The Family Jensen

by William W. Johnstone

  “That’s insane!” Jiggers Dunlop said. “No one would do a thing like that.”

  “You inherited your money, didn’t you, Dunlop?” Milton Packard asked. “You never had to fight for it. I’ve known men who didn’t care how many they hurt to get what they wanted.”

  “So have I,” Preacher said. “Tell me what happened after you found Hank and the other fellas, Countess.”

  Helena shrugged. “I knew there was a buffalo herd out there, and I was afraid the fire would make them stampede. I woke everyone up as fast as I could, and we ran for this hill. It seemed like the only safe place.”

  “There’s a good chance you saved everybody’s life,” Preacher told her. “What about the horses?”

  “There was no time to do anything with them. We grabbed a few guns and supplies, that’s all.”

  Preacher nodded. The horses had been picketed, but with thousands of panic-stricken buffalo barreling down on them, chances were at least some of the animals had pulled free and bolted. Any of them who stumbled and went down probably had been trampled, but Preacher thought there was a good chance some of the mounts had survived. He might be able to find them once the sun came up.

  One thing was certain: the hunting trip was over. His responsibility was to get those greenhorns back to the train. He wanted to track down the men responsible for that disaster and settle the score for Hank, but it would have to wait.

  “Is anybody hurt too bad?”

  As it turned out, a few bumps and bruises, plus some ankles twisted in hurrying up the rocky hill, were the only injuries among the survivors. They were lucky.

  Curtis, one of Senator Olson’s aides, came up to Preacher and asked, “Did you happen to see the senator anywhere?”

  Preacher shook his head. “Nope. I figured he’d be up here with you folks.”

  “We . . . we lost track of him,” Curtis admitted. “When the countess raised the alarm, Jennings and I looked for him, but we couldn’t find him.”

  “He was probably off answerin’ the call of nature,” Preacher said. “Sorry, young fella, but if he was down there, he’s dead now. Nothin’ you can do about that.”

  “If . . . if that’s true, we ought to try to recover the body.”

  “Won’t be no body to recover. Not so’s you could tell who it was, anyway.”

  Even in the dark, Preacher could tell how pale and shaken Curtis was. The young man sighed. “I suppose you’re right. This is a tragedy, a real tragedy. Senator Olson was a great man.”

  “Uh-huh,” Preacher said. He hadn’t met too many politicians he would consider great men. But even so, Olson probably hadn’t deserved being ground into the dirt by the hooves of thousands of buffalo.

  Preacher turned back to Helena. “You did a good job takin’ charge, ma’am.”

  “Someone had to,” she said with a little toss of her head and a scornful glance toward her husband.

  “You believe me now that I didn’t have anything to do with this?”

  Helena hesitated, then said, “Since we’re going to be depending on you to get us back to civilization safely, I suppose I have to. But I intend to hang on to this rifle.”

  “Dang right you are,” Preacher told her. “You’re gonna be standin’ guard part of the night, in case that bunch comes along to see if anybody got out of the way of that stampede.”

  He thought there was at least a chance of that, so he quickly found out how many guns and how much ammunition the group had, then picked out men—and the countess—to take turns standing guard. They had to at least try to keep themselves safe.

  They had one advantage over Wilkerson: they knew someone wanted them dead. Hank hadn’t known there was any imminent threat. Under the circumstances, even greenhorns like those were likely to be pretty alert.

  Preacher intended to remain awake all night himself. He could sleep again once they got back to the train and were rolling away from the scene of that debacle. He wasn’t as young as he used to be, and didn’t have the reserves of strength and stamina that he had once possessed, but he knew he could handle whatever he needed to. There wasn’t any choice in the matter.

  Then, once he had sent those pilgrims on their way . . . he could go on a hunt of his own—the varmints who had started the stampede as his prey.

  Chapter 25

  The rest of the night passed quietly, and Preacher was thankful for that. Though he didn’t sleep any, he was able to rest some. So was Horse. They were in better shape by morning.

