Absaroka Ambush (14 page)

“You saw Preacher, probably,” Bedell replied. “But the others are women dressed as men. Preacher double-teamed those goddamn mules because he didn't have enough people to drive single wagons—just like us.”

“What are we gonna do?” Rat-Face asked. Preacher had accurately pegged the name back in Missouri. Everyone called the man Rat-Face. He looked like a two-legged rat, and was just as vicious and sneaky.

“We'll not ambush Preacher again,” Jack Hayes said, riding up. “I say we attack.”

“Yeah,” a thug called Tater said. “Just ride right over 'em. We can do it.”

Bedell looked at Tater. The man was not known for his intelligence. For that matter, neither was Jack Hayes. Bedell shook his head. “Our losses would be too great. Even if we managed to succeed, which I doubt we could, our numbers would be cut in half. And then where would we be?” Before anyone else could answer, he said, “I'll tell you where we'd be. In the middle of hostile country with not enough men to fight off an Indian attack. You want that?”

No one did.

Bedell sat his saddle in silence. He really didn't know what to do about Preacher. To launch an attack against those behind would be folly. Bedell guessed, and guessed accurately, that Preacher had armed the women well. Each one of them would have six or seven, or more, loaded weapons available. To charge into that would be the end of Bedell's plans.

No, they would have to hold out until the rendezvous point, then they could deal with Preacher and the women. Bedell twisted in the saddle and looked behind him.

He'd be doing a lot of that before his game was played out.

 

 

“Why don't they attack?” Faith asked. Supper was over and the fire put out before darkness fell. This close to Bedell, there would be no night fires. “I would.”

“I think,” Rupert said, “Bedell has calculated the odds of conducting a successful attack and found them not to his liking.”

“You're learnin', Rupert,” Preacher said, lying on his blankets, his head on his saddle. “I took a terrible chance by pullin' us this close to that trash, but it looks like it worked. Bedell's worried, and I intend to keep him that way for a few days.” He drank the last of his coffee and tossed out the grounds that remained at the bottom of his cup. “It would still be too risky for me to try anything for a few days. Them outlaws will be shootin' at the wind.”

“What do we do now?” Brigitte asked.

Preacher rolled up in his blankets. “Go to sleep.” And he did.

At the end of the second day after learning that Preacher and the others were tagging along behind them, a thoroughly disgusted Bedell glared at the scout for that day. “Well?”

“They's still back yonder,” the man reported. “Just a-ploddin' along.”

“Did you let yourself be seen as I told you?”

“Yes, sir, Mister Bedell. I showed myself up no more than five hundred yards from the wagons.”

“What did Preacher do?”

“He waved at me.”

“He did
what?”

“Waved at me.”

Bedell cussed, loud and long. He'd been doing quite a lot of that the past couple of days. He'd also been toying with the idea of meeting with Preacher and trying to work something out between them. He kept vacillating on the thought, finally giving it up and putting it out of his mind. Having firsthand and quite painful knowledge of Preacher's volatile temper, Bedell reached the conclusion that even if he called for a gentleman's agreement, and met the mountain man unarmed, Preacher would probably just shoot him on the spot.

Preacher was little better than a damn savage himself, Bedell thought. Breeding always tells.

“We'll just push on,” Bedell told his men and women. “And stay alert. If Preacher waits much longer, we'll have him where we want him.”

Just after dusk, Preacher was belly down in the grass, not a hundred yards from Bedell's circle of wagons. He had not come to attack, although he would if the opportunity presented itself, but to observe. Just as he had guessed, Bedell had put the women in the center of the camp. No way in hell he could help them while they were located there.

Preacher sensed more than heard movement behind him and to his right. He moved only his eyes. Indians. Kiowa or Cheyenne, probably, and they were moving in closer.

Preacher, he said to himself, now you have really gotten your butt in the pickle barrel.

Preacher waited, motionless. The night had turned cloudy, the stars and moon not visible, and it smelled like rain. Which was why Preacher had decided to visit Bedell's camp. He now wished he had stayed back in his own camp. He very slowly turned his head to the left. Indians over there, too. Crap!

He wondered if there were any behind him? He surely hoped not. If one of them crawled on top of him it was going to be one hell of a surprise for both of them.

Not to mention damned unpleasant for one of them.

Preacher had left his horse about a mile back, in a deep ravine. He had switched horses for this ride, but nevertheless did not want the fine mount stolen.

Preacher remembered a slight depression about fifty yards behind him. Fifty yards, he thought. Might as well be fifty damn miles with scalp-huntin' bucks all around him. But he sure couldn't stay here. He started making like a crawdad; a very slow moving one.

Come on rain, Preacher urged the elements. Start comin' down in sheets.

Then the clouds shifted and faint moonlight began to illuminate the area.

Son of a bitch! Preacher thought. My medicine sure ain't no good this night. He kept backing up and much to his surprise reached the protective depression in the earth. He slid down and landed right on top of the biggest and meanest-looking Kiowa brave he had ever seen.

They both jumped back and for about two seconds, Preacher and the brave looked at each other in shock and surprise.

Then Preacher hauled off and hit that Injun just as hard as he could with his fist, right on the side of the jaw.

Didn't faze that brave. That Kiowa just crouched there on his knees in that big hole in the earth and grinned an evil curving of the lips at Preacher, pure murder in his eyes.

