Forty Guns West

by William W. Johnstone

  “We are all in agreement with that. Tell us, Mister Slattery, why we have not seen any savages.”

  “They’ve seen us. You can bet on that. We’re too big a bunch for them to attack. Now, I ain’t gonna lie to you, when we leave the main body, we’re gonna be in considerable risk. We’re gonna have to ride light, fast, and cautious. But if we have any kind of luck at all, we’ll make it. We’re all armed, and from what I’ve been told, it’ll take a big bunch of savages to attack us. Dyin’ young ain’t real attractive to an Injun.” He stood up. “Stay ready, boys. Night.”

  Across the way, Van Eaton had been watching the Missouri man and the reporters through very suspicious eyes. “I think them reporters is plannin’ on pullin’ out when they get a good chance,” he said to Bones.

  “Good,” the leader of the group said. “I hope they do. They’ll be fair game for any band of hostiles who spot them. None of those reporters can shoot worth a damn. The reason we haven’t been attacked is because of our size. Wherever those nitwits are thinking of heading, odds are they’ll never make it. With them gone, it’ll be a whole lot easier for us to kill Preacher and the kid.”

  “Bent’s Fort,” Van Eaton said. “That’s the only place they could be heading.”

  Bones was thoughtful for a moment. “Let them go. Even if they do make it through and tell their story to the Army, and the Army decides to do something about it, this hunt will be long over before patrols can find us. I say good riddance.”

  “That kid had something to do with that ambush back yonder,” Van Eaton said, his eyes shining hard and cruel. “I want that little puke alive. I’ll skin him and listen to him holler.”

  “You can sure have him. Might be fun listenin’ to him squall. Say, cut me off a hunk of that venison, Van. Talk like that makes me hungry.”

  6

  While Eddie and the horses rested, Preacher prowled around and found what was left of three wagons. He looked at the shaft and head of an arrow still embedded in the charred wood of a wagon bed. Kiowa. They had probably been on a raiding party and come up on these poor folks, he mused. But he could find neither graves nor bones. He rambled through the burned wreckage looking for anything that might be salvageable. He found a saw and laid it to one side. He had a use for that. He found a good sized piece of lead and a bullet mold, which he took. He also found a small Bible. He opened the cover and tried to make out the writing, but the weather had blotted the words. He saved the Bible; most of it was still readable and Preacher did find comfort in the words of the Good Book. Besides, he felt that Eddie might like to have it. The boy had said he liked to read the Bible.

  That got Preacher to feelin’ maudlin, and with an effort, he shook off the depression. When the boy’s time came, it would just have to be. Eddie seemed resigned to it.

  Back at the camp, he hauled out the shotgun and went to work cutting off most of the barrel. He cut it down and hefted it. Now it was one of the most dangerous weapons man ever devised. A sawed-off shotgun at close range could stop just about anything that moved.

  Eddie carried two smaller caliber pistols hooked onto his saddle, with two or more in the saddlebags. Whether he would use them against a human being was something that Preacher did not know, but he had a hunch that Eddie would not hesitate to cock and fire if it came right down to the nut-cuttin’.

  Preacher stowed the now short-barreled shotgun and gave Eddie the battered Bible he’d found. “Figured you might like to have this, boy. I found it in what was left of some wagons over yonder.”

  “I wonder who they were?”

  “No way of knowin’, boy. There ain’t a sign of a grave nowheres.” He shrugged his shoulders. “But that really don’t mean nothin’. Even if they was buried, it was prob’ly in a shallow grave and the critters dug ’em up and et ’em then scattered the bones.” He watched the boy shudder at that prospect and said in a softer tone, “That’ll not happen to you, Eddie. I give you my word on that.”

  “That makes me feel better,” the boy replied, a somber expression on his thin, tanned face. “Preacher? Are there any towns out here?”

  Preacher chuckled, “No, boy. Nothin’ like a town. Some south of us is Bent’s Fort and it’s sorta like a town. Further on west they’s a big adobe buildin’ with log walls around it where some mountain men live with Mexican and Injun wives. I understand they taken to farmin’ now. Don’t know how long that will last.2 But towns?” He shook his head. “There ain’t no towns ’til you hit the West Coast. And that’s a far piece.”

