Forty Guns West

by William W. Johnstone

  “Does!”

  “I do not!”

  “You think about it. You know!”

  “I don’t know! Why the hell do you think I’m askin’?”

  Even though he wasn’t a very smart man, that managed to get through to Lige. He thought about it for a moment. “You sent a feller over to our camp to see me and he said you said a lot of bad things about me.”

  “I never sent no feller over to see you! And I ain’t said no bad things about you. I thought a bunch of bad things, but I never said ’em aloud.”

  Lige ruminated on that for another moment. He raised his bloody head and looked around. “Say, where is that feller anyways?”

  “Back yonder at our camp, I reckon,” Sutton said, holding a rag to his bloody mouth.

  A tiny spark of suspicion entered Bones’s head. He raised up on one elbow, the eye that wasn’t blackening and closing because of a right cross from Lige’s fist narrowed. “What did this here feller look like, Lige?”

  “Wal, he were dressed in buckskins. Sorta tall and you could tell he was muscled up right good. He were clean shaven ’ceptin’ for a moustache. And he moved real quiet like. Come to think of it, and I just thought of it, he had the coldest, meanest eyes I ever did see.”

  Bones flopped back on the ground. “You igit! That there was Preacher!”

  “Preacher?” Lige hollered. “You mean the man we’re a-huntin’ come a-struttin’ and a-sashshaying bold as brass right up into the big fat middle of our camp and tole me them lies?”

  “Yeah.” Bones heaved himself up to a sitting position. “Now you might git some idea of the type of man we’re huntin’.”

  “Nervy ol’ boy, ain’t he?” Lige muttered around a swollen mouth.

  “You could say that,” Bones replied.

  When Lige and company returned to camp, Lige found a note written on a scrap of paper and stuck on a tree limb. He laboriously read the missive.

  “What do it say, Lige?” Fred Lasalle asked, peering over Lige’s shoulder.

  “It says, ’Git out of these mountins. I won’t warn you agin. This here is yore only warnin’. Preacher?”

  “The man must think he owns these here mountains!” Hugh Fuller said.

  “Yeah!” a man called Billy said. “To hell with him.”

  A huge hulking monster of a man whose hands extended past his knees, giving him a distinct ape-like appearance, said, “I don’t like this feller Preacher. I’m a-gonna tear his arms out when I find him and beat him to death with ’em.”

  “Way to go, Lucas,” a much smaller man, only about five feet tall yelled. “That’ll be fun to watch.”

  Lucas grinned at the man. What teeth had not rotted out were green and his breath could cause a buzzard to faint. “You and me, Willie. We’ll catch this Preacher and be rich.”

  “All right, boys,” Lige hollered. “Gather round. Come on, come on. I got things to say.” When the camp had quieted down and the men gathered in a circle, Lige said, “At first light we start huntin’ this murderin’ no-count. And we’uns is gonna be workin’ side by side with them ol’ boys over yonder in the other camp. I think . . .”

  “Hey!” a man hollered. “My powder horn’s gone. Jeff, didn’t you lay out a side of bacon to slice?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “Well, it’s gone too.”

  The men all ran to their bedrolls and blankets and tents. Soon, many of the men were cussing and stomping around.

  “Preacher stole all the stuff,” Bob Jones said. “He took enough powder to blow up half these mountains.”

  Preacher wasn’t at all interested in blowing up the mountains. He had others things in mind.

  * * *

  The Cheyenne war chief called Bear Killer sat on his horse and looked down at the huge body of men in the valley below. He, along with representatives from the Ute, Arapaho, Kiowa-Apache, and the Southern Comanches were all traveling east, to make peace with each other. The location was about seventy-five miles east of Bent’s Fort. The gathering of various tribes and the making of peace between them had been the idea of High Backed Wolf, a Cheyenne chief, a very famous warrior, and a man known for his diplomatic skills. He felt it was foolish to fight amongst themselves. After the historic meeting, which history only skims over very lightly, those tribes never again made war against the other.

