He suddenly wondered if Buckhalter had something to do with this.
He could ponder on that later. Right now, Moran still loomed over him. Preacher had only made it up on one knee, and Moran had a big foot drawn back, ready to kick him in the face.
Preacher was ready when that booted clodhopper came at him, though. His hands shot up. He grabbed Moran’s ankle, stopping the kick before it could cave in his jaw. Then he heaved upward and put the strength of his legs into it as he surged to his feet.
Moran yelped in surprise and alarm as he felt himself going over backward. Unable to stop himself, he crashed down on his back like a falling tree.
Out of the gathering crowd, Pete Stallworth rushed with an enraged expression on his broad face. “You can’t do that to a friend of mine!” he yelled as he swung a punch at Preacher’s head.
Preacher didn’t want to fight Stallworth, or Moran, for that matter. He jerked his head aside so that Stallworth’s fist whipped harmlessly past his face and grabbed the man’s arm. Using Stallworth’s own momentum against him, Preacher swung him around and rammed him into the side of the Donnelly wagon. Stallworth bounced off, and when Preacher let go of him, he stumbled and fell.
Moran was getting back up by now, though. He charged Preacher, arms flailing. A lot of the bystanders were shouting now, some of them yelling encouragement to Moran since they had heard his accusations against Preacher and believed them, others asking questions. Lorraine was still trying to stop the fight, but since Moran ignored her, Preacher had no choice but to do so as well. He wasn’t going to just stand there and let Moran whale on him without fighting back.
Problem was, Moran outweighed him and had a longer reach, plus Preacher had to be careful about reinjuring that left arm. He couldn’t risk slamming punches into Moran’s face or body with that hand. The impact might damage the healing bone.
Preacher ducked under Moran’s wild blows and stepped in close. He hooked a right into the guide’s belly. The punch was so hard that Preacher’s fist sunk into Moran’s gut almost to the wrist. Moran bent forward, the breath gusting out of his mouth. Preacher came up and drove his right elbow under Moran’s chin. That jolted Moran’s head back. Like using a hammer to drive a nail, Preacher pounded the side of his right hand into Moran’s nose. Blood spurted. Moran howled in pain and stumbled backward.
He tripped over Stallworth’s legs and went down again. Stallworth still seemed to be stunned from his collision with the wagon. With both of his opponents down for the moment, Preacher reached for one of the pistols at his waist, intending to make sure this fight was over.
That was when Uncle Dan yelled, “Look out, Preacher!”
From the corner of his eye, Preacher spotted Buckhalter pointing a pistol at him. Preacher twisted aside as Buckhalter pulled the trigger. Smoke and flame spouted from the weapon’s muzzle. Preacher heard the low-pitched hum of the heavy ball as it went past his ear, then the thud as it struck one of the sideboards of the Donnelly wagon.
“Hold it right there, mister!” Uncle Dan said. “You best not reach for another pistol. I’ll blow a hole in your noggin if you do!”
Breathing a little heavily, Preacher saw that Uncle Dan had drawn his own pistol and now had Buckhalter covered from behind. He was pretty sure that Buckhalter’s shot hadn’t hurt anybody, but he looked around quickly to make certain. He wanted to see with his own eyes that Lorraine Donnelly was all right.
She appeared to be, although she was pale and seemed shocked by the violence that had broken out with no warning. Preacher asked quietly, “That shot didn’t hit you, did it?”
She shook her head and said, “I . . . I’m fine.”
“Uh . . . Preacher?” That was Uncle Dan’s voice. “We got a mite of a problem here.”
Preacher turned his attention back to his friend and traveling companion and saw that several of the men from the wagon train had pistols and rifles leveled at Uncle Dan. That was a reasonable enough reaction, Preacher supposed. He and Uncle Dan were strangers, after all, and the way these folks saw it, the two of them had come into camp and started attacking members of the wagon train.
“Everybody just take it easy,” he said. “There don’t need to be any more shootin’.”
“That’s right,” Ned Donnelly said as he pushed his way through the crowd. “Everyone, put your guns down! Lower your guns, please!”
With obvious reluctance, the men from the wagon train followed his orders. Preacher said, “I reckon you can put your gun down, too, Uncle Dan.”
