Preacher's Quest

by William W. Johnstone

  “I hope so, but I wouldn’t count on it,” he said.

  His words proved to be prophetic. The captives were prodded to their feet with lances and angry words from their Crow captors. They were allowed to drink from the small stream beside which the war party had paused for the night, but no rations were forthcoming. Soon, they were on the move again, trotting along as the Indians surrounded them.

  “I can’t do this all day,” Faith moaned, “especially with no food.”

  “Don’t talk,” Sinclair advised. “Save your strength.” He took hold of her arm and squeezed it for a second. “Don’t worry, I won’t let you fall behind.”

  His words encouraged her, and she didn’t even mind the boldness of his action in touching her. She realized just how glad she was that Chester Sinclair was here with her. If he hadn’t been captured, too, then she would have been alone, with no one who spoke her language, no one who understood what she was going through....

  She felt a surge of unaccustomed guilt. She shouldn’t be glad that Chester was a prisoner, too. That was a terrible thing to wish on anyone.

  And yet she couldn’t help it. When she glanced over at him, she felt a little better for some reason. She knew that he was only one man and that he couldn’t really stop the Indians from doing whatever they wanted to do . . . but she was glad he was here anyway.

  Uphill and down, through sheer-walled canyons, across rocky stretches that hurt her feet even through the boots she wore . . . all day long Faith was forced to keep moving with the others. The lack of food made her light-headed, so at times it seemed she was imagining this whole terrible ordeal. But then, sharp pains would stab through her feet from the blisters that had been rubbed there, and she knew it was real, all too real. She began to cry, but when she saw how badly her sobs upset Chester, she stifled them and assured him that she was fine. He had his own problems, and she didn’t want to add to them. Such a feeling of consideration for someone else was new for her, but genuine.

  They stopped for the night a bit earlier that evening than the previous one, but it was still well after sunset before the captives were allowed to slump to the ground. A couple of the warriors moved among them, tossing something onto the ground. The prisoners scrambled to get their hands on the items. Chester grabbed two of them, one for Faith and one for himself.

  “What is it?” she asked when he handed her what appeared to be a small piece of darkly tanned leather.

  “Jerky,” he told her. “Food.”

  She had been hoping that this would be something to eat, but it didn’t look very appetizing. She tried to take a bite, only to find that the jerky was as tough and unyielding as leather, too. “Ow,” she said as clamping down on it with her teeth made them hurt.

  “It’s a small enough piece you can put the whole thing in your mouth,” Sinclair said. “Do that and let it soften up for a while before you try to chew it again.”

  “This is disgusting.”

  “It’s better than starving to death,” Chester pointed out.

  Faith supposed he was right—although this bit of tough, dried meat was so small, she doubted that it would do much to relieve her hunger.

  Exhaustion threatened to overtake her again, but she forced herself to stay awake until she had let the jerky soften in her mouth to the point that she could chew it. Sinclair was doing likewise. As his jaws worked, he said thickly, “It’s really not too bad.”

  Faith just gave an unladylike grunt as she ground away at the stuff. Chester was right in a way; the jerky didn’t taste too bad, especially to a starving person. But Faith hated to think that she might have to live on the dreadful stuff from now on.

  While they were eating, one of the Crow warriors came toward them. From the way the guards stepped aside respectfully from the man and the Sioux prisoners cringed, Faith got the idea that he was somebody important, perhaps the chief. As he came closer, she recognized him as the warrior who had tapped Chester with the coup stick and stopped the others from killing him.

  The Indian stopped in front of Chester and spoke in a loud, harsh voice. The words were just gibberish to Faith, utterly meaningless. She knew that Chester had picked up a little of the Sioux language through his friendship with the warrior called Panther Leaping—in fact he had tried, unsuccessfully, to teach her a few words of it—but from the look on his face he didn’t understand what this Crow warrior was trying to tell him. Chester shook his head, and that angered the Crow. He lashed out, striking a hard blow on the side of Chester’s head with his open hand. Faith gasped in surprise at the sudden violence.

