We’ve got plenty of whiskey.”

  Sherwood licked his lips in anticipation, and there was nothing phony about that gesture.

  He trooped inside with the others, who were friendly and welcoming now that they thought he would be bringing more fighting men to the settlement. They were clearly shaken by the Indian raid and the toll it had taken.

  Corliss Hart took Sherwood to the trading post and led him inside the cavernous building. The sun had grown a little warm as it reached its zenith, so Sherwood was glad to step into the cooler interior.

  He was even happier a moment later when he saw the woman standing behind the counter at the back of the room. Dark-haired like her husband and with a beautiful smile on her face, Deborah Hart was a welcome sight.

  Sherwood could tell by the slightly swollen belly that the woman was with child. That condition affected her breasts as well, making them big enough so that Sherwood had a hard time not staring at them in open lust. He forced himself to look away.

  Corliss pointed to a table in the corner and said, “Sit down. I’ll bring you a jug.”

  “Much obliged.”

  Sherwood took a seat on a barrel chair and propped his rifle in the corner beside him. Corliss fetched a jug from behind the counter and brought it over to him.

  “If you’re hungry, there’s food. It’s just salt jowl and beans and biscuits, but it’s filling.”

  “Sounds mighty good to me,” Sherwood said. “Again, I’m obliged.”

  “There’ll be a pot of stew for supper if you’re still here.”

  Sherwood thought about having a big bowl of savory stew served to him by a pretty, big-titted pregnant woman. It was all he could do not to lick his lips and moan in delightful anticipation.

  But then he thought about Colin Fairfax, and knew that his pretty dream would remain just that, a dream. Fairfax was waiting to find out where Preacher was, and he wouldn’t be happy if Sherwood wasted a lot of time shoveling grub into his mouth and lusting after Deborah Hart.

  Sherwood took a couple of swigs from the jug. A thin, fox-faced gent brought a plate of food and set it down on the table in front of him.

  “I’m Jerome Hart,” the man introduced himself as Sherwood began to eat. “My cousin and I run this trading post.”

  “Mighty glad to meet you, Mr. Hart,” Sherwood said around a mouthful of salt jowl and beans. “Name’s Sherwood.”

  Jerome pulled up a chair and sat down without being asked, which was his right, of course, seeing as how he was one of the proprietors of this business.

  It played right into Sherwood’s hands, though, that he was also talkative.

  “I suppose my cousin Corliss told you about the trouble we had last night.”

  Sherwood nodded. “He mentioned it. Looks like you lost some cabins. I hope not too many folks were hurt.”

  “Unfortunately, we had numerous casualties,” Jerome said. “And at least two people were taken prisoner by the savages.”

  “But some of the men went after them, right? I think that’s what your cousin said.”

  Jerome nodded. “Indeed they did.”

  “You reckon they’ll get the captives back?”

  Jerome sighed and said, “I don’t know. But at least they’ll have a good chance. Preacher is leading the rescue party.”

  “Preacher,” Sherwood repeated as if he’d never heard the name before. “You folks have got a minister here?”

  “No, that’s what the man is called. Preacher. His real name is Arthur, but no one calls him that.”

  “Who is he?” Sherwood asked, still playing ignorant.

  “One of the fur trappers. He’s been out here in the mountains longer than almost anyone else. He certainly knows his way around as well or better than anyone, including the Indians. Most of them are afraid of him. I’ve heard that some of them consider him an evil spirit rather than a flesh-and-blood man.”

  Sherwood understood that feeling. Fairfax acted like he was starting to feel the same way about Preacher.

  “Sounds to me like he’s the right man for the job.”

  Jerome Hart nodded. “There’s no one better at following a trail, and no one more dangerous in a fight. Unfortunately, Preacher’s not at the top of his strength right now.”

  “He’s not?” Sherwood asked, making it sound like he was just idly gossiping as he continued to eat.

  “No, he was injured in the fighting last night. He has a broken arm, not to mention numerous other injuries that are less serious.”

  Sherwood raised his eyebrows. “A broken arm? How can a man chase down a bunch o’ savages with a busted wing?”

  “That’s Preacher for you,” Jerome said. “He doesn’t let anything stop him.”

  “Well, it’s too bad my friends and I didn’t get here sooner. We could’ve gone along with the rescue party.” Sherwood used a piece of biscuit to mop up some beans. “Which way did they go anyway?”