“But this polecat’s liable to have another pistol hid out somewheres on him,” the old-timer protested.
Donnelly said, “If he does, he won’t use it.” He moved so that he was between Preacher and Buckhalter. “I give you my word on that.”
Buckhalter’s face was flushed with anger above his jutting beard. “I was just trying to save my friends!” he said. He pointed a finger at Preacher. “That man attacked them! If you ask me, Donnelly, he’s the real savage around here . . . and you invited him into our midst!”
“Take it easy—” Donnelly began.
“Why don’t you ask Moran what he saw Preacher doing to your wife?”
With a frown, Donnelly turned sharply toward Preacher. “What’s he talking about? I heard a lot of yelling, but I was on the other side of the camp and couldn’t understand any of it.”
Before Preacher could say anything, Lorraine hurried forward and put a hand on her husband’s arm. “It’s nothing, Ned,” she told him. “This is all just a terrible misunderstanding.”
Moran sat up, holding a hand over his broken nose as it continued to leak crimson. “I saw him pawin’ your wife, Donnelly!” he declared. “Saw it with my own two eyes!”
The whole thing was clear to Preacher now. Buckhalter had set it up. Moran had been waiting for some excuse to pick a fight, and when Preacher and Lorraine had gone over to the wagon to have a look at that brake lever, either Moran had recognized the opportunity or Buckhalter had and told the guide to start the ruckus. Then Buckhalter would step in at the right moment, shoot Preacher, and claim that he had been reaching for a pistol. That way, Buckhalter could say that he had killed Preacher in order to protect Moran.
Yeah, something was rotten here. Preacher didn’t know what it was, but Buckhalter had to be at the center of it, and Moran was mixed up in it, too. Possibly Stallworth as well, although he might have jumped into the fight simply because Moran was his friend.
Donnelly looked past his wife and asked coldly, “Is there any truth to what Moran says, Preacher?”
Lorraine moved so that he couldn’t help but look at her. “I just told you there isn’t, Ned. Preacher didn’t do anything improper. I just asked him to take a look at that brake lever on the wagon while we were waiting for you to get back for supper. That’s all.”
Donnelly frowned. “You’re sure?”
“I think I would know, don’t you?”
Donnelly looked past her again. “Preacher . . . ?”
“Your wife’s tellin’ you the truth,” Preacher said. “Nothin’ happened.”
“Well, how was Mike to know that?” Buckhalter blustered. “It’s getting dark. He looked over there and thought he saw something going on. Maybe he jumped to the wrong conclusion—”
“No maybes about it,” Uncle Dan put in.
“That doesn’t change the fact that when he tried to go to Mrs. Donnelly’s assistance, Preacher attacked him!”
Lorraine shook her head. “I’m sorry, Mr. Buckhalter, but Mr. Moran struck the first blow.”
Buckhalter looked like he was on the verge of a fit of apoplexy. “Mike got carried away by his concern for you—”
“That’s enough,” Donnelly said. “I can see now that it was all a misunderstanding, like my wife told me. An unfortunate misunderstanding. We’re just lucky that no one was badly hurt.”
Moran said, “My nose is broke!”
“We have several men with medical training among the
company. Your nose will be tended to, Mr. Moran. In the meantime . . .” Donnelly faced the crowd and raised his voice. “Everyone go on back to your wagons. There’s nothing more to see here.”
The other two scouts, Jennings and MacKenzie, helped Moran and Stallworth to their feet as the immigrants began to scatter. The fight had provided them with some excitement, a break from the routine of the journey, but now it was time for supper, and they were hungry after a long day on the trail. Aided by their friends, Moran and Stallworth stumbled away. Buckhalter followed them, casting hostile glances over his shoulder toward Preacher as he did so.
Donnelly turned toward Preacher and began, “I’m sorry about what happened here—”
“Forget it,” Preacher cut in, his voice hard as flint. “I reckon it’d be better if Uncle Dan and me left. We’ll get our horses.”
Donnelly and Lorraine looked surprised, and Uncle Dan appeared to be downright devastated. “Leave before supper? What in tarnation are you thinkin’, son?”