  Bear Killer looked down at the white men and shook his head. “Preacher cannot fight so many men and win. Perhaps we should wait until darkness comes and slip into the camp of the white men and help Preacher,” he said to one of his warriors.

  But the warrior shook his head. “No. Standing Bull said that Tall Man of the Arapaho told him that Preacher wants no help. This is a personal matter.”

  “Ummm. Yes. I remember. Preacher is indeed a brave warrior. I hope we never have to fight him again.”

  “Little Eagle told Stands Alone that the white men down there smell terrible. They do not wash their bodies and are very loud and vulgar. They kill animals and birds and leave them to rot on the ground. They do not dig proper places to dispose of their waste. They are not good people. They are wasteful and ignorant.”

  “I hope Preacher kills them all. If there are any left upon our return, we shall give Preacher some help in ridding our land of these worthless men. Without his knowledge, of course.”

  The Indians waited until the whites had passed and then rode on to their historical meeting on the Arkansas.

  Several miles away, watching from near the timber line, Preacher could just make out the long double line of riders as they headed north. Preacher mounted up and headed south, staying in the timber far above the valley floor, no more than a shadow as he worked his way along.

  He saw Bear Killer and his warriors and they saw him. The men passed within a few hundred yards of each other, lifted right hands, palms out, and rode on without speaking. Preacher picketed Thunder near water and began working his way toward the sprawling camp of the man-hunters. Using his spy glass, Preacher studied the camp. It was just about like he’d figured. Bones had left no guards behind. Only the cooks and servants were there, and Preacher wanted them gone. So far they had taken no part in the man-hunt, and Preacher held no animosity toward them. He spent the better part of an hour working his way up to the camp.

  Preacher almost scared one of the servants out of his shoes when he suddenly rose up out of the grass about a yard from the man and said, “Howdy!”

  The man dropped a load of tin plates he’d just washed and clutched at his chest, his mouth open and his eyes wide with fear. The others stood still and stared at Preacher. None of them made any move toward the rifles that had been placed around the camp in case of hostiles attacking.

  “Relax,” Preacher told the cooks and servants. “I ain’t here to do none of you no harm. Y’all dish me up a plate of that good-smelling grub and a cup of coffee and we’ll talk.” Preacher sat down on the ground while a cook quickly served up a heaping plate of food.

  Preacher thanked the man and said, “You boys reckon you could find your way out of these mountains?”

  “Certainly,” a man-servant replied. “I served in the British Army before gaining employment with the Duke. My experience with rugged terrain is vast.”

  “Is that a fact? Well, was I you boys, I’d busy myself packin’ up and then I’d get the hell gone from here. Y’all ain’t tooken no part in huntin’ me, and I’m obliged to you for that. Your bosses is miles north of here, lookin’ for me in all the wrong places, as usual. Now boys, when they do catch up with me, it’s gonna get right nasty. Start packin’.”

  The servants and cooks exchanged glances. One said, “What about the savages?”

  “They ain’t gonna bother you none. They got themselves a big pow-wow down on the Arkansas. The four main tribes is gonna make peace with each other. ’Sides, they’s enough of you and y’all’s well armed. It would take a powerful big bunch of Injuns to attack you. When you get down to Bent’s Fort, you ask around and ho
ok up with supply wagons headin’ back east and tag along with them for extree safety.”

  Several of the men turned and began packing. The others soon followed suit. One said, “The horses do not belong to us. There will be warrants issued for our arrest.”

  Preacher smiled. “There ain’t nobody gonna be alive to issue no warrants, boys. There ain’t none of that bunch gonna leave these mountains. Or damn few of them. So y’all take whatever you feel like takin’. Now, y’all seem like right nice fellers. So I’m gonna give you some advice. Y’all are all foreigners. You don’t know nothin’ about the West, and the men who has spent their lives out here. Look at me.”

  The cooks and servants stopped packing and looked.

  Preacher patted the stock of his rifle. “This is the law out here, boys. No fancy robed judges or high-falutin’ lawyers or badge-totin’ lawmen. This is all there is. Now y’all hooked up with some mighty bad company. Maybe you didn’t know what you was gettin’ yourselves in for. I’ll think that. ’Cause if you give me reason to think otherwise, I’d not look kindly upon you.”