  Without thinking about what she was doing, she leaped to her feet and said, “Here now! There’s no call for behavior like that! You have no right to bully us—”

  That was as far as she got before Chester grabbed her. As his arms tightened around her waist, he swung around, lifting her off the ground and turning her away from the Indian. Faith gasped again, this time in outrage at being manhandled this way.

  “Stop it!” he hissed in her ear. “He’s their chief. You can’t talk to him like that! He’ll kill you!”

  “But he struck you! And put me down, blast it!”

  Chester lowered her to the ground and went on. “Let me do the talking.” He turned back to the Indian and said something in what Faith supposed was the Sioux tongue. He moved his hands, too, in that outlandish sign language she had seen him practicing with Panther. The Crow warrior signed back furiously.

  That went on for a minute or so before the Indian grunted and motioned curtly for Chester to sit down. He did so, taking hold of Faith’s arm and pulling her down beside him.

  “You’re getting awfully cavalier about the way you lay hands on me, Mr. Sinclair,” she told him coldly.

  “I’m just trying to save your pretty little hide,” he growled. What he said, and the way he said it, combined to make Faith’s green eyes widen with surprise.

  For a moment, she didn’t trust herself to speak. Finally, as the Indian turned and stalked away, she asked in a low voice, “What was that about, anyway?”

  “Well . . . I’m not certain. I only understood bits and pieces of what he said, although the sign language was pretty clear. I gather that he’s Medicine Bull, the war chief of the Crows. He’s claimed me as his slave, and he hit me when I indicated that I was no man’s slave. I know, that was a foolish thing for me to do, but I couldn’t help it.”

  “It was a brave thing,” Faith said, the anger that she had felt toward him easing.

  “Brave, foolish, under the circumstances it really doesn’t matter.” Chester shrugged. “Anyway, that’s what it was about.”

  “Did . . . did he say anything about me?” Faith was almost afraid to ask.

  “He said that since I was going to be his slave . . . my woman . . . would be given to his wives to be their slave.”

  Faith stared at him in the dusk. “Your woman?”

  “That’s what they think.”

  “And did you disabuse them of that incredible notion?”

  “I did not,” Chester declared. “I thought you might be safer if that’s what they believed.”

  “These savages don’t care about a thing like that!” Again, to her surprise, she found herself unable to stay angry with him. “But I suppose you were just trying to do what you thought was best.”

  “That’s right,” Chester said. “I haven’t given up on getting away from them, so I don’t want anything to happen to you before we get a chance to escape.”

  They were silent for a moment, and then Faith asked, “What did he tell you there at the end, when he was gesturing so vehemently?”

  This time Chester sounded faintly amused as he replied, “Medicine Bull told me that my woman has a temper as much like fire as her hair. He said that you were loud and rude and that if you were one of his wives, he would beat you until you behaved yourself better. In fact, he advised me to take precisely that approach.”

  “He said all that just by flailing aro
und with his hands?”

  “Sign language is very expressive,” Chester said dryly.

  Faith sniffed. “Well, don’t you get any ideas, Chester Sinclair. In the first place, I’m not your woman, and even if I was, I would never allow you to try to paddle me back into line as if I were an unruly child. In fact, if you ever lay a hand on me again—”

  He did exactly that, just then, picking up her right hand in both of his and clasping it gently. “If you were my woman, Faith, and if I laid a hand on you, it wouldn’t be in anger or to teach you a lesson. It would be out of love.”

  “Oh.” She suddenly felt warm and flustered, so much so that it made her forget for a moment about their perilous situation and how frightened she was. She forced a light, casual tone into her voice as she said, “Oh, well, in that case . . .”

  There was nothing light or casual about the way she felt, though. In fact, the feelings that had sprung up within her were decidedly unsettling.