  Jerome Hart didn’t seem to find the question odd. “I believe they were headed northeast when they left the settlement. But of course, there’s no way of knowing where the trail led from there.”

  Northeast, Sherwood thought. That meant the pursuit had led fairly close to where Fairfax was waiting with the rest of the men.

  Of course, that would have been earlier in the day, before Fairfax’s party got that close to the settlement. It was funny, Sherwood thought, with all these vast reaches of wilderness on the frontier, how often folks almost tripped over each other as they went about their business.

  “Well, I wish ’em luck,” Sherwood said. “I hope they bring back the folks you lost safe and sound.”

  “With Preacher on the trail, I think there’s a good chance of it.”

  Problem was, Sherwood thought, Preacher wasn’t the only one who was going to be on the trail. As soon as he could get back and report to Fairfax, they would join the pursuit as well.

  Only they wouldn’t be following the Blackfeet and their prisoners.

  Their quarry would be the man called Preacher. With a bunch of savages in front of him, Preacher would never dream that death was closing in on him from behind…

  Chapter 23

  Ezra Flagg was a closemouthed man. Clyde Mallory had tried several times during the day to engage him in conversation, but most of Flagg’s answers had been curt. Sometimes, he just grunted in response to Mallory’s questions.

  Laura was bored, and she regarded Flagg’s attitude as something of a challenge.

  She was riding one of the Blackfoot ponies, rather than riding double with her brother. Earlier, she had asked for a mount of her own, and Flagg had arranged it with Chief Walks Like a Bear.

  Laura didn’t know if the Indians would allow her to keep the pony and take it all the way back to St. Louis with her, but for the moment, she was rather enjoying it.

  She had pulled her skirt up, tucked the excess material back between her legs, and now rode astride the pony’s blanket-draped back. As she brought her mount alongside Flagg’s, she saw him glance over at her bare calves and knees.

  Laura was accustomed to men looking at her with avid interest in their eyes. She had been receiving attention like that ever since she was barely in her teens. Sometimes, the glances were veiled and discreet, and other times, they were openly lecherous.

  Laura didn’t care either way. All the looks represented the power she possessed over the men she encountered.

  “I’m glad you’re going to St. Louis with us, Mr. Flagg,” she said. “How long has it been since you last visited civilization?”

  “Not long enough,” Flagg said.

  Laura frowned, perplexed. “You don’t c
are for cities?”

  “I don’t care for the folks who live there, and they don’t care for me.”

  Laura sensed that there was something behind the bitter edge in Flagg’s voice as he made that comment, and she was curious about what it was.

  “I take it your last trip east was unpleasant?”

  “You could call it that.” He looked over at her. “No offense, ma’am, but what business is it of yours?”

  “None at all,” she said without hesitation. “Women are like cats, though. We’re curious about things.”

  She didn’t add the rest of the old saying about what curiosity did to cats.

  Flagg didn’t say anything for a moment. The two of them rode side by side in silence. Then he said, “I went back a few years ago. All the way back to Ohio, to the farm where I was raised.”

  “Wasn’t your family glad to see you?”

  “They were, I reckon. But there was a gal…”

  “Ah,” Laura said. “Let me guess. She promised to wait for you, but she didn’t remain faithful.”

  “No, that ain’t it. She waited for me, all right. I figured we’d get hitched and that I’d see her whenever I came back home, when I wasn’t trappin’. Then she asked…if I’d been faithful to her.”

  Laura turned her head to look briefly at the squaw who rode about ten feet behind them. The woman’s round face was as impassive as ever.

  “Surely, you didn’t tell her about…what is her name, Willow?”

  Flagg nodded. “Weepin’ Willow. And yeah, I told that gal back home. I’ve never been one for lyin’. Tell folks the truth, straight out, that’s me. I said, sure, I’ve been faithful if you don’t count Injun gals, which I didn’t.”

  “But your sweetheart didn’t see things that way.”

  “Nope.” Flagg’s voice was flat, devoid of emotion. “She got all upset. Told me to get the hell out and never come back. Called me a filthy squaw man. I don’t know where she heard that term, but she’d picked it up somewhere.”

  He shrugged as if what he was telling her didn’t really mean anything, but Laura had a feeling that wasn’t the way he truly felt.