Preacher's Quest

by William W. Johnstone

  “Y-yeah. Snell said . . . Carling’s rich . . . said we could grab him and . . . make him pay to be let loose.”

  “Damn it! You’re sayin’ he means to kidnap Carling?”

  “And . . . and the others.”

  That meant some of the other Easterners might be killed, and Preacher had no doubt that Snell planned to rape Faith Carling and maybe kill her. Preacher’s jaw tightened with rage at the thought of it.

  “How many men does he have with him?”

  “Dunno . . . eight or ten.”

  That was enough to overpower Rip Giddens and the handful of other frontiersmen who had signed on to accompany Willard Carling’s expedition. Rip and the others would probably be killed outright. Preacher didn’t know who all had thrown in with Snell, but if they were going after the expedition, they had to be as bad as Snell was.

  And he was the only one who knew about this, he realized, the only one who had any chance of warning the party of Easterners.

  “I’m sorry about this, Stump, but I got to leave you here,” Preacher said as he started to get to his feet.

  Stump stopped him by summoning up the strength to reach out and grab his sleeve. “Leave me here . . . to die alone . . . you mean.”

  “You brung it on yourself,” Preacher said bluntly. “Shootin’ at me was one thing. Missin’ that many times was your real mistake.”

  Stump didn’t seem to hear him, though. The little man let go of Preacher’s sleeve and fell back with a rattling sigh. His staring eyes glazed over the rest of the way.

  Preacher didn’t take the time to bury him. He hurried back down the hill, called Horse and Dog to him, and mounted up to head back to the valley where the Rendezvous had taken place, moving as fast as he could ride.

  Chapter Nine

  Unfortunately, Preacher’s pursuit of Stump had taken him in the opposite direction from the way Willard Carling’s party had traveled when they left the valley. By the time Preacher got back to the site of the encampment, almost everybody was gone. Only a few trappers remained. Carling and the others had long since moved out of sight. They would be miles away by now.

  One of the men who hadn’t left yet was friends with both Preacher and Rip Giddens. Preacher rode over to the man and said, “Howdy, Wingate.”

  “Howdy yourself, Preacher,” the tall, red-bearded Wingate replied. “Say, did you hear some shootin’ a while ago, just ’fore you took off like a bat out o’ Hades?”

  “Those shots were aimed at me,” Preacher explained. “I went after the fella who fired them.”

  “Luther Snell?” Wingate guessed.

  Preacher shook his head. “Stump.”

  That news shocked Wingate. “Stump? I didn’t think that sawed-off little runt would have the gumption to ambush you, Preacher.”

  “Stump was a lot more bitter and angry than any of us realized.”

  Wingate grunted. “Yeah, I reckon so. You catch up to him?”

  “I did,” Preacher replied grimly.

  “Well, then, I reckon ol’ Stump won’t be comin’ to any more Rendezvous. Too bad. But he had it comin’ for tryin’ to bushwhack you like that.”

  “That’s not all he did. Before he died, he admitted that he’d been with Snell and some others when they attacked Mountain Mist and killed her.”

  Wingate let out a whistle. “I never did quite believe Snell when he said he didn’t have nothin’ to do with that. You goin’ after him and the others, Preacher?”

  “Damn right, but that ain’t all of it. Snell’s got his sights set on that bunch o’ pilgrims. He wants to kidnap that artist fella, Carling, and make him pay a big ransom to get free. Lord knows what he and his pards will do to the rest of the bunch.”

  Wingate’s bearded features hardened at that revelation. “You need some help dealin’ with this?”

  “I think it’s sort of my snake to stomp,” Preacher said. “But I appreciate the offer, Wingate. When you were talkin’ to Rip over the past few days, did he happen to say where all he planned to take those folks?”

  “They were headin’ north, toward Baldpate,” Wingate said, naming a mountain that bore an uncanny resemblance to the hairless head of a man. “I don’t know for sure where else they were goin’. Rip said somethin’ about Seven Smokes, I think.”

  That was a valley about twenty miles distant where seven hot springs were located. Steam rose from the springs most of the time, but because the steam looked like smoke, the place had gotten the misleading name Seven Smokes. It made sense that Rip might take the expedition there. That sort of spectacular scenery was just the sort of thing that Willard Carling wanted to immortalize on canvas.

