“Colonel, I am greatly concerned for the recovery of the seriously wounded men. I urge you to slow our pace. At this rate of march, the wagons are doing more harm than the Pawnee did.”
Danvers snorted. “Nonsense, Doctor. We need to put as much distance between us and the Pawnee as we can, in order to avoid any more such . . . incidents.”
The balding Major Couglin raised his eyebrows in astonishment. “I’d hardly call a pitched battle an ‘incident,’ Colonel.”
Danvers gave him a hard, level stare. “Officially, that is what it has to be. Otherwise, we might be charged with violating the treaty.”
Couglin scratched his chin. “Preacher has given me to understand that it is highly unlikely we will have a repeat of hostilities.”
Snorting, Danvers glared in disdain. “Preacher? What does he know about it, Major Couglin?”
In a quiet voice, the doctor added his clincher. “He’s lived out here for thirty years.”
It had little effect on Danvers. “I regret to inform you that we cannot slow the pace, Major Couglin.”
The major bristled. “Need I remind you that in matters of the health and well-being of the troops, I have authority to supersede your decisions?”
Fire flamed in the eyes of Danvers. “Your objection is noted— and rejected. In the presence of hostiles, my decisions alone are binding.”
Defeated, Couglin tried one final appeal. “At least, let me have a suitable escort so that the wagons can proceed at a rate consistent with the best interests of the wounded.”
Lieutenant Colonel Danvers relented. “Very well. You may have two platoons. This discussion is concluded.”
From a short distance away, Three Sleeps Norris had overheard the entire exchange. He muttered to himself his heartfelt opinion of Lieutenant Colonel Arlington Danvers: “Heartless, miserable son of a bitch.” Had he heard it, Norris knew, Preacher would have agreed.
FIFTEEN
Blooding the troops had side benefits born of their increased confidence. Preacher soon noted that the Dragoons’ smart deportment made the old saw about forty miles a day solid reality. On one fine afternoon, he found the Medicine Bow Mountains on his left. He had seen their matte-black ramparts over the previous three days. Now sure enough they had gained the red-orange pinnacles covered with tall stands of lodge-pole pine, juniper and fir so dense that had the Black Hills of Lakota country not been seen first by white men, these would have borne that name. What Preacher did not expect was to come upon a mounted white man, who appeared suddenly out of one of the deep folds on the northeast face of the Medicine Bows.
A cry of surprise reached Preacher’s ears a fraction of a second before the stranger energetically waved his arms in a show of peaceful intent. He spurred his horse and came on fast. Preacher urged Tarnation toward the approaching rider. Face alight with hope and relief, the newcomer reined up in a shower of turf.
“Mister, am I glad to see you. Thank the good Lord you’ve come at last. How many in your party?”
Preacher blinked and studied the man in an attempt to determine if he was addle-pated. “There’s nigh onto two hundred.”
That startled the stranger. “Lordy ... lordy, that’s the biggest wagon train I’ve ever heard of.”
“Not a train. I’m guide for a squadron of Dragoons. Folks call me Preacher.”
Face glowing with joy, Isaac Warner introduced himself, then added, “You have no idea how grateful we are to see you. Many of our people have given up hope.”
Preacher rubbed his chin. “Maybe I should ask how many there are of you folk?”
“We number seventy-three souls, Mr. Preacher. Two of those are in danger of departing if we can’t get medicine.”
“It’s jist plain Preacher, no mister about it. An’ we’ve a surgeon along, so your sick can get help.”
Warner raised his eyes to the sky. “Praise God, Preacher. Now we have a chance.”
“That’ll depend more upon Colonel Danvers than on me, I’m sorry to tell you, Mr. Warner.”
Warner looked perplexed. “Surely he is a compassionate man. He’d not leave children stranded in this wilderness?”
Preacher pulled a long face. “Oh, it’s entirely possible, Mr. Warner. To put the best light on it, he could be said not to have much use for what he calls ‘civilians,’ present company included.”
“He’s a harsh man?”