  The same couldn’t be said of the survivors of the stampede. Their comfortable cots and bedrolls had been destroyed, and they were forced to sleep on the rocky ground. As the sky lightened with the approach of dawn, members of the group began to get up and hobble around as they tried to work the kinks out of their sore muscles.

  They had grabbed a couple bags of supplies as they fled. Preacher went through the bags and found some coffee, but there was no pot in which to boil it. They made do with stale biscuits and some canned tomatoes.

  After the skimpy meal, he gathered the group around him. “I’m gonna go see if I can round up some horses. If I can, that’ll make it easier for you folks to get back to the train. If not, you’ll have to hoof it.”

  Several of the men groaned in dismay. Countess Markova, who was still carrying her rifle, looked at them scornfully. “Go ahead,” she told Preacher. “I will stand watch while you are gone.”

  He gave her a nod and mounted up, then rode down the hill and started along the path of the stampede. In the morning light, the damage done by the buffalo was even more appalling. He paused at several of the bodies but couldn’t identify them. There wasn’t even enough left to bury.

  He had gone only a mile or so from the site of the destroyed camp when he spotted a couple horses grazing on a hillside. They didn’t bolt when he approached. He was able to rip rope harnesses for them and led them along behind Horse as he continued the search.

  By the time a couple hours had passed, he had rounded up eight horses. That was better than he’d expected. Some of the pilgrims would have to ride double, but at least everybody could ride back to the railroad tracks. They would have to manage bareback, but maybe they wouldn’t fall off too many times.

  Preacher drove the little herd northward. The smell of ashes lingered in the air. The horses were a mite skittish, but he kept them under control.

  Cheers drifted down from the hilltop where the survivors were gathered when he and the horses came into view. The pilgrims streamed down from the knoll, bringing their few belongings with them.

  “The sooner we get started, the better,” Preacher told them. “I want the most experienced riders to handle the reins I’ve rigged up. The rest of you, pick somebody and climb up behind ’em.”

  With no stirrups to help them mount, some of the people had trouble, but Preacher managed to get all of them on the horses after a while. When the group was ready to ride, he called out for them to follow him and waved them forward. At a walk, they started south toward the railroad.

  After they settled down and got a little more comfortable, Preacher was able to pick up the pace a mite. He intended to make it back to the train before nightfall.

  They followed the trail of the buffalo stampede. Preacher intended to gather any stray horses they encountered along the way, but he didn’t see any. It was possible the eight animals he had rounded up earlier were the only equine survivors.

  They had gone several miles when Preacher suddenly heard a shout. He reined in and looked ahead, spotting a figure running toward them, waving his arms over his head. “What in blazes?” Preacher muttered.

  Jennings exclaimed, “That’s the senator!”

  Indeed it was. Senator Sherwood P. Olson was running desperately toward them, shouting as if he had just seen something he regarded as a miracle. Preacher thought that was probably what it amounted to.

  Curtis and Jennings dismounted and hurried forward to meet Olson, who was red-faced, out of breath, and panti
ng as he came up to them. He stopped and bent over to rest his hands on his knees while he tried to catch his breath. Curtis gripped his arm to steady him.

  Olson wore trousers, a shirt, and a pair of boots. His mane of silver hair was in disarray.

  “Senator, where in tarnation have you been?” Preacher asked.

  “We all thought you were dead, Senator,” Curtis added.

  “I thought . . . I thought all of you were dead,” Olson responded. “I fled when those buffalo stampeded last night, and I was afraid all of you had been caught in their path and trampled.”

  “How’d you manage to get away?” Preacher wanted to know.

  Olson wasn’t quite as out of breath and was able to straighten. He looked at Preacher as he replied, “I had left my tent to, ah, tend to some private business, when I saw the fire and heard the horrible sound of those creatures charging the camp. I yelled a warning and started to run.” Olson looked uncomfortable. “I know I should have made sure that everyone was alerted to the danger, but I . . . I panicked. I admit that. I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t see how anyone could help but panic in the face of such a disaster,” Curtis said. “You have nothing to apologize for, Senator.”