  “Oh, yeah,” Wingate went on, “he said they might try to visit ol’ Hairface’s band, too.”

  Hairface was a chief of the Teton Sioux who was reasonably friendly toward white men. The chief had some white blood himself, enough so that a little beard stubble had sprouted on his cheeks when he was a young man, giving him his name. The beard never grew enough that it needed to be shaved, just enough to make Hairface stand out from his fellow Sioux. Hairface’s father, Preacher recalled, had been one of the first white trappers in these mountains, a citizen of a long-since-vanished settlement called New Hope.

  “I’m obliged for the help, Wingate,” Preacher said as he lifted his reins. “Reckon I’d better get started after Carling’s bunch. I want to catch up to ’em before Snell and his pards do.”

  “That may be hard,” Wingate said with a frown. “They’ve all got a head start on you.”

  Preacher nodded. “I know. That’s why I’ve got to make up some ground.” He lifted a hand in farewell as he turned Horse. “So long, Wingate.”

  Without looking back, he headed north, hoping that as one man on a good mount, he could move faster than either of the groups he was following.

  Rip Giddens was a hardheaded, practical man, or at least he liked to think of himself that way. But like most men, he had his superstitious side, too, and as the group that he led rode toward Baldpate, he had a vague sensation somewhere deep within him that things might not work out just as he had planned. The Rendezvous they had left early that morning had been an eventful one, but not all of those events had been good. Far from it, in fact.

  Twisting in his saddle, Rip looked behind him at the riders strung out along the trail. Willard Carling came first, with an eager expression on his face. His head turned ceaselessly from side to side as his eyes darted everywhere, trying to take in everything at once. Carling was nearly always cheerful and enthusiastic, with a friendly smile on his face for everyone. Not much of a man, maybe, but he had a good heart and could paint up a storm. His biggest problem was that he usually thought the best of everyone and didn’t seem to realize that there were some pretty sorry sons of bitches in the world.

  That couldn’t be said of Jasper Hodge. The journalist had a certain cynicism and world-weariness about him. Just the opposite of Willard Carling, Hodge was probably too quick to think the worst of folks. He complained more than Carling did, too.

  But not as much as the next rider in line, Carling’s sister Faith. She had made it perfectly clear on numerous occasions that she didn’t really want to be here. She had been perfectly happy back in Boston and had had no real desire to visit the frontier, despite her claims of being a poet and seeking inspiration in nature. The only reason she had accompanied her brother to the frontier was because he had insisted that she come along. Rip knew from talking to Carling that he and Faith were orphans, the only ones left in their family. Carling had inherited quite a bit of money from his father, who had been a wealthy banker in Boston, and that windfall had allowed him to pursue his dream of painting without having to worry about working for a living. Faith, though, being a woman, existed mainly on the kindness of her brother, and so she had agreed to come along on the expedition to keep him happy. Carling was generally considerate of other folks, but he seemed to have a blind spot that kept him from seeing that his sister wasn�
��t happy.

  That left Chester Sinclair, and Rip wasn’t quite sure what to make of him. Sinclair was big and strong, but he let people push him around anyway. Carling wasn’t necessarily mean to him, but he ordered Sinclair around like a slave. Rip understood that if you worked for a fella, you were supposed to do what he told you, but he wasn’t sure he would have been able to put up with some of the things that Sinclair did. And it wasn’t just Carling who bossed him. Hodge did, too, and Faith was probably the worst of the bunch when it came to taking advantage of Sinclair’s accommodating nature. The fella had probably grown up poor, Rip reflected, and so he accepted without complaint whatever burdens were heaped on his head by those he considered his betters.

  The Easterners were followed by Sparrow and the men Rip had hired to come along and help him guide and guard the pilgrims and keep up with their supplies and packhorses. Switchfoot had gotten his name because he was such a good dancer, able to keep his feet moving so fast it was hard for the eye to follow them. Rip didn’t know why Hammerhead Jones was called that, unless it was because he had such a hard skull. There was nothing distinctive about Ed and Tom Ballinger except the fact that they were both tall and extremely skinny. Rip wasn’t sure if both of them together weighed as much as he did. But that didn’t mean they weren’t tough as whang leather and damn near tireless. They could work all day without seeming to feel it.