  “We were told it was a hunting expedition,” one said. “We had no reason to think it was anything else. We did not learn the truth until we were far from civilization back in Missouri—if civilization is the right word—and were in the middle of all that vastness.”

  “Pack and git!”

  When the men had left, Preacher began gathering up all the blankets, tents, food, clothing, and medical supplies. He piled everything up and then went to the other camp and did the same. Then he set fire to the mess and began running across the valley floor to the slopes. When Bones and the gentry spotted the smoke, they’d come gallopin’. Preacher smiled as he ran effortlessly across the meadow. There was gonna be some mighty irritated folks when they saw what he’d done. Mighty irritated.

  BOOK TWO

  I can be pushed just so far.

  Harry Leon Wilson

  1

  “The dirty, rotten, no good . . .” Bones went on a rampage, cussing and jumping up and down and throwing himself about like a spoiled child in the throes of a temper tantrum.

  The men had managed to save quite a number of articles from the fires. But their tents were gone as were many of the blankets and spare clothing.

  To heap insult upon injury, Preacher had left another note reading:

  I WARNED YOU

  A dozen men from Lige’s bunch exchanged glances and without saying a word, mounted up and rode out. If they had any luck at all, they could catch up with the cooks and servants and ride back east with them. They wanted no more of Preacher.

  Bones and Van Eaton and the royalty watched the men leave without comment. They were glad to be rid of them. Lige cussed the deserters and shook his fist at them and shouted dire threats until he was hoarse, but that was all he did.

  Unbeknownst to Lige’s people, at the orders of the royalty, Bones, Van Eaton, and men had buried a great deal of supplies that were carefully wrapped in oilcloth and canvas.

  “That was good thinkin’,” Bones said to Sir Elmore after he had calmed down.

  “Naturally,” the Englishman replied.

  * * *

  No man among them had any way of knowing that a small group of settlers and a few missionaries had already left Bent’s Fort, heading for the Rockies to establish a settlement and a church. The problem was, they were being guided by a man who was so inept he would have trouble finding the altar in a church.

  “I am thrilled beyond words,” Patience Comstock said to her sister, Prudence, as they bounced along in a wagon. “This is such a grand adventure. We’ll be doing the work of the Lord by bringing God to the savages.”

  “Yes,” Prudence agreed, tying her bonnet strap under her chin. “And won’t Father and Mother be surprised to learn about that Preacher man they told us about back at the fort? Just think, Sister, a man of the Cloth so well-known and so devout, so ... so, strong in his faith and loved by all that even the savages call him Preacher.”

  “Yes, sister. But I wonder why the Methodist Board of Missions didn’t tell us about this man?”

  “Well, he might be of another faith, dear.”

  “Of course. I’m sure that’s it. No matter. We’re all doing God’s work.” Patience tucked a few strands of auburn hair back under her bonnet. “I’m sure he’s a fine gentleman.”

  * * *

  “That dirty son!” Bones muttered, looking at the scorched boots he’d managed to pull from the smoldering mess. “I paid good money for these back in St. Louis.” He tossed the ruined boots aside. “Preacher. Preacher? How did a man like that ever get the name of Preacher?” he questioned with a snarl.

  As it turns out, early on Preacher was captured by Indians and while they were mulling over whether to kill him outright or torture him to see how brave he was, the young man started preaching the gospel—sort of—to them. He preached for hours and hours and hours until the Indians finally reached the conclusion that he was crazy and turned him loose. Once the story got around, and that didn’t take long, he was known as Preacher.

  * * *

  Preacher did nothing for several days except watch. He had been sure that once he burned the supplies of the man-hunters, they’d all give up and go home. He’d told the cooks and servants that he was going to kill all those after him just to get them moving. The truth was, Preacher’s deep grief and hot anger over the death of Eddie and Wind Chaser had tempered somewhat. He could kill ten times the number of those men after him and that wouldn’t bring the dead back to life.

  He just wanted this over and to live his life in peace.