That had been amply proven with the flogging of the four Dragoons, to Preacher’s way of thinking. “That’s about the right of it.”
“Wh-what sort of man can he be?”
“I’d say you would most likely say he resembled the north end of a southbound jackass.”
That left Warner without a reply. After a moment, he broke the strained silence. “I had better show you to our encampment. Everyone will be so excited.”
Preacher pulled a droll face. “Oh, I’ve no doubt of that. Even Colonel Danvers.”
On the ride into the lush valley, Isaac Warner explained to Preacher how they had come to be abandoned in such an, as the pilgrim saw it, unforgiving land. When the perfidies of their guides and captain had been revealed, he concluded with a plaintive remark.
“So, we’re not sure where we are, or how to get where we were going.”
“Where might that be, Mr. Warner?”
“Why, the Northwest Territory, of course, to Oregon.”
Preacher sighed regretfully. “You’re about two hundred miles too far north for the Northwest Trace.”
Warner frowned. “What’s that?”
Preacher called on all his patience. “The trail you should have been on. The one folks are takin’ to callin’ the Oregon Trail.”
“We’re that far off?”
“Yep. And intentional, I’d judge. It’s an old game. Lead a party out into nowhere, rob them and leave them for the coyotes and buzzards. I’m surprised they didn’t take your livestock as well.”
Warner shrugged. “I suppose we were too many, too well armed. They snuck away in the dead of night.”
Preacher turned philosophical. “No accountin’ for some folks.” A moment later, the sheer volume of cheering, waving and hugging that greeted him left the mountain man utterly speechless.
“Absolutely not!” High as his voice might be, Lieutenant Colonel Danvers still managed a bellow. “Civilians,” he spat out the word like an epithet. “Complaining, dragging their feet, whining, they’ll hold us back, make us a month late reaching our goal.”
Preacher tried calming words. “Come, now, Colonel. We’re only five to seven days from where you want to build that fine fort of yours. Even if they cut our daily advance in half, that’s only two weeks.”
Danvers slammed a small fist on the table. “I say leave them to their fate. They were fools enough to come out here without proper guidance, they should get what they deserve.”
Chillingly, Preacher heard his own words thrown back in his face. He’d said the same thing at Bent’s Fort. Coming out of the mouth of Arlington Danvers they sounded dirty and mean. That served to make him more determined.
His eyes narrowed as he pressed his argument. “Am I correct in believing that part of your purpose in being out here is to protect settlers moving through?”
Danvers paused before he fired off another hot retort. “Yes, yes, we have that assignment. It is secondary to keeping the tribes at peace.”
Preacher cocked a brow. “Wouldn’t it serve your purpose better to protect this partic‘lar group of settlers? If you leave them here an’ there’s a massacre, the howl that’s sure to go up back East will light a fire that’ll singe your fingers way out here.”
The colonel could not deny the truth in that. With a visible exertion of will, he toned down his demeanor. “Perhaps you are right, Mr. Preacher. Like it or not, I don’t suppose I have any choice. Say, I thought you had short shrift for these immigrants?”
Shrewd ol’ pup, Preacher thought silently. “Now, that’s true. I’ve had me more’n one bell
y full of pilgrims. Damn fools the most of them. But that was then, and this is now. An’ we got them on our hands. It’s up to you an’ me to do the best for them we can.”
Danvers threw his hands in the air and walked away. Outflanked and defeated, he didn’t want to admit it. Preacher spent no time gloating over his victory. Instead, he went directly to Isaac Warner. With Warner, he found a young woman. A particularly good-looking young woman.
“Preacher, this is Eve Billings. She and her two children have a wagon in our train.”
Remembering his parlor manners, Preacher removed his hat and extended a hand. “Pleased to meet you, ma’am.”
“Please, it is Eve. I came to find out what the colonel has decided.”
Preacher found himself liking what he told her. “We’re gonna escort you as far as we’re goin’. When the fort is built, you can winter there and go south toward the Oregon Trace next spring, join another train.”
