After the strain of the day everyone was exhausted, but the possibility the Comanches might return had the men so on edge that sleep was difficult. Preacher had no trouble getting volunteers to stand guard.
When he checked on the wounded man, Casey reported, “He seems to be sleeping peacefully and doesn’t have any fever. I think there’s a good chance he’ll be all right.”
“It’s thanks to you taking care of him if he is,” Roland said.
“How’re you doin’, boy?” Preacher asked. “You must’ve hit your head pretty hard to get knocked out cold like that.”
Roland shrugged. “I’ve got a headache, but that’s all.”
“Seein’ straight?”
“As far as I can tell.”
“All right.” Preacher turned back to Casey. “If you need me, give a holler.”
She nodded. “I will.”
Despite the tension in the camp, the night passed quietly. The wagons rolled out the next morning without incident, and the day passed, with long hours of slow, hot travel toward Santa Fe.
Late that afternoon, Preacher spotted a patch of green ahead and felt his spirits surge. Vegetation meant the springs were still flowing. He rode ahead to make sure, then returned to the wagons to give the others the good news.
“Looks like the spring is in good shape,” he told an exhausted-looking Leeman Bartlett. “I’m thinkin’ after such a long haul and the trouble we’ve had, it might be a good idea to stay here a few days and let everybody rest up, includin’ the oxen.”
“That sounds like an excellent idea,” Bartlett responded. “I couldn’t agree more.”
“Thing is, we’ll still have to keep our guard up. Injuns have been using this spring for a whole lot longer than wagons have been goin’ to Santa Fe. Wouldn’t surprise me none if they knew about the spring before there ever was a Santa Fe.”
The spring emerged from the ground and formed a pool surrounded by a marshy area covered with reeds and grass. The Cimarron River itself was nearby, its banks lined with scrubby trees, but its water supply was actually less dependable than that of the spring. It had been Preacher’s experience that the spring water tasted better than the river water, which was brackish at times.
The caravan pushed on. The worn-out bullwhackers had more life in their steps, as did the oxen. The big brutes smelled the water and were anxious to reach it.
“Be careful not to let ’em drink too much when we get there,” Preacher warned the men as he rode alongside the wagons. “We don’t need ’em boggin’ down.” He paused and then added, “The same thing goes for you men. You been on short water rations for a few days now. Fill your bellies too full and it’s gonna make you sick.”
By nightfall, the wagons were circled, camp was established, and morale was better than it had been for days. It was hard to believe that only one day earlier they had been battling for their lives against the Comanches. Fresh water and green vegetation did a lot to lift a man’s spirits.
The man who’d had the arrow go through his body was awake and feeling better, thanks to Casey’s nursing. The other men who had been wounded during the fight were recovering as well.
For the next two days, the men rested, filled the water barrels, and did routine repair work on the wagons. The arrows that had pierced the canvas had been removed, and the holes sewn up. Several of the burly bullwhackers proved to be surprisingly deft at the mending.
On their third night in camp, Preacher sought out Leeman Bartlett and said, “I reckon we’d better get back on the trail tomorrow, if that’s all right with you. Once we leave the springs, another week should see us in Santa Fe.” Maybe the last leg of the trip would prove to be the easiest, he thought.
The man nodded. “Whatever you think is best, Preacher. Although I must say, I’ll miss this place. Compared to what we’ve seen so far of the Cimarron Cutoff, this is a veritable Eden.” Bartlett paused. “I’ve started to think about what we’ll do after we reach Santa Fe. I wish you’d come back to St. Louis with us and guide us west again on our next journey.”
Preacher didn’t even think about it. He shook his head and said, “Sorry, Mr. Bartlett. I ain’t sure yet where I’ll be goin’ when I leave Santa Fe, but it ain’t gonna be back to St. Louis. I’ve had my fill of that town for a good long while.”
“Well, perhaps you’ll reconsider. I’d pay you good wages.”
Preacher smiled. “One thing a man like me ain’t ever considered all that much is good wages.”