  “Damn,” Preacher said, lowering the spy glass. “What’s it gonna take to discourage them fools down yonder?”

  Some of the men were real woodsmen and frontiersmen. They’d been smoking fish and meat and making jerky and really eatin’ pretty high on the hog. And Preacher had seen where a whole passel of supplies had been dug up. He had stung the man-hunters some, but that was about it.

  Preacher didn’t know it, but his troubles were only just beginning.

  * * *

  “Oh, sister,” Patience said to her twin, Prudence. “Aren’t they magnificent?”

  “Breathtaking, sister.”

  They were gazing at the Rockies.

  One of the settlers, a good solid, sturdy young man of German stock, named Otto Steiner, walked up to the twins’ wagon. “Quite a sight, ja, ladies?”

  “Oh, Mister Steiner, they are just beautiful!” Patience cooed.

  “Ja, ja. All of that. Well, I just want to see those lovely rich valleys and lakes in those mountains where a man and his wife can raise kids and vegetables and have cows and fish and hunt. We go on now.” He waved at the scout, who was now sober, having exhausted his supply of whiskey. “We go, man. Take us through the mountains.”

  The scout, known only as Wells, nodded his head and picked up the reins. “I ain’t gar-enteein’ nothin’. But we’ll give it a shot.”

  “What do you mean, sir?” Patience demanded. “We were told back in Missouri that you knew this country.”

  “Wal, they lied. I ain’t never been this far a-fore. And to tell you the truth, I ain’t real thrilled about goin’ no further, neither. So I don’t think I will.”

  “What does that mean?” Otto asked.

  “Means I quit.” Without another word, he rode away, heading east. He did not look back.

  The four wagons and eight people suddenly looked awfully tiny with the majestic mountains looming in front of them.

  “Well now,” Frank Collins said, walking up with his wife of only a few months with him. “This sort of leaves us in a pickle, doesn’t it?”

  “The Lord will see us through,” Jane Collins said, smiling up at her husband.

  Hanna Steiner joined the group, as did Paul and Sally Marks. “I didn’t like that Wells person anyway,” Hanna said bluntly. “He was a very untidy man who did not bathe enough and he cussed. I cannot abide a man who
swears.”

  “Ja, Hanna,” Otto said. “You are right about that, you surely are.”

  “Well!” Patience said, flouncing on the wagon seat. “We must press on.” She picked up the reins. “The Lord is with us and surely He will hear our prayers this evening and send His man of faith in the wilderness, Preacher, to guide us through. I am certain of that. Onward, people. We’ll lift our voices in Christian song as we travel through the wilderness.” She popped the big rear mules on the butt with the reins and off they went, creaking and lurching and singing across the Plains, only a few miles from the Rockies. The faint sounds of song could be heard as the young pioneers headed bravely into the unknown.

  * * *

  The fare in the camp of Bones had decidedly gone downhill with their cooks leaving and much of their supplies destroyed. It was now mostly venison and beans. And not one sign of Preacher had been found by the daily patrols. It had been two weeks since the cooks and servants left and Preacher had burned their camp.

  “I think the man has fled,” Robert Tassin said.

  “I concur,” his countryman, Jon Louviere agreed.

  Bones and Van Eaton, sitting on the ground a few yards away, listened but said nothing. It really made no difference to either man. The longer they stayed out, the more money they made. The rules and rates of the ’game’ had changed. With the exception of Bones and Van Eaton, each man was being paid five dollars a day, a very princely sum for the time. Bones and Van Eaton were receiving substantially more. In addition, when, or if, Preacher was found, and the aristocracy killed him, each man in the group would receive a cash bonus. The entire group could have the reward money posted on Preacher’s head. Literally. For the reward money could only be claimed by bringing Preacher’s head back as proof. A carefully packed glass jug and pickling solution had been brought by the second group.

  Up near the timber line, Preacher was getting bored. His hopes that the hunting party would go away and leave him alone had been dashed. On this clear and crisp mid-summer morning, just as dawn was lighting the horizon, Preacher reckoned it was time to open this ball and he was going to lead the band. He picked up two rifles and headed out.