“I’ve never even heard of it,” Edmond muttered.
“High up in the mountains, it is. ’Bout ten thousand feet or more. White stones in a circle, measurin’, oh, ’bout seventy-five or eighty feet. Got twenty-eight spokes. And on a river ’bout fifty, sixty miles to the west of there, they’s a great stone arrow, pointin’ direct at the wheel. Lots of stories ’bout them things, but the Crow say the Sun laid out the wheel to teach the tribe how to make a tipi. I told y’all how the Plains Injuns feel about the sun and the earth. I’m gonna tell you something else: when I stood there in that circle, I got me a strange feelin’, I did. Spiritual feelin’.”
“Are the Crow dangerous?” Richard asked.
“Depends on how you look at it. They love to steal horses. They’re fine horsemen. I know an ol’ boy name of William Gordon. Mountain man. He had him a Crow chief tell him that if they killed the white man, they wouldn’t come back, and they couldn’t steal no more of the white man’s horses. So they’ll steal from the white man, but they won’t kill him. Howsomever, that don’t hold true all the time. You get some young buck lookin’ to make a name for hisself so’s he can impress the girls, he might just take your hair. It don’t happen often, but it do happen. All in all, though, I trust the Crow not to kill me. But I sleep with one eye on my horses when I’m in their territory.”
Preacher looked at the steaks and said, “They’s ready. Come get this food and eat good.”
Over supper, Melody said, “The Indians who attacked the wagon train, Preacher—what did you say they were?”
“Arapaho. Strange bunch of people. They stay to themselves mostly, but sometimes they will hook up with the Cheyenne. They ain’t got no use for most white people. They’s been talk of the Cheyenne and Arapaho comin’ together to fight. Both tribes hate the Kiowa. I been hearin’ talk that they’s goin’ to band together and head on the warpath against the Kiowa. Odd, ’cause the Kiowa and the Cheyenne used to be friends. I don’t know what happened. The Arapaho will tell you he is your friend, but he ain’t—not really. How’s your meat?”
“It’s delicious,” Edmond said. “”And please let me apologize for my earlier outburst. It’s been, well, a trying time for all of us.”
And it ain’t nearabouts over, Preacher thought.
* * *
“I can’t figure where he’s takin’ them,” George said. “He’s headin’ straight west.”
“Has to be Fort Henry on the Yellowstone,” Bull said. The huge knot on his head had gone away, but the memory of who gave it to him had not. He dreamed nightly of killing Preacher.
“But there ain’t no soldier boys there,” Bum said. “That’s a civilian fort. And that shore ain’t gettin’ them folks no closer to the Oregon Trail.”
“Maybe it is,” Jack Harris said. “Preacher knows everybody in the wilderness. They’s bound to be some trappers and the like hangin’ around Henry. He could get some of them to ride with him down to Forth Hall for protection and then get them pilgrims hooked up with another wagon train headed west. Once that was done, we’d be out of luck.”
“How many days you figure they’re ahead of us?” Bum asked.
“Maybe two—three at the most. We’re travelin’ a lot harder than they is. But if we’re gonna catch up, we got to push harder still.”
“This ain’t gettin’ us no closer,” Bobby said, lurching to his feet with the help of a branch he was using for a crutch. “Let’s ride.”
Slug, also using a tree limb for a crutch, rose painfully to his one good foot. “I’ll follow Preacher clear to the blue waters if I have to,” he said, his face tight with the pain from his broken ankle. “I owe him, and this is one debt I damn sure intend to pay.”
Beckman hobbled to his feet, grimacing at the pain in his wounded leg. “Let’s ride, boys. Hell, even if we get to Fort Henry and they’re still around, there ain’t no law there. Cain’t nobody do nothin’ to us. If them pilgrims say we attacked them, it’s our word agin theirs. And they’s more of us than there is them. If anything’s said about our wounds, we’ll just say we was attacked by Injuns.”
Moses dumped water on the fire and stirred the ashes. Outlaws they were, but none of them wanted to be anywhere near a raging, out-of-control forest fire.
“Get the horses,” Bum said. “We got to put some miles behind us.”