  Preacher didn’t quite agree, and suspected that Olson wasn’t telling the whole truth. More than likely, the senator had run like the very devil was after him as soon as he realized the buffalo herd was stampeding, rather than pausing to call out a warning. If he really had shouted, nobody had heard it.

  But Olson’s bravery or cowardice wasn’t really an issue. The senator was alive, which meant another of the horses would have to carry double.

  “What happened then, Senator?” Jennings asked.

  “Somehow—and I really don’t know how, everything about last night is just a blur—I managed to get out of the path of the stampede. I thought you were probably all dead, so I knew I’d have to get back to the train on my own. I started walking south and continued as long as I could before I finally had to stop and rest. When the sun came up this morning, I began walking again. I had gotten this far when something made me look around, and I saw all of you and the horses. It was like a miracle. I had been delivered from almost certain death.”

  Preacher wouldn’t have gone so far as to say that, either. It would have been a mighty long walk back to the train for the senator and his feet would have been pretty sore when he got there, not to mention he would have been hungry and thirsty, but chances were he would have survived the trek.

  “You can ride with me, Senator,” Curtis offered.

  “Nope,” Preacher said. “We want to even the weight out among the horses as much as we can. Senator, you ride with Mr. McCormick. Mr. Dunlop, you get up here behind me.” Preacher hadn’t taken a second rider on Horse, but the stallion was strong enough to handle the double load.

  Curtis looked like he was going to protest, but Preacher’s hard stare silenced him. McCormick gave Olson a hand climbing onto the horse ridden by the journalist, and the party set off again.

  At midday, they stopped to rest the horses and eat. The meal was just as skimpy as their breakfast that morning. Several of the men complained bitterly about everything—the food, the loss of most of their belongings, the soreness in their muscles from sleeping on the ground, and having to ride without saddles.

  Preacher would have expected such grousing from a pampered female like the countess, but Helena seemed to be bearing up well under the hardships. Despite her wanton nature, she seemed to have a steely core of resolve.

  He was curious about something, and while the group was stopped, he managed to catch a moment alone with her to ask quietly, “Countess, just what were you doin’ out and about last night when you realized what was going to happen?”

  Her eyes met his squarely. “That’s a rather indelicate question, don’t you think, Preacher?”

  “Yes, ma’am, and I’m mighty sorry about that. But I’d still like to know. I been doin’ some thinkin’, and it occurs to me that Hank Wilkerson wouldn’t have been too suspicious if somebody like you came up to him to talk to him durin’ the night.”

  Her nostrils flared as she drew in a deep breath. “You are saying I could have gotten close enough to him to kill him, as well as the other guards?”

  Preacher shrugged. “Like I said, I was just thinkin’.”

  “My own life was in danger last night,” she pointed out. “And I’m the one who alerted the others to the stampede.”

  “I didn’t say it made sense, but neither does anything else about this whole mess.”

  Helena continued to look intently at him for a moment before she finally nodded. “You are right. You deserve an answer. I was on my way back to my tent when I smelled smoke, saw the glow in the sky from the fire, and went to look for Mr. Wilkerson. I had been with one of the gentlemen.”

  “You mean you and him—”

  “That’s exactly what I mean. My husband is not what you would call a passionate man, except perhaps when it comes to vodka and shooting things.” She shrugged. “So I look for passion elsewhere. Alexi sleeps like the dead.”

  “You care to tell me who the fella was?”

  She hesitated, then said, “Mr. McCormick.”

  “The newspaperman?”

  “That’s right.”

  Preacher thought back over the past few days. He had seen McCormick in Helena’s company on numerous occasions and had noticed them looking at each other, as well as talking and laughing. He hadn’t thought much about it—Helena had been more than a mite flirtatious with several of the men—but what she told him had the ring of truth to it.

  “Are you going to say anything to him?” she asked.