  “I’d like to see the ocean,” Eddie said, a wistful note to his words.

  “Mayhaps you will, boy.”

  Eddie smiled. “No,” he said softly. “I won’t. But you have. Will you tell me about it?”

  Preacher leaned back against a fallen log and stuffed and lit his pipe. He pondered that question. “The Pacific Ocean. First time I seen it I couldn’t believe my eyes. The water was blue. And when it come crashin’ up aginst the rocks along the shore it made a thunderous noise and spray and foam went to flyin’ ever’where. Liked to have scared my horse to death, and my heart beat some faster too. I rode down there and took me a swaller of that water. Spit it out fast. Salty water. Ain’t fit for man nor beast. I can’t see how a fish could live in it, but they do. And they’s monsters in the ocean that eat folks. Now, I ain’t never seen none of them monsters, I won’t lie about that, but I was told about ’em by some sea-farin’ men. They tell me they’s somethin’ called an octo-pussy that’s got about twelve arms that’s twenty-five feet long each and the arms has got suckers on it; that’s what holds you whilst the thing eats you.” Preacher and Eddie both shuddered at that thought.

  “It was a whale in the sea that ate Jonah,” Eddie offered.

  “Say! You’re right, it was. Tell you what, why don’t you read some aloud from the Bible whilst I rustle up some vittles?”

  “Any passage you favor, Preacher?”

  “Naw. I’ll leave that up to you.”

  The boy turned to Psalms and read aloud the 23rd. Preacher soon realized that the boy had that one memorized, but said nothing about it. Must be plumb awful to be so young and knowin’ that any day could be your last, Preacher thought. That there is a mighty brave little boy. He’s got more courage in his big toe than a lot of men have in their entire body.

  Eddie had stopped reading and Preacher saw that the boy had read himself to sleep. He covered Eddie with a blanket and set about making supper as quietly as he could. He thought to himself, “Another day of rest and then we head for the mountains. I got a lot to show the boy, and prob’ly not a lot of time to get it done.”

  * * *

  Shortly after crossing into what would someday be Colorado, the reporters, led by Jim Slattery, slipped away from Bones and his men and simply vanished into history. Somewhere between the White Woman and Bent’s Fort, the small party of men met their fate. But no one knows what that fate was. Not one trace of them, their horses, or their equipment has ever been found. Their newspapers and magazines hired scouts to try to find out what happened, but to no avail. It was doubtful they became lost, for historians have noted that Jim Slattery was an experienced woodsman and a fine warrior. Over the years that followed their disappearance, several hundred Indians from numerous tribes were asked about the party of men. If any of the Indians had any knowledge about the eight men, they went to their graves carrying the secret.

  The West holds many such mysteries, and it yields its secrets reluctantly. Only one man is reported to have known what happened to the reporters and to Jim Slattery, and he did not solve the mystery until almost a quarter of a century after their disappearance. He died an old, old man, near the turn of the century. It is said that the old mountain man told only one person, the legendary gunfighter that he helped raise: Smoke Jensen.

  But that is quite another story.

  * * *

  “Well?” Bones demanded impatiently.

  Dark Hand and two other trackers stood up
and shook their heads. “Lost it,” the Pawnee admitted. “These are not their hoof prints.”

  Bones threw his hat on the ground in frustration. Three weeks had passed since the ambush in the blind canyon and Preacher and the kid seemed to have vanished into the air.

  Only the noblemen seemed unperturbed by the delay in finding their prey. It didn’t make any difference to them if the hunt took five weeks, five months, or five years. They all had more money than they could spend in ten lifetimes. Besides, this was good fun. The air was clean and fresh and quite invigorating, the scenery magnificent, the food tasty. The company was lousy and the conversations lacking in grammatical correctness and substance, but one couldn’t have everything.

  “I say, old boy,” Sir Elmore Jerrold-Taylor called to Van Eaton. “Do calm yourself and try some of this wonderful pate, won’t you?”