None of them—Preacher included—knew whether Fort Henry was still operating. Andy Henry had built several forts, beginning back in 1807 when he built a fort on the Yellowstone at the mouth of the Big Horn. Then another fort was built in 1810 near the confluence of the Jefferson and Madison rivers. Blackfeet destroyed that one. Then in 1811-1812 another fort was thrown up on Henry’s Fork of the Snake. Blackfeet and hard winters put that one out of business. Back in ’23 another, sturdier fort was built and so far as any of the men knew, it was still operating.
They could only hope.
* * *
Preacher plunged them across the Snake and into the wilderness of the Teton Range and into Washington Territory. He picked up the pace, knowing by now that those behind him would have figured out where he was going. Problem was, Preacher didn’t know if the fort was still standing, much less in business. He hadn’t been over this way in several years. There had been several Injun uprisings in that time. He’d asked Bad Foot about it, but the sub-chief had only shrugged his shoulders in reply. Which might have meant anything or nothing.
With an Injun, you just never knew.
The side of Richard’s head was still tender to the touch, but the wound had healed nicely. Edmond had gotten over his mad with Preacher, Penelope was still a bitch, for the most part, and Melody, seeing her advances thwarted, had taken to not speaking to Preacher. Which suited Preacher just fine. He didn’t have time to fool with some love-struck female.
If he had any kind of luck, in a couple of weeks he’d be done and through with the whole damn bunch of them and the entire misadventure would be behind him.
With any kind of luck.
They rode right into a storm and had to seek shelter from the cold driving rain that had bits of ice in it. The ice, driven by high winds, cut like tiny knives on bare skin.
“These late spring storms can be pure hell,” Preacher said, almost shouting to be heard over the howl of the wind as it came shrieking down off the mountains. “We might wake up in the mornin’ and they’ll be a foot of snow on the ground. You just never know this high up.”
“It sounds like the wailing of a million lost souls,” Edmond said. “I’ve never heard or felt anything like this.”
“That’s a right good way of puttin’ it,” Preacher agreed. “Never had thought of it like that.”
“But if we can’t travel,” Richard said, shouting the words, “neither can those behind us.”
“Don’t bet on it,” Preacher told him. “This storm might be local. It might not be doin’ nothin’ fifteen miles to the east of us. Sorry.”
Preacher managed to throw up a windbreak and get a fire going. But all in all it was going to be the most miserable night the pilgrims had yet spent on the trail. Preacher took it in his usual manner: calmly and philosophically. He knew there was no point in bitching about it; wasn’t nothing he nor anyone else could do about it.
The rain soon changed to snow and in a very short time, the land was covered in white. The snow, whipped by the high winds, soon reduced visibility to near zero.
“Don’t no one stray from camp!” Preacher yelled. “You got to relieve yourself, you just step behind the nearest tree. You stray from camp in this, and you’ll get lost sure as shootin’. You’ll be froze to death ’fore we could find you.”
For once, no one argued with him. The pilgrims were scared, and looked it.
About midnight, the lean-to that Richard and Edmond built gave up and collapsed. Preacher, wrapped up in a ground sheet and buffalo robe, his back to a tree and his hat brim tied over his ears with a scarf he fastened under his chin, opened one eye and chuckle
d at the antics of the men as they thrashed around in the cold and snow.
One thing about it, the mountain man thought, all four of these people will be a sight smarter about the wilderness when this is over. If they survive, he added. Then he closed his eye and went back to sleep, snug in his robe.
Neither Richard nor Edmond was in a real good mood come the morning.
“I have a head cold,” Edmond complained. “I am in dire need of a plaster for my chester and some hot lemonade.”
“Jesus Christ!” Preacher muttered.
“I simply must have a cup of hot tea,” Richard said. “Do you have any left, Penelope?”
“I’ll make us some. I have a few leaves left.”
Preacher had been ruminating on their situation. “Y’all don’t need to hurry none,” he told them. “We shore ain’t goin’ nowheres. We’d leave a trail a drunk blind man could follow.”
“That means the hooligans behind us will gain on us,” Richard said.