In a gesture that harkened back to childhood, Eve clapped her palms together and did a couple of dance steps. “Oh, that’s just wonderful. You’re a ... ah ... minister?”
“No, that’s jist what they call me in the High Lonesome.” Preacher seemed uncomfortable to his friends. Three Sleeps sniggered.
“This calls for a celebration. I’m going to cook a regular feast for you and your fellow guides, Preacher. My son got us a deer today. You’ll meet Charlie and Anna and . . .” Eve realized she was chattering and cut it off abruptly. “You’ll be there? Good. An hour before sundown.”
While his companions whooped and slapped each other on the back, Preacher stripped to the buff and entered the water of the Platte to wash away his accumulated grime. Following his ablutions, he dried, donned fresh, clean buckskins, tied back his hair with a strip of tanned rabbit hide, the fur still in place, and slid into his fancy pair of beaded and quilled moccasins. Three Sleeps and Antoine howled with laughter. They found his preparations uproarious.
Preacher did not share their mirth. “You two could stand a good douchin’ off, ya know,” he grumbled.
“Me? Three Sleeps gasped. ”Why, I smell sweet as a May flower.”
“Road apple’s more like it,” grumped Preacher.
Eve Billings greeted them warmly, an apron around her slender waist, a big spoon in her hand. “We have venison stew, and I made pot pies from the kidneys and sweetbreads. You must take some along for your nooning tomorrow. Ah, here are the children,” she gushed, then gulped back her flow of words and proceeded at a slower pace. “Preacher, Mr. Norris, Mr. Revier, this is Charlie. He turned ten two months ago. This is Anna. She’s eight. Children, these are our guides, who are going to find a way out of here for us.”
“I hope they’re better than Mr. Beecher.”
“Charles Billings, you watch that mouth of yours,” his scandalized mother cautioned.
Preacher squatted to put himself on Charlie’s level. “Don’t you think it‘ud make a body cross-eyed, watchin’ his own mouth? Without a lookin’ glass, that is.”
Charlie had a giggle fit, and Eve surrendered in the presence of these carefree men who obviously knew this country so well. By the time she served up supper, with the help of Anna, Preacher and Charlie were fast friends. Eve exerted constant efforts to curb her babbling. To his companions, it soon became obvious that Eve had eyes for Preacher. She batted them at him throughout the meal. While totally oblivious to this, the object of her attentions enjoyed himself thoroughly.
During the next day’s nooning, Lieutenant Colonel Danvers summoned Preacher back from point. “I trust you are aware we are making only half the speed today we did in the past two weeks,” he said.
“Yep. That’s what I said before. Half the pace will take us two weeks to make the Bighorn Mountains.”
Danvers had a dire prediction. “It will get worse, mark me on that. With these wagons hanging on our backs, we will have all the problems and delays of any of their kind.”
Preacher considered a moment. Ten miles a day would be disastrous for the pilgrims, too. Not to count the effect on the morale of the troops. Too many good-looking gals among the civilians. But not enough to go around.
“I can go to them and force more speed, but not a whole lot. And I think I can avoid a slowdown to ten miles a day. There are ways to trim time off all sorts of things.”
“I certainly hope so,” Danvers snapped.
Preacher went to where the immigrants cooked and ate at some distance from the soldiers. Several looked askance at him. Puzzled, he found a stump near the center of the circle of wagons. He jumped up on it and raised an arm to draw attention.
“Gather around, folks. There’s some strips of stringy meat we’ve got to chaw on.” When those who had finished their meal and those who had not started the cleanup had formed a semicircle around him, Preacher went on. “I’ve been told by the colonel that we’re not makin’ good enough time. He feels that the blame falls on you. Now, I don’t take to that entirely. But there are some things you could do to speed us up.”
Fully expecting it, Preacher at first absorbed the torrent of complaints and excuses that rained on him. “Our wagons will break down,” Renard Labette objected.
“We can only move faster if we lighten our wagons.”
“That means we’ll have to abandon precious possessions,” Martha Brewster blurted, near to tears.