  Van Eaton told the Englishman where to put his pate, and stalked off. He walked to Bones and said, “Let’s give this up and head on back, Bones. We ain’t never gonna find them two in all this wilderness.”

  That idea was becoming more and more appealing to Bones. They were camped on the eastern side of the Rockies and Bones had to admit he had never even dreamed of country such as this. Mountains two miles high, in country that looked so rough it seemed incredible that any human being could possibly live there.

  Bones was beginning to understand why that breed of men called mountain men were held in such awe and respect. He just thought he’d seen mountains and rough country in the Smokies.

  “All right,” Bones said. “Let’s talk to the fancy-pants crowd and see what they say.”

  “Why, heaven’s no!”Jon Louviere said. “The hunt must continue. We’re paying you to guide us, so guide on.”

  Bones put it to his men.

  “Arapaho and Cheyenne behind us, Ute in front of us and all around us,” Dark Hand pointed out. “Is not good.”

  “I figure we been real lucky to get this far without havin’ trouble with the savages,”Jimmie Cook said. “I think we’re pushin’ our luck to go any deeper. But if them lords and the like want to go on payin’ us ... I’m for it.”

  “Exactly where the hell are we?” Sam Provost asked.

  “Just east of Ute Pass,” Dark Hand said. “None of you have seen rough country yet. The Rockies are just beginning here. Preacher does not know it, but I left my tribe and spent two years in these mountains. I do not know them as well as he does, but I am not lost.”

  “You really think we can find them?” Bones asked.

  The Pawnee was honest in his reply. “We will be lucky if we do. Or unlucky,” he added.

  Bones nodded his agreement with both remarks. He did not know whether to go north, south, or west. But he did feel strongly that Preacher had not doubled back to the east. Bones had forty-eight men left, six of them still suffering from wounds that had left them just able to sit in a saddle and not much more.

  “In your opinion, Dark Hand,” Bones asked, “where do you feel in your heart Preacher went?”

  “Deep in the mountains,” the Pawnee answered quickly. “West and slightly north of here.”

  “You’ve been there?”

  “One time only. It is wild country. And do not allow yourselves to be trapped in there when the winter comes. You will surely die.”

  “Do mountain men live up there in the winter?” Willy Steinwinder asked from the group of noblemen.

  “Some of them. But they are used to hardships. It does not bother them.”

  “Bah!” the Austrian scoffed. “This is nothing compared to my Alps. Let us push on.”

  “Yes. Quite right,” Burton Sullivan said. “And if we see painted hostiles, we shall engage them. I feel the need for some blood-letting.”

  The Pawnee looked at the Englishman. “You are a fool!” he said bluntly. “The Ute, the Arapaho, and the Cheyenne have all been watching us since we approached the shadows of the mountains. You think that pack horse broke loose the other night? Bah! A warrior slipped into camp and took it. That is sport with my people. You all sleep like the dead. If you continue to sleep in such a manner you will all be dead.” He walked off.

  “The guard is doubled from here on,” Bones said. “Dark Hand knows what he’s talking about. We push on at first light.”

  * * *

  As the crow flies, Preacher and Eddie were only about seventy miles from where Bones and his man-hunters were camped. But traveling through that country is not counted in miles, rather in days and even weeks. They were camped along a tiny rushing stream in a camp so cleverly disguised that Bones and party could ride to within twenty-five feet of it and not know it was there. The Utes knew it was there, but they did not bother Preacher and the boy. They knew some sort of deadly hunt was taking place, and they were curious about that. They were both amazed and appalled that such a large band of white men would want so desperately to kill so frail-looking a boy. The Utes shook their heads and again thought how silly white men were.

  Preacher had been their enemy and he had been their friend, as he would be again. For that was the way of things. But for now, the Ute and Cheyenne chiefs passed the word: Leave Ghost Walker and the boy alone. And leave the stupid white men alone. Steal their horses if you like, but let them play out this game to its end.

  “The Indians know we’re here, don’t they, Preacher?” Eddie asked. He wasn’t feeling well and Preacher had made him a soft bed of boughs and was letting him rest.