“Oh, hell,” Preacher muttered, just as shots roared from the circled wagons and Preacher reached for his knife.

The Kiowa opened his mouth to scream victoriously and raised his war-axe at the same time. Preacher cut him wide open, from one side of his belly to the other with his big bone-handled knife and then came around again and damn near took the brave's head off with the next swipe.

Preacher was out of that hole in the ground and moving like he had bees in his drawers. He had always liked to run, and most always won the footraces at the rendezvous. He beat his best record this night. He figured he made that mile to his horse in about six minutes. He was really pickin' 'em up and puttin' 'em down. Behind him, Bedell's men were filling the air with lead balls as fast as they could and probably not hitting a damn thing—Kiowa being what they are.

He got gone from there swiftly. Back in camp, he had things organized in two minutes flat, with every rifle and pistol they had out and loaded and everybody in position.

But the attack never came. The Kiowa probably had their eyes on the larger train and failed to notice the small group of wagons, miles behind. Whatever the reason, Preacher decided his medicine had changed to the good.

Preacher delayed the morning pullout until he had made a wide circle of about two miles all around his camp. There was no smoke from the west, so he reckoned the Kiowa attack had failed. He led the wagons on, making good time, but being very cautious.

The Kiowa had taken their dead with them, of course, but Bedell hadn't even bothered to take the time to bury his dead men. 'His dead' not being really accurate. The only dead were four women from the original group.

“That's Judy Barnes,” Eudora said, standing over one woman with an arrow still in her chest. “I never did learn the names of those two,” she pointed, “but that's Rosanna there. I don't know her last name. sorry.”

“Fetch some shovels,” Preacher said, suddenly very weary of it all. These women had come west to start over and make a new life for themselves. Their intentions were good and they'd proved to be a stouthearted bunch of ladies. “Damnit!” Preacher kicked at the ground. “Damnit to hell, anyways!”

The others let him cuss, rant, rave, and stomp around. They knew what was bothering him.

“I ain't never known it to fail,” Preacher said, winding down. “Ever' time the damn government tries to do something, they foul it up. Those nincompoops can't do nothin' right. And it just keeps on gettin' worser and worser. They could have checked them women out better. But they didn't. Hell, I seen right off we had a bunch of whores in the group. Them people in Washington must breathe different air than the rest of us. I read in the newspapers about how people change when they go off up there.” He snatched the shovel out of Rupert's hand and started jabbing at the earth. “Go find you another one and start diggin'.”

“Yes, sir,” the startled young officer said.

“Don't call me 'sir.' I ain't your daddy. Damn politicians must go total deaf, dumb, and blind when they get elected. They lose all common sense. I was in St. Louie one time and had the misfortune to wander in a meeting hall where they was a senator or representative or somebody trying to be one of them fools was a-talkin'. I swear to God Almighty, that pompous jackass talked longer, used the biggest words, and didn't say a goddamn thing that made no sense to me a-tall. Somebody would ask him a simple yes or no question and he'd take ten minutes to answer it and when he was through, ever'body was more confused than they was before. And the fool still hadn't answered the question. But he'd talked so damn long that nobody could remember what the question was in the first place.”

The women had busied themselves digging graves, and even though it was a solemn time, most could not hide the smiles on their lips, for having just come from the settled east, they knew far better than Preacher just how accurate his words really were.

“Goddamn politicians,” Preacher said, flinging dirt every which way. “I started to go for my gun to shoot that loudmouth. Wish I had now.” Preacher paused in his digging. “Come to think of it, I believe that fool was elected President and somebody
did
shoot him! Or shot at him. Maybe it was a duel. I disremember. News is usually two/three years old time it gets out here. Who the hell is this Martin Van Buren, anyways?”

“He's a good man,” Eudora said. “For a lawyer.”

“A lawyer?” Preacher looked up, horrified. “A damn lawyer is president? That's disgustin'.”

“He is responsible for creating the true and separate Democratic Party,” Rupert said.

“The what?” Preacher asked.

“It's a political party. Like the Whigs. As a matter of fact, William Henry Harrison is a Whig and he'll probably be the next president. Van Buren is becoming increasingly unpopular among the people.”

“Why?” Preacher asked.

“Why are you so interested, Preacher?” Cornelia asked. “Do you vote?”

“Kinda hard to find a place to vote out here, Missy. But I have voted a time or two when I was in a village here or there. And then I've had other opportunities to vote, but when I seen the caliber of men runnin' for office I opted not to. Be right interestin' to see what Congress is like a hundred or so years from now. Be more brayin' jackasses runnin' around there than a body could count. Ever'one of them talkin' out of both sides of their mouth a-tryin' to please ever'body and even a damn fool knows that's impossible. So they all end up pleasin' nobody.”

No one offered to argue that because they all felt it was a valid statement.

For the rest of the time the group worked in silence burying the dead. When that was done, Eudora read from the Bible and the ladies sang a sad song.

“Group sure is gettin' thinner and thinner,” Preacher said to his horse.

 

 

Bedell sent three men out to scout their backtrail. But since Preacher had decided on a late start, and then stopped to bury the women, the scouts did not ride far enough to spot Preacher and the wagons. Instead they mistook a dust cloud for smoke, and raced back to