  Preacher shook his head. “Don’t see any need to right now. I got a hunch you ain’t lyin’ to me.”

  “Thank you for that much, anyway,” Helena said rather stiffly. It didn’t bother Preacher. If she wanted to get her nose out of joint about it, that was her lookout, not his.

  The group moved on a short time later. Preacher knew he was pushing them hard, humans and horses alike, but he didn’t want to spend another night on the prairie unless they had to.

  After a while, Jiggers Dunlop let out a frightened exclamation. “Look!” He pointed. “It’s those buffalo again!”

  Preacher had spotted the shaggy creatures several minutes earlier. They were spread out on both sides of a valley to the east, grazing peacefully.

  “Take it easy,” he told Dunlop as he reined in. “There ain’t nothin’ to worry about.”

  “But the wild beasts might charge us again!”

  Preacher shook his head. “That ain’t likely. They ran themselves out last night, then drifted over yonder into that good grass. They’ve forgotten all about what happened, and they’ll likely stay right where they are for a few days unless somethin’ comes along to disturb ’em again.”

  Helena patted the polished wooden stock of her rifle and said, “We never did get to shoot any of them.”

  Preacher frowned and shook his head at her. “And we ain’t a-goin’ to now, neither. Wouldn’t be no point in it. We don’t need the meat, and you folks can’t carry off any trophies. We’ll just leave ’em be.”

  Count Markova glared at the old mountain man. “If my wife wishes to shoot one of those beasts, she should be allowed to do so. I wouldn’t mind killing one of them myself.”

  “Anybody who wants to stop and take potshots at them buffs, I ain’t gonna stop you,” Preacher said. “But I ain’t gonna wait for you, neither. You can get back to the train your own selves.”

  Jasper McCormick said, “It might be best to continue on to the train.”

  “I agree,” Senator Olson added. “My God, I’m ready for some sign of actual civilization again!”

  The others muttered their agreement. Markova scowled at Preacher but didn’t argue. The riders moved forward again, leaving the buffalo behind.

  The sun was still above the western horizon when Preacher spotted the
long, narrow line of railroad tracks ahead of them. He could see the telegraph poles extending along beside the steel rails as well. The locomotive, along with its train of freight cars, private passenger cars, and caboose, sat on the siding, waiting for them. Preacher’s instincts had led them back unerringly.

  The others began to notice the train. Some of them cried out for joy while others gave heartfelt thanks.

  Preacher kept riding, a grim expression on his bearded face. Too many questions were left unanswered, he thought. Who were the mysterious varmints who had been trailing them, and why had they started the fire that caused the buffalo stampede? Why hadn’t the would-be killers come after them again? Preacher had been keeping a close eye on their back trail all day, and he felt certain nobody was following them.

  Those mysteries nagged at him, and he wasn’t going to believe he and his companions were out of danger until they had been solved.

  The hunters were thrilled to be back at the railroad. Some of them urged their horses to a faster gait in their eagerness to get in the passenger cars and experience some luxuries again. Helena muttered, “Ah, to have a bath again!”

  Preacher didn’t get in any hurry. In fact, he approached the train so deliberately that Jiggers Dunlop got impatient.

  “Can’t you hurry up?” the shipping heir demanded.

  “We’ll get there,” Preacher said.

  Dunlop didn’t want to wait. He slid off the horse and ran ahead.

  Preacher rode up while the other members of the party were dismounting, slapping each other on the back, and congratulating themselves for surviving the ordeal they had just gone through. Preacher brought Horse to a stop but stayed in the saddle. It seemed like every nerve ending in his body was tingling, and that was enough to tell him something was wrong. Why hadn’t Chester Gearhart, the senator’s secretary, come out to greet them? For that matter, the conductor and the rest of the train crew should have put in an appearance, too.

  The alarm bells in Preacher’s brain rang louder as Gearhart suddenly emerged from the senator’s private car, stumbling onto its rear platform. Another man stepped out right behind him. The second man was a stranger, but whoever he was, he knew Preacher.