He said good night to Bartlett and went to find Lorenzo. The old-timer was playing cards with some of the bullwhackers. “You up to standin’ guard tonight?” Preacher asked him.
Lorenzo glanced up from his cards. “I reckon.”
Preacher nodded. “Good.” He looked out at the blackness surrounding the camp. “I got a feelin’ . . .”
“A bad feelin’?” Lorenzo asked shrewdly.
“Just a feelin’, that’s all.”
One of the bullwhackers said, “I hope them damn Comanches don’t come after us again.” The other men muttered agreement.
“Or those fellas who tried to rob us,” another man put in.
Preacher hadn’t forgotten about Garity, although it seemed likely to him the would-be thieves had already pushed on to Santa Fe. He left Lorenzo and the other men to their game and walked on around the circle of wagons. He found Casey and Roland sitting on a couple of crates Roland had taken out of one of the wagons.
The young man came to his feet as Preacher approached. “Is something wrong?” he asked.
Preacher had left the two young people alone while the caravan was camped at the Cimarron springs. He thought the bond between them had grown stronger, and that was a good thing. His hope was that when the wagons started back to St. Louis from Santa Fe, Casey would go with them. He wouldn’t be surprised if she wound up marrying Roland Bartlett.
“No, nothin’s wrong,” Preacher told them. “Just thought I’d see how you two were doin’ and let you know we’re leavin’ here in the mornin’.”
Casey smiled up at him. “After everything we’ve gone through, it’s been like paradise here, Preacher.”
“Yeah. Roland’s pa compared it to Eden. I reckon he wasn’t far wrong.”
“How long will it take us to finish the trip from here?” Roland asked.
“Another week, I’m thinkin’. If nothin’ else happens along the way.” He hadn’t shaken the slight feeling of uneasiness that had cropped up in him earlier.
“I’m looking forward to seeing Santa Fe,” Casey said.
“It’s a right pretty town in its way,” Preacher said. “And the mountains around it are even—”
The sentiment he was expressing was interrupted by a terrifed shout that suddenly ripped through the night, followed by the boom of a gunshot.
CHAPTER 17
Preacher wheeled around and broke into a run toward the source of the commotion. He heard growling and snarling and recognized the sounds of Dog fighting with something or someone. A man screamed, making Preacher think the big cur had gotten hold of someone.
He realized a second later the cries were coming from the wagon where he had been talking to Leeman Bartlett a few minutes earlier. Since he couldn’t think of any reason why Dog would attack Bartlett, he decided something else must be going on.
Horror washed through him a moment later when he rounded the back of the wagon and saw a towering figure. The grizzly bear was back, and it had Bartlett.
The man shrieked in agony as claws and teeth tore into him. Dog was trying to help Bartlett by darting around and snapping at the bear, but the grizzly ignored him. The creature seemed intent on mauling Bartlett to the exclusion of everything else.
Preacher jerked his rifle to his shoulder. Bartlett was in the line of fire, but it didn’t matter. He was doomed unless somebody did something fast. It might already be too late.
The light from the campfire that penetrated between the wagons was uncertain, but Preac
her lined his sights on the bear’s head and pulled the trigger.
The grizzly roared as its head jerked back, so Preacher knew his shot had found its mark. The brute didn’t fall, but continued to savage Leeman Bartlett. Preacher suspected the ball from his rifle had struck the bear a glancing blow and bounced off the thick skull under the fur.
More men ran up in response to the screams and growls and gunshots. Roland shouted, “Pa!” and tried to rush past Preacher.
Preacher grabbed the young man’s arm and dragged him back. “You’ll just get yourself killed!” he said as he shoved Roland into the arms of several of the bullwhackers. “Hold onto him!”
Preacher dropped his empty rifle and pulled his pistols. He was going to have to get closer to the bear so he could fire a shot directly into one of the beast’s eyes, to reach its brain and stop it.
He feared it was too late to help Leeman Bartlett. Bartlett’s head lolled loosely on his neck, and his clothes, shredded by the grizzly’s teeth and claws, were soaked with blood.