Gus Beecher came up with what he thought to be the clincher. “It’ll be too hard on our livestock. They’ll start to die off.”
Isaac Warner took a more personal outlook. “The soldiers will just have to move at a pace we can keep up with. It’s their duty to protect us.”
Preacher waited out the storm, arms across his chest. Then he jutted his jaw and laid out the alternatives. “Fact is, the soldiers do not have to do more than leave a small escort with you. They have their orders from the War Department. They have to carry them out. Colonel Danvers wants to leave you behind. He has every right to do that. If you can’t keep up, if there are more delays, it will result in you being abandoned again. If that is the case, the Indians will find you. You won’t be able to defend yourselves. Not even if the colonel leaves a company behind. On the other hand, if you exercise some imagination you will be able to keep up.”
Fists on hips, Gus Beecher spat truculently. “Says you.”
“Yes, says I. You have two choices; adapt and keep up, or be left behind.”
Beecher wasn’t ready to leave it alone. “Somethin’ tells me we were better off before you came along. Might know you’d side with the Army.”
Suddenly Eve Billings appeared beside Preacher. “Listen to him. He’s fought hard against the colonel’s determination to leave us to our fate. He must know lots of ways to help us save time.”
Good girl! Preacher wanted to hug her. “That I do. For instance, buildin’ fires and cooking meals at noon slows the whole column. From now on you might try cooking enough in the morning, or the night before, to provide for the noonin’. In this climate, meat cooked over a smoky fire will last several days. Biscuits will hold a week or more. If you have any cornmeal along, or dried corn that can be ground into meal, you can make mush.
“Warmed on a hot rock,” he went on to explain, “it can be mighty tasty dipped in a little molasses at noon. Another thing, I see you have firewood slings under yer wagons. Send your kids along the route of march each day and have them collect deadfall. Stow it while yer rollin’. Then you don’t have the hankering to stop early to gather wood. Those of you with spare draft animals, change ’em off at the noonin’.”
“We still can’t move as fast as the soldiers,” Gus Beecher objected.
“Not unless you lighten your loads. An’ I’ve already heard all the sad stories about grandma’s treadle organ half a hundred times. For instance you, Mr. Beecher. I notice you have a whole lot of heavy iron things in your wagon.”
“Of course. I’m a blacksmith.”
“Thing is, it makes you lag behind the other wagons. I’d sug
gest you dump yer anvil and a lot of other stuff. They can be had off the ships that call on the Oregon country.”
“I’ll do no such thing. My life’s work is in there.”
Preacher planted a glower on his face and bent forward so he came eye to eye with Gus Beecher. “Mr. Beecher, you can either voluntarily lighten your load now, or you can have it done later by the soldiers at gunpoint.”
Beecher turned red-purple. In a blink, he swung at Preacher’s jaw. Preacher blocked the blow with steely fingers coiled around the offending wrist. He pivoted with the force of the swing and carried Beecher past him. All the while he squeezed tighter on the wrist. Beecher’s hand opened and turned the same dark color as his face.
“Mind yer manners, friend. I’ve got no reason to give you real grief, unless you insist.”
For all his great strength, the blacksmith could not take control of the situation. Defeated in mind as well as body, when Preacher let him go, he stumbled through those gathered to listen and headed to his wagon.
“Sorry for the little interruption, folks. Like I was sayin’, it’s up to you. If you have any questions me an’ my friends will be proud to help.”
Snaking silently through the aspens, a large party of Blackfoot and Cheyenne, armed with the mystical power of Iron Shirt and aided by his modern rifles, closed on an Arapaho village. Located in the foothills of the Bridger-Teton Range, along Little Sandy Creek, the Arapaho band had long enjoyed a peaceful existence. That ended suddenly in the keening war cry of the Blackfoot leader.
Swift and deadly, the warriors swarmed in among the lodges to take women and children for slaves, horses to build their importance in their tribes. Only belatedly did the Arapaho men begin to offer resistance.
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