“They’ll gain,” Preacher admitted. “But I left the trail and turned gradual north early yesterday mornin’. I didn’t figure none of you would notice, and you didn’t. Then I cut back south for a few miles, then headed west again about noon. That’s when I led y’all into that little crick. If y’all had paid attention, you’d have noticed that crick cut back south. A lot of cricks and rivers do flow that way,” he added drily. “Howsomever, Goose Crick does run north. It’s a weird crick. But that ain’t got nothin’ to do with us.” He pointed. “That mountain right there, it’s got about fifteen different names, but the Injuns call it Mountain That Takes Life. They say it’s evil. I ’magine what happened was some sort of sickness killed a bunch of them years back and they just figure the mountain is evil and won’t go near it. That’s where we’re goin’ soon as the sun melts this snow. Reason I’m tellin’ you all this, is that I took us ’way, ’way off the trail. Now with the snow, if we just sit tight and don’t build no big fires, Bum and them others won’t have no idea where we is. They’ll just think we kept on the trail westward and that’s the way they’ll go. They might even make the fort—if it’s still there—two or three days ahead of us.”
“Well, what would be the advantage of them doing that?” Richard asked.
Preacher smiled. “’Cause we ain’t gonna go to the fort. Soon as the snow melts, I’m takin’ y’all southwest to Fort Hall.”
8
Bum and his party of no-goods pressed on, never leaving the westward trail. They had lost the trail, but were all convinced that Preacher was heading for Fort Henry on the Yellowstone. It was the only logical thing for him to do. South was very rugged country.
A dozen miles to the south, Preacher and his pilgrims sat it out until the snow was completely gone. By that time, everyone was well rested, including the horses. Preacher had listened to Edmond bitch about his head cold until he knew if they didn’t get on the trail, he was really gonna give Edmond something to complain about. Like maybe a poke on the snoot.
“Pack it up,” Preacher told them. “We got about a hundred miles to go.”
Preacher led them straight south, toward Teton Pass. His plan was to take them through the pass, then cut more to the west, leading them through the Caribou Range, staying north of the great dry lake some called Gray’s Lake, cross the Blackfoot Mountains, then on into Fort Hall. That was his plan, but in Indian country, plans were subject to change.
Once clear of Teton Pass, Preacher cut southwest and pushed his party hard. They were becoming used to the trail, and Richard had become a fair hand. Preacher began ranging far out in front of them whenever he felt it safe to do so—safe was his being fairly sure Richard would say on the trail Preacher forged and not get the others lost. He tried to stay apart from the group as much as possible, for Melody had once more begun speaking to him and batting her blues and shaking her bottom at him. Damn woman was about to drive him nuts.
Bum and his bunch had found themselves smack in the middle of a Blackfoot uprising. A friendly Bannock had told them the Army was warning all people to leave the area north of the upper curve of the Snake. And the Bannock also had told them, that everybody was gone from Fort Henry until the Blackfoot had been settled down. They’d been gone for several weeks. He knew that for a fact, ’cause he’d been there.
“Tricked us,” bum said. “He cut south during the snow, and holed up until it melted ’fore pullin’ out. That has to be it.”
“Then we’re out of luck on this run,” Jack said. “No way we can make Fort Hall ’fore they do.”
Bum thought about that while he was warming his hands over a small fire. “You know where Red Hand is?”
“Yeah. But you ain’t thinkin’ of trustin’ that crazy renegade, is you?”
“I don’t see that we got a whole lot of choice in the matter. With his bunch, and with us maybe pickin’ up eight or ten other ol’ boys, we could take on any wagon train. We could hit them anywheres between Fort Hall and Oregon Territory.”
“I don’t like it. Why would Red Hand even want to join up with us?” Bull asked.
“For prisoners and booty. We could make a deal with him. He will keep his word on certain things. I’ve worked with him before and always been careful not to try to rook him. We can pick our spot once they leave Fort Hall, ’cause there ain’t no Army forts along the way until you get to Oregon Territory, and I think them’s all British, far as I know. And them silly people don’t worry me none. Hell, they’ll stop and drink tea right in the middle of a damn battle.”