  “Oh, yeah. I see sign of them near’bouts ever’ day. They’re curious and puzzled ’bout what’s goin’ on. Injuns is naturally curious folks. And the ways of the white man is real strange to them. It’s puzzlin’ to ’em why all them men is chasin’ us. They can’t figure out what harm we is to them.” Preacher looked over at Eddie and saw the boy was asleep. He walked over to him and put a hand on Eddie’s forehead. Hot. Real hot.

  Preacher had found some catnip plants and he crushed some and made a tea. While he was letting it steep, Eddie moaned and opened his eyes. Preacher was at his side. “Ain’t feelin’ so good, right?”

  “I’m hot, Preacher.”

  “I can fix that.” He poured some of the vile smelling liquid in a cup. “It don’t smell very good, but it’s good for you. Sip it, Eddie. Trust me.”

  Eddie wrinkled his nose at the smell. “Smells like old dirty socks.”

  Preacher laughed. “Yeah, it do, don’t it. Wait ’til you taste it. It tastes even worser. But it’ll knock that fever right out. My mamma used to have us drink this ever’ day, and we never was sick. I want you to drink three cups a day, Eddie. Ever’ day. You start sippin’.”

  Preacher found some wild onions and Indian potatoes and started up a venison stew. The broth would be real good for Eddie. “A body don’t have to starve in the wilderness, Eddie,” Preacher talked as he worked. “But to survive in the wilderness, you got to work with nature, not aginst it. You drink your tea and sleep. Sleep is good for a body. When you wake up, this here stew will be ready to eat and it’ll be larrepin’ good. If you wake up and I ain’t here, don’t worry. I’ll be prowlin’ around.”

  Preacher sat the kettle to one side so it would simmer slow, and rifle in hand, he worked his way up the mountain until he found him a vantage spot. He took his spy-glass from his pouch and extended it, then slowly looked the country over. He saw a few plumes of smoke, but they had been there for several days, and he knew that it was a small camp of Utes about fifteen miles off. He saw no other signs of life.

  He wondered for a moment if Bones had given up the hunt. But he shook that off. Bones wasn’t known for givin’ up. He had to take a prisoner from the group and find out what the hell was going on. The only problem was, he couldn’t leave the boy alone.

  Well, there was one thing he could do: He could take the boy down into the Ute camp and see if they’d take care of him. He’d rather go into a Cheyenne camp, for he’d always gotten along well with the Cheyenne—except for a few minor skirmishes over the years—
and the Cheyenne revered children. But he didn’t know of any Cheyenne village close by. So it was the Utes or nothing.

  Preacher worried about that all the way down the mountain. But when he reached his camp, he stopped worrying about getting into and out of a Ute village alive.

  About a dozen Ute warriors were waiting for him, and one of them had a hand on Eddie.

  7

  The man with a hand on Eddie lifted his other hand, palm out, in a gesture of peace. Preacher lifted his hand as recognition flooded him. The Ute was a tribal chief called Wind Chaser.

  “Ghost Walker,” Wind Chaser acknowledged. He patted Eddie’s shoulder “Boy sick.”

  Preacher deliberately laid his rifle aside and walked away from it, a move that did not go unnoticed by the other Utes. “Yes, he is, Wind Chaser. But I’m gettin’ him well.”

  “No get well running all over the mountains,” Wind Chaser said.

  “I was gonna bring him to your village and see if you’d take care of him whilst I checked my back trail.”

  That pleased the Ute. He solemnly bowed his head. “My woman take good care of him. How is he called?”

  “Eddie.”

  “Ed-de,” Wind Chaser repeated. “Means what?”

  This was always difficult to explain to an Indian. Indian names meant something, or stood for an event or happening. “He’s named after his father.”

  “Ummm. Confusing. But I have never understood the white man’s ways. Why men chase you and boy?”

  This, too, was chancy and Preacher chose his words carefully. “The boy was a slave. His master was cruel. You can see what condition he left the boy in. I took the boy and the man came after me with a gun. I kilt him. The man’s friends put a bounty on my head.”

  “Ummm,” Wind Chaser said. “Yes. This is true. My warriors have been close to their camp and heard them talk. But there is more.”