  They were all good fellas, tough fighters, men who would do to ride the river with, Rip thought. They ought to be able to handle just about anything that might come up.

  But for some reason, he was still worried. He kept his rifle lying across the saddle in front of him, and his eyes roved constantly, on the lookout for any sign of trouble.

  Everything seemed peaceful, though, when he called a halt at midday in a high mountain meadow that was practically bursting with wildflowers. Carling exclaimed happily over how beautiful the scene was. “I simply have to get this on canvas,” he declared.

  Rip frowned a little. “Well, I was sort of plannin’ on us movin’ on north all afternoon and gettin’ close to Baldpate.” He lifted an arm and pointed. “You can sort of see it there, in the distance, but it’ll look a heap more impressive when we get closer to it.”

  “Yes, yes, I’m sure this mountain you’re talking about will be very majestic,” Carling said with a hint of impatience in his voice. “But we’re surrounded by such splendor here that I just can’t let this opportunity go to waste.”

  “Well, all right,” Rip agreed reluctantly. “I reckon you’re the boss.”

  “That’s right, I am, and we can camp here tonight if we need to, can’t we?”

  Rip looked around. “It ain’t a very good place to camp. There ain’t no water, and we’re sort of out in the open. There’s no place to fort up in case of trouble.”

  “Oh, what sort of trouble could there be? A place so lovely could only be inhabited by friendly souls!”

  Rip sighed. Carling had a hell of a lot to learn about the frontier, and Rip could only hope that the artist wouldn’t have to learn it the hard way.

  Sparrow got started preparing a cold lunch from food she had brought along from the Rendezvous, while Chester Sinclair set up an easel and canvas and then got out Carling’s paints and brushes. Faith and Hodge contented themselves by strolling around the meadow looking at the flowers and talking. Rip’s eyes narrowed as he saw the way Sinclair glanced at the two of them. He recalled the way Sinclair had jumped Preacher the night before. Sinclair was sweet on Faith despite the way she sometimes treated him, Rip thought, and that could cause problems. He took note of the dark look that passed across Sinclair’s face as he heard Faith and Hodge laughing together.

  Don’t borrow trouble, Rip told himself. Just wait for it and deal with it when it comes.

  He told Switchfoot, Jones, and the Ballingers to spread out around the meadow with their rifles and keep an eye on things while Carling was painting.

  “What are you gonna do, Rip?” Switchfoot asked.

  “Thought I’d scout on up the trail a ways. I don’t know if Mr. Carling is gonna let us go on today or not, but if he does, I want to be sure where we’re goin’.”

  He mounted up and rode north, keeping the main range of peaks on his left. Some smaller mountains rose to the right, but the course Rip followed was fairly level.

  After a while the trail had curved around enough so that he could no longer see the meadow where the rest of the party was stopped. That didn’t worry him. He would hear the shooting if any trouble broke out. As he watched a herd of moose go trotting past in the distance and an eagle wheeled overhead against the deep blue sky, he thought that Carling was right about one thing—this was really pretty country.

  That beauty could hold plenty of danger, though, and Rip’s instincts were still trying to warn him about something. As he came to a small creek lined with aspens and cottonwoods and clumps of thick brush on its banks, he reined in and frowned. His horse lowered its head to drink, then suddenly jerked back up. The horse realized that something was wrong, too. Rip started to lift his rifle and look around, even though he didn’t know what he was looking for.

  A shape hurtled out of the brush along the creek bank and launched itself through the air at Rip. He twisted in the saddle and tried to bring the rifle to bear, and as he did so he caught a glimpse of buckskins and raven-black hair plastered down with bear grease and streaks of bright paint on a red face. Then the young Indian warrior crashed into him, knocking the rifle aside before Rip could pull the trigger. The collision sent Rip toppling out of the saddle.