“Them women we been chasin’ might get killed,” Keyes pointed out.
“And they might not. ’Sides, all the gold them Bible-toters is carryin’ will make up for the women.”
“True,” Moses said.
“So what do we do?” Slug asked.
“Git our butts outta Blackfoot country first thing. When that’s done, we head south to find Red Hand and his bunch and to find us some more ol’ boys that we can trust. When we talk to him, we don’t mention nothin’ ’bout the gold or the women we’re after. Luke, do Preacher know you?”
“No. I ain’t never laid eyes on the man.”
“Then you’ll be the one to ride into Fort Hall and find out what wagon train them pilgrims is leavin’ with. We’ll be camped ’bout fifteen miles southeast of the fort, down close to the Portneufs. That’s where Red Hand hangs out. Let’s get the hell gone from here. I don’t wanna tangle with no damn Blackfeet.”
* * *
“Two days from the fort,” Preacher told the group. And then I’ll be shut of you, he silently added. Praise be! “We’ll stop at a crick just ’fore we make the fort and you ladies can bathe and whatever and change back into them dresses you toted along. Howsomever, it’s gonna be right difficult for y’all to ride properlike in them saddles.”
“We want to pay you for all your troubles,” Edmond said.
Preacher fixed him with a bleak look. “I did what I done cause it was the right thing to do. So don’t you be tryin’ to hand me no money. I don’t want your damn money.” I just want to get shut of you and I hope I don’t never see none of you again. “I feel bounden to see you hooked up with a wagon train, and I’ll do that. Then I’m gone.”
“Where will you go, Preacher?” Penelope asked. Now that salvation—in the form of less cretinous people—was near, she felt it wouldn’t hurt to be at least cordial to the man. To a degree.
“Don’t know. Furrin’s about played out. I can see that while most of the others can’t. But I’ll tell you what I ain’t a-gonna do. I ain’t a-gonna guide no gawddamn wagon trains full of pilgrims.”
He would live to eat those words. Without benefit of salt, pepper, or anything else. And a lot sooner than he could possibly know.
Preacher had tucked them all in a natural depression off the trail. The fire was built against a huge rock so the rock would reflect the heat back to the group. They were running out of supplies, and Preacher had not wanted to risk a shot bringing down a dee
r, and had not been able to get close enough to one to use an arrow. He had managed to snare a few rabbits, and that was what they were having this evening.
“A pate would be wonderful,” Penelope said, holding a rabbit’s leg.
“Yes,” Edmond agreed. “Or one of your mother’s wonderful meat pies.”
Preacher rocked back on his heels and gnawed at his meat.
“I dream of being warm again,” Melody said. “The luxury of sitting in a chair, snug and warm by the stove, and reading poetry, while the elements rage outside the window.”
“Stimulating conversation over tea and cookies,” Richard said.
“Luxuriating long in a hot, soapy bath,” Penelope said. She gingerly took a dainty little bite of rabbit.
Preacher broke the bone and sucked out the marrow. He muttered under his breath.
“I beg your pardon?” Edmond inquired.
“Nothin’,” Preacher said, reaching over and slicing off a hunk of rabbit. He tensed only slightly as an alien sound came to him. He shifted position and continued to eat. But he had moved closer to his saddle and the extra brace of pistols. The move also put his back to a large rock. The others did not seem to notice.
Preacher glanced over at the horses. They had stopped grazing and were standing very still, their ears all perked up.
Preacher ate the last of his meat and then picked up a handful of snow that remained on the shady side of the small boulder. He rubbed the snow on his hands to clear away the grease and used more snow to wipe the grease from his mouth. He dried his hands on his britches and wiped his mouth with his jacket sleeve. Free of the odor of grease, he took a deep breath. He picked out the tangy odor of old woodsmoke. There was no way he could tell by smell what tribe the Indians were from, but he’d bet ten dollars they were Blackfeet. And there wasn’t no fiercer fighters anywhere—unless it was Red Hand and that bunch of half-crazy renegades that run with him. But this was just a tad north for Red Hand, although Preacher had once run into Red Hand a hell of a lot further north than this.
The First Mountain Man Page 7