“I’m thinkin’ everybody in this camp believed those lies Moran was yellin’,” Preacher said. “We ain’t welcome here.”
“That’s not true!” Lorraine exclaimed. “It was all just a—”
Preacher held up a hand to stop her. “A misunderstandin’, I know. I’ve heard it said often enough the past few minutes. But that don’t change anything. Buckhalter didn’t want us here from the first, and he’s the wagon master. Be simpler all around if we’re gone. Better for everybody.”
“I don’t know about that,” Donnelly said. “What about those Pawnee?”
“I’ve already told you everything I can tell you to do. You remember what I said, and you’ll be all right. Main thing is to always be ready for trouble.”
He had allowed himself to forget that for a few moments, he reflected, had let down his guard because he was talking to a pretty woman and about to eat a good hot meal. All it had gotten him was a bust in the snoot and more guns pointed at him.
Lorraine stepped forward. “I really wish you wouldn’t go, Preacher.”
“Sorry, ma’am.” He reached up and tugged on the brim of his hat. “We’re much obliged for your hospitality, ain’t we, Uncle Dan?”
“What?” the old-timer said. “Oh. Yeah, I reckon. Much obliged.” Preacher took his arm and started leading him away from the wagon, and as they went, Uncle Dan added under his breath, “But I’d’a been a heap more obliged if’n I’d got on the outside o’ some supper first.”
“Hush up,” Preacher said, equally quietly. “We ain’t goin’ very far.”
Uncle Dan looked over at him, frowning in puzzlement. “What?”
“Buckhalter’s up to somethin’,” Preacher said, his voice grim, “and I damned well intend to find out what it is.”
Chapter 6
They saddled their horses and got the animals ready to travel. As they were doing so, Ned Donnelly came over and asked, “Is there anything I can say to get you to change your mind about this, Preacher?”
“Nope,” the mountain man replied. “Look, Donnelly, it’s just one night’s difference. Come mornin’, you’d have headed west and we’d have headed east anyway. Uncle Dan and I got business in St. Louis, and it can’t wait.”
Donnelly shrugged. “I suppose that’s true. I just hate to part when there are hard feelings involved.”
“There ain’t no hard feelin’s,” Preacher said with a shake of his head. “Not where you and your wife are concerned. You seem like fine folks, and I hope you make a good life for yourselves out yonder in Oregon Territory.”
Donnelly stuck out his hand. “Thank you. Good luck with your business in St. Louis.”
Preacher didn’t hesitate. He gripped the man’s hand and gave him a brisk nod.
Two minutes later, Preacher and Uncle Ned were riding away from the camp. As they went out through the gap between wagons, Preacher had seen Buckhalter watching them.
The wagon master wore a satisfied smirk on his face, as if he had gotten what he wanted after all. Preacher had the urge to knock that smirk right down Buckhalter’s throat, but that would have to wait. It was more important to figure out exactly what was going on here. Preacher’s gut told him that some sort of threat loomed over the wagon train, but he was damned if he knew what it was.
Once they were well away from the wagons, Uncle Dan said, “Now, you want to tell me what in the blue blazes is goin’ on here, Preacher?”
“That’s what I want to know,” Preacher said. “Buckhalter dreamed up that scheme, and I want to know why he was so desperate to get rid of us that he’d set a trap to murder me.”
“What are you talkin’ about?”
“You saw how he was ready to step right in there and blow a hole in my hide. He knew there was gonna be a fight before Moran ever threw the first punch. He would’ve likely got away with it, too, if you hadn’t been so quick to holler that warnin’ at me. Even with that, it was a mighty near thing.”
“Yeah, I thought you was a goner.” Uncle Dan scratched at his beard as they rode along in the thickening darkness. “You’re sayin’ that Buckhalter told Moran to jump you like that?”
Preacher explained the theory that had formed in his mind, and as he put it into words, he became even more convinced that he was right.
“Buckhalter was scared to have us around,” he concluded. “Scared that we’d mess up some plan of his.”
“What sort of plan?”
“That’s what we got to find out. Whatever it is, it must be happenin’ quick, maybe even tonight, for Buckhalter to get so spooked just because we were there.”