  He hit the ground hard and lost his grip on the rifle. Even though he was half-stunned, he knew he couldn’t afford to just lie there with a kill-crazy Indian on top of him. The Indian lifted a tomahawk, ready to smash it down on Rip’s skull. Rip’s hand shot up and grabbed the warrior’s wrist, stopping the tomahawk as it began its downward stroke. With his back arching, Rip heaved up off the ground and flung the Indian aside. The warrior was smaller and lighter and was no match for Rip’s greater strength. He rolled across the creek bank and fell into the water.

  Rip surged to his feet and lunged for the rifle he had dropped. Before he could reach it, several more buckskin-clad warriors charged out of the brush. Rip roared angrily as they closed in on him. He knew his chances of getting out of this ambush alive were slim, but right now all he wanted to do was get his hands on a couple of them, crack their heads together, and maybe choke the life out of another one or two of the warriors.

  He didn’t get that opportunity. Something crashed into the back of his head, and blackness exploded through his consciousness, wiping it out and carrying him away into an endless dark void.

  Chapter Ten

  Chester Sinclair stood back and watched as Willard Carling painted. The brush in Carling’s hand moved in swift, sure strokes, going from palette to canvas and back again as Carling hummed softly to himself under his breath. Sinclair was somewhat in awe of Carling’s talent. The fact that somebody could daub paint on a canvas and actually make it look like something was akin to magic as far as Sinclair was concerned. That ability was beyond his comprehension.

  The same thing was true of Faith Carling’s skill with words. Sinclair wasn’t even that good at talking. He got tongue-tied easily, especially around Faith. How she could select the right words and put them together in the proper order to create beautiful poems was beyond him. Sinclair could read and write, but he figured he couldn’t have put a decent-sounding sentence on paper to save his life.

  And Faith was beautiful as well as being smart and talented. She was way too good for the likes of him. Sinclair told himself that sternly every time he allowed his mind to drift and started thinking about what it would be like if he were Faith’s beau. Sometimes, he even dared to ponder what it would be like if they were married....

  He found himself looking at her now, as she strolled around the meadow with Jasper Hodge. Sinclair’s jaw tightened in anger and resentmen
t. He didn’t like Hodge. The journalist was too arrogant, too sure of his own intelligence and good looks. Sinclair would have liked to take him down a notch or two....

  But of course that would never happen. No one could ever say that Chester Sinclair didn’t know his place. The son of a father who had worked in a shipyard and a mother who had been a servant in a wealthy Beacon Hill household, Sinclair knew that his destiny was to play a subservient role in the affairs of others who were richer and better than he was. That meant he would never be around Faith Carling in any capacity other than that of her brother’s employee. Certainly, he had no right to entertain any romantic thoughts whatsoever about her.

  “What do you think, Chester?” Carling asked as he stepped back a pace and cocked his head to the side as he studied the painting.

  Sinclair knew that Carling wasn’t really interested in his opinion. Asking for it was just something Carling did, an excuse for a momentary pause while Carling himself decided what he thought of the work so far. Sinclair answered anyway, as he always did, saying, “I think it looks wonderful, sir.”

  In truth, the painting really was good. In a relatively few brush strokes, Carling had captured the sweep and variety of colors in the flower-bedecked meadow, and the snowcapped mountains rising in the background added a touch of perspective and majesty to the scene.

  “It still needs work,” Carling said, and he stepped closer to the easel and poised his brush over the palette again, selecting which color he would use next.

  Sinclair heard Faith’s merry laugh and turned his head to look at her and Jasper Hodge as they walked along together about a hundred yards away. Although they were far enough from everyone else so that their conversation was private, they weren’t totally alone. Sinclair spotted one of the men Rip Giddens had hired to come along with them, the one called Hammerhead Jones. He was leaning against a tree trunk at the edge of the meadow, his rifle at his side. Giddens had placed the men at various spots around the meadow to act as sentries. Seeing Jones there, not far from Faith and Hodge, made Sinclair frown. Not for the first time, he wished that Carling had left Faith back in Boston. He’d had no right to subject his sister to the rigors of the frontier. Sinclair was convinced it was dangerous out here—even though they hadn’t encountered any sort of real peril so far, only minor annoyances.