  Or maybe it was just that awful jerky, she told herself. Yes, that was it. It had to be the jerky.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Wingate tried to keep an eye on Luther Snell at all times. Because of what he knew about Snell and the other trappers, Wingate didn’t trust them, not even for a second. He didn’t have any choice but to play along with them, however. He had to think about Miss Carling and that Sinclair fella. Their lives were in danger as long as they were in the hands of the Crows, and Snell and the others could help rescue them.

  Lieutenant Corrigan didn’t seem to have any trouble trusting Snell. In fact, they had become downright friendly now that the lieutenant had other guides besides Wingate. Snell was deliberately worming his way into Corrigan’s confidence, Wingate decided, but again, there was nothing he could do about it until after they had freed the prisoners from the war party.

  As they moved out onto the Great Plains a couple of days after joining up with Snell’s bunch, Wingate brought his horse alongside the lieutenant’s and said, “We’ll have to be a mite more careful now. There’s not much cover on this prairie, and it’s so flat you can see a long way on it. If those Crows spot us comin’, they might kill all the prisoners before we can catch up.”

  Snell was riding on Corrigan’s other side. He said, “Maybe what we ought to do is get ahead of ’em and lay an ambush. We can move faster’n those Injuns can, since we ain’t saddled with a bunch o’ prisoners.”

  “Taking advantage of the element of surprise is a sound military tactic,” Corrigan said. “That’s an interesting idea, Mr. Snell.”

  “Except it won’t work,” Wingate put in. “If you try to circle around them like that, the Crows are liable to spot the dust from the horses and figure out that somethin’ is up. You won’t be takin’ ’em by surprise.”

  Corrigan had turned his head to look at Wingate as he listened to the red-bearded trapper’s argument. Now he turned back to Snell and asked, “What do you think, Mr. Snell? Is what Mr. Wingate says correct?”

  Snell scowled. “Well, it’s been sort of a dry spring,” he admitted. “The horses might kick up enough dust that the Crows would notice. But they’re kickin’ up dust now. Nothin’ we can do about that.”

  “There’ll be more dust if you gallop hard enough to get all the way around the war party,” Wingate pointed out. “And they’ll be more likely to see it if it’s in front of them, too.”

  Corrigan said, “Well, then, Mr. Wingate, what’s your suggestion? What tactics should we adopt when we catch up with the savages?”

  “We ought to catch up to Preacher and them others before we do with the Crows. I’d let him figure it out. He’s a little on the young side, but there’s nobody better at fightin’ Injuns on the whole frontier.”

  “Preacher.” Snell snorted. “Hell, I been out here just as long as Preacher, maybe longer, and I’m still alive and got all my hair. I can come up with a plan just as good as he can.”

  “Well, continue to mull it over if you would.” Corrigan looked back and forth between the two frontiersmen. “To tell the truth, I need the counsel of both of you, and Preacher, too, if I can get it. I’m not ashamed to admit that I’m a novice at this Indian fighting.”

  The fact that Corrigan wasn’t too proud to admit he needed help meant that he and his troops had a chance of living through this, Wingate thought. Maybe not a great chance, but any was better than none.

  “Besides,” Corrigan went on, “it’s absolutely vital that we rescue Chester Sinclair from the Indians. He’s the reason my men and I were sent out here, after all.”

  That made Wingate frown in puzzlement and surprise. He recalled what Corrigan had said the day they first met about a fortune riding on the lieutenant’s mission. He had assumed that Corrigan was talking about Willard Carling. Carling was the one who was rich . . . wasn’t he?

  Suddenly, as he glanced at Snell and saw the new gleam in the man’s eyes, Wingate wished that Corrigan would just shut up. That wasn’t going to be the case, though, because the lieutenant went on. “I suppose it’s time you fellows know the truth, since you’re risking your lives to help me fulfill this assignment.”

  “You just go right ahead and tell us anything you want to tell us, Lieutenant,” Snell urged.

  “You see, my orders are to locate Chester Sinclair and return him safely to St. Louis, where he’ll be met by legal representatives of his late uncle.”