“So you weren’t really mad at those pilgrims? You were just puttin’ on so we’d have an excuse to leave and do some pokin’ around?”
“I was a mite put out,” Preacher admitted. “But yeah, it was mostly just to make Buckhalter think he’d done got rid of us.”
Uncle Dan cackled. “He’s gonna be mighty surprised when he finds out he’s wrong, ain’t he?”
“I damn sure hope so,” Preacher said. He reined in and went on, “Let’s wait here a few minutes, then we’ll turn around and head back to the camp so we can keep an eye on it tonight.”
As they sat there on their horses, Uncle Dan sighed and said, “I sure wish ol’ Buckhalter had waited until after supper to spring that little trap o’ his.”
“After we find out what’s goin’ on, maybe Mrs. Donnelly will have some leftovers you can scrounge,” Preacher told him with a smile.
“Preacher . . . you wasn’t really makin’ advances toward Miz Donnelly, were you?”
Preacher’s smile went away and was replaced by a frown. “Hell, no. You oughta know me better’n that, Uncle Dan.”
“Well, I didn’t think you would, but you gotta remember, I ain’t really knowed you all that long. And you can know a feller for years and years and then have him surprise you when it comes to women.”
“I suppose that’s true. But in this case, naw, there was nothin’ dicey goin’ on—”
Preacher stopped short as a growl came from Dog. He looked down at the big cur, and despite the poor light, he could tell that Dog was standing stiffly and gazing off to the east as another growl came from his throat.
“Quiet, Dog,” Preacher said softly.
“What’s got him stirred up?” Uncle Dan asked. “Some sort o’ animal, maybe?”
“Yeah. Maybe some two-legged ones.”
Uncle Dan’s breath hissed between his teeth. “Them Pawnee!”
“Chances are, it ain’t them,” Preacher said. “The last sign we saw, they were west of here.”
“Could’ve circled around.”
“Yeah.” Preacher waved a hand toward some trees along the riverbank. “Let’s get over there in the shadows under those trees. Come on, Dog.”
Quickly, the men and animals moved over into the concealment of the trees. Preacher listened intently, and after a moment he heard the drumming of hoofbeats.
“Riders comin’,�
� he whispered to Uncle Dan. “I reckon Dog smelled ’em before we could hear ’em.”
“Dogs is good about that,” the old-timer agreed. “I hear ’em now, too. Sounds like a pretty big bunch.”
Preacher thought the same thing. Enough riders were moving through the darkness that they could be the Pawnee warriors led by Standing Elk, as Uncle Dan had suggested. Something about that struck Preacher as wrong, though. He thought it was much more likely that the Pawnee would lie in ambush somewhere up ahead along the river, rather than circling around to attack the wagon train by night.
The riders came into view, a dark mass moving from left to right in front of Preacher and Uncle Dan. Dog growled again, as if his instincts wanted to send him charging forward. “Stay, Dog,” Preacher told him. “Steady.”
“Too dark to count ’em,” Uncle Dan said. “Got to be thirty or forty of the varmints, though.”
“And I’m bettin’ they’re white, not red,” Preacher said. “You know what I think is goin’ on here, Uncle Dan?”
“Nope, but I’m bettin’ you’re about to tell me.”
Preacher nodded toward the group of riders. “Those fellas are workin’ with Buckhalter. They’ve probably been followin’ the wagon train since it left St. Louis. As soon as everybody’s settled down for the night, they’re gonna jump the camp, kill those pilgrims, and loot the wagons.”
Uncle Dan let out a low whistle of astonishment. “And you think Buckhalter knows about this, you say?”
“I figure he’s the one who planned the whole thing. He knew the attack was scheduled for tonight, and that’s why he didn’t want us around. Didn’t want us stirrin’ up Donnelly and the others, either. He had ’em thinkin’ that everything’s peaceful and they ain’t in any danger, so they won’t be as watchful and can be took by surprise easier.”
“Well, we sort of fouled that up by ridin’ in with news of that Pawnee war party.”
Preacher nodded. “Yeah. But it’s probably too late to call off the attack, especially if there’s a chance the wagons might be ambushed in the next day or two by Indians. Buckhalter will want to get his hands on the loot before that can happen.”
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