Holding the pistols ready, Preacher moved closer to the bear. Suddenly, the grizzly threw Bartlett’s limp body aside like a child discarding a rag doll, its beady eyes focused on Preacher instead. With a thunderous roar, the monster charged.
“Everybody scatter!” Preacher shouted as he flung himself out of the way of the charging bear. The creature barreled past him with Dog still nipping at its heels. Yelling frightened curses, the other members of the party scrambled to get away from the grizzly.
The bear slapped at one of the bullwhackers who was too slow getting out of the way. The big paw smashed into the man’s back and lifted him off his feet. The bullwhacker yelled in pain and flew through the air for a short distance before crashing to the ground. Stripes of blood angled across the back of his shirt where the bear’s claws had ripped his flesh.
Preacher leaped to his feet and ran after the bear, yelling, “Hey! Hey, you big hairy bastard!” Reaching high, he reversed one of the pistols and slammed the butt into the back of the bear’s head, then dropped into a crouch as the grizzly wheeled around and swung a vicious blow at his head. He straightened, so close he could smell the bear’s fetid breath in his face.
Before Preacher could jam his pistol into the bear’s throat, the bear caught him with a backhanded swing that landed on the side of the mountain man’s head. The blow was a glancing one, strong enough to send Preacher flying off his feet, but not powerful enough to break his neck. He managed to hang on to the pistols as he rolled over a couple times on the ground.
The camp was full of yelling and cursing, and gunshots added to the chaos as the bullwhackers who had managed to reach cover opened fire on the bear.
The grizzly lunged back and forth, roaring out its defiance and anger. Suddenly it turned and ran straight at one of the wagons, crashing into the vehicle, causing it to shudder. Ripping off the canvas cover, the bear reached for the man inside and jerked him out of the wagon bed.
That grizzly was a damn smart critter, Preacher thought. Either that or guided by blind luck and instinct. The bullwhackers had to stop shooting for fear they would hit the man grabbed by the bear.
The bear lurched away from the wagon and threw the man among the livestock. The oxen were milling around in instinctive terror because of the grizzly’s presence and would trample the bullwhacker if someone didn’t reach him quickly.
Preacher darted into the press of oxen and reached the man’s side. He bent down to grab his arm and pulled him to his feet. The man was only semiconscious.
Preacher hauled him out of danger and looked around for the bear. Not seeing the grizzly, he shouted, “Where’d the varmint go?”
Several men leaped down from the wagons where they had taken shelter and ran toward Preacher. “It got out of the circle and ran off!” one of them said. “We tried to kill it, but it seemed like it didn’t even feel the shots!”
“Build the fire up bigger,” Preacher snapped. “Get one started on the other side of the circle. I don’t want that damn thing gettin’ close to the wagons again without somebody seein’ it!”
The bullwhackers hurried to carry out those orders. While they were doing that, Preacher went over to the last place he had seen Leeman Bartlett.
He found Roland sitting on the ground, cradling his father’s bloody, ravaged body, rocking back and forth in shock and grief. Tears rolled down the young man’s face. Casey knelt beside Roland with a comforting hand on his shoulder, but he didn’t seem to know she was there.
Preacher looked at Casey with a question plain on his face. She shook her head. Bartlett was gone, which came as no surprise considering the amount of terrible damage done to him by the bear’s claws and teeth.
“Why?” Roland moaned. “Why did that monster do such a thing? My father never hurt it! My father never hurt anybody!”
Preacher hunkered on his heels on Roland’s other side. “I’m sorry,” he said. “That varmint’s crazy. Loco even for a bear. Somethin’ drove it out here on the prairie in the first place, and the way it followed us all those miles just ain’t normal. A bear’s brain ain’t very big, but this one’s big enough to hold a powerful lot of hate.”
“I can’t believe he’s gone,” Roland choked out. “I just can’t believe it.”
“I reckon you don’t want to be thinkin’ about this right now, Roland, but you’re the boss of this wagon train now.”
Roland’s head came up as he glared at Preacher. “You think I care about something like that now?”
“I know you don’t,” Preacher said. “But you got responsibilities.”