  “His late uncle?” Wingate said.

  “Yes. Senator Ambrose Sinclair. Are you familiar with the name?”

  Wingate had heard of Ambrose Sinclair, all right. So had Snell, who said, “Politician from back East somewhere, right? And a mighty rich man, to boot.”

  “That’s correct. And his entire estate is going to his nephew Chester.”

  Snell let out a low whistle. “I figured he was just a servant hired by that artist fella. He sure acted that way. He let Carling boss him around all the time and never said nothin’ about havin’ a rich uncle.”

  “From what I understand,” Corrigan said in a confidential tone, “there was a split in the family, some sort of argument between Senator Sinclair and his brother—Chester Sinclair’s father—when they were both young men. The family was still very poor at that time. The two men never saw each other or had anything to do with each other again. Chester’s father remained poor, but Ambrose Sinclair went on to become wealthy and eventually entered the political arena, where he became even richer and more influential. It’s possible that Chester Sinclair never even knew that Senator Sinclair was his uncle.”

  “So he was workin’ as Carling’s assistant without havin’ any idea that someday he’d be even richer than the fella he was workin’ for?” Snell asked avidly.

  “I assume that was the case. Willard Carling is certainly well-to-do, but with his new inheritance, Chester Sinclair could buy and sell Carling several times over. And that, gentlemen, is why I’ve been sent to fetch him back. Senator Sinclair had a great many friends in the War Department, all the way up to the Secretary, and they want the senator’s wishes to be carried out.”

  Wingate scratched at his beard and tried not to let the concern he felt show on his face. This revelation by the lieutenant made things even worse than they had been before. Snell had figured on kidnapping Willard Carling, but now it appeared that grabbing Chester Sinclair could result in an even bigger windfall. Snell wasn’t going to let such an opportunity pass without trying to seize it.

  It looked to Wingate like rescuing Sinclair and Miss Carling from the Crows wasn’t going to be the end of danger, but just the beginning....

  As Preacher and his companions sat in a cold camp after night had fallen, making a meager supper on pemmican and jerky, Rip Giddens said, “There’s a good chance we’re gonna catch up to that bunch tomorrow, Preacher. Got any idea what we’re gonna do then?”

  “I’ve been thinkin’ on it,” Preacher said. “There’s no way we can slip in, free the captives, and sneak back out again without the Crows noticin’ us.
There’s just too blamed many of ’em. That didn’t work with the war party that grabbed you folks in the first place, and it was a lot smaller.”

  Panther Leaping said in Sioux, “It shames me that I was part of that war party. When Hairface was chief, our people were always friends to the whites. But when he died and Bites Like a Badger became chief, everything changed.”

  “That wasn’t your fault, Panther,” Preacher told him. “You and the other warriors had to go along with Badger.”

  “We could have challenged his plans to make war on the whites. We could have spoken against him in the council of elders.”

  “Maybe . . . but that’s over and done with. We’re on the same side now, and maybe by the time we get back, Badger will have decided not to go to war after all.”

  Panther nodded slowly. “I will pray to the Great Spirit that it will be so.”

  Willard Carling smiled faintly and said, “I don’t know what the two of you are talking about, Preacher, but it sounds awfully solemn.”

  “Panther was apologizing for the way his people treated you folks at first,” Preacher explained.

  “Well . . . it was awfully frightening being their prisoners. But I understand now that the chief was to blame for most of that, and besides, they treated us quite well after you and Badger had your little fight. Tell Panther that we don’t bear any grudges toward him or the others.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Jasper Hodge muttered. “I still bear plenty of grudges.”

  “Anyway,” Rip said, “back to what we’re gonna do when we catch up to that war party and try to get them prisoners loose . . . Preacher, it seems to me what we need is somethin’ to keep those Crows busy.”

  “Too busy to come after us once we free the captives.” Preacher nodded. “I was thinkin’ the same thing. And the best idea I’ve come up with is to start a fire.”

  “What good will that do?” Hodge asked.