“No. You’re in charge.” Roland’s voice held a bitter edge. “My father listened to you and took your advice on everything. Every time there was trouble, you gave the orders. You’re in charge, Preacher.”
Preacher wasn’t going to waste time arguing. Roland was too grief-stricken to be giving orders, anyway. Later on, he would be able to see the situation more clearly.
Preacher squeezed Roland’s shoulder and repeated, “I’m sorry about your pa.” Then he straightened and looked around. He saw the bullwhackers had followed his orders. The campfire was blazing brighter, and a fire burned on the other side of the circle, too. The light from the flames extended out from the wagons.
“I want a man on guard at every wagon,” Preacher said. “How bad are those other two fellas hurt?”
“Charley’s back is ripped up pretty bad,” one of the men replied. “We’ll clean it up. I think he’ll be all right. Pettigrew’s just shaken up from bein’ tossed around by that bear.”
Preacher nodded. He was glad to hear the other injuries weren’t too serious. Leeman Bartlett’s brutal death was plenty bad enough by itself.
When Preacher was satisfied the camp was well-guarded, he motioned for Lorenzo to follow him and returned to the place where Roland still sat, holding his father’s body.
“Casey, why don’t you take Roland into one of the wagons?” Preacher suggested. “Lorenzo and me will take care of his pa.”
Roland looked up at him. “What are you going to do? There’s nothing anyone can do for him now!”
“That ain’t true. We’ll clean him up, get him ready to be laid to rest proper-like in the mornin’.”
Casey said, “Preacher’s right, Roland. Come with me.”
For a moment, Roland looked like he was going to argue. But then he sighed and eased his pa’s body to the ground. He stood up shakily and allowed Casey to take his arm and lead him toward one of the wagons.
Preacher waited until the two of them had climbed into the vehicle, then said to Lorenzo, “Can you rustle up a blanket?”
“To wrap Mr. Bartlett in? Sure.”
“I know which wagon his gear is in. I’ll see if I can find him some clothes that ain’t all tore up and bloody.”
By the time half an hour had passed, they had Bartlett’s body cleaned up, dressed in fresh clothes, and wrapped in a blanket as it was laid out under one of the wagons
. First thing in the morning, they would dig a grave and give him a proper burial.
“I never did expect to see that damned ol’ bear again,” Lorenzo said as he and Preacher looked out at the night where the fearsome creature had vanished. “Why do you reckon it’s followed us all this way?”
Preacher shook his head. “I don’t know. Somethin’ wrong in its head, more than likely. Just plumb loco, like I said earlier. But I do know one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s time for that varmint to die,” Preacher said. “After we get Bartlett buried tomorrow, you and me are gonna do us some bear huntin’, Lorenzo.”
Bartlett was the one who had read from the Good Book at the previous burials. With him gone, that job fell to his son. Roland, who was still grief-stricken but more in control of himself the next morning, took on the task. His voice broke a few times as he read the Twenty-third Psalm and led a prayer, but he made it through the solemn ceremony.
When it was over, Preacher led Roland away from the grave while some of the bullwhackers filled it in. With Casey and Lorenzo accompanying them, they went to the other side of the camp.
“I’ve been thinking about what you said last night, Preacher,” Roland mused. “About me being in charge. I’m not sure I’m up to the job.”
“There’s only one way to find out,” Preacher said. “But I’ll do whatever I can to help you out.”
“What do you think we should do next? Move on to Santa Fe like we planned to do?”
“I don’t think it would hurt anything to stay here one more day. That’ll give Lorenzo and me time to do a little job.”
Roland frowned. “What sort of job?”
“We’re goin’ after that griz.”
Roland stared at him. “That won’t bring my father back,” he finally said, his voice grim.
“No, but maybe it’ll keep the varmint from killin’ anybody else. It’s got a taste for blood, that’s for dang sure.”
“You went after it before, remember?”
Preacher nodded. “I remember. And I wish we’d caught up to it then. This time we won’t come back until we do.”
Preacher's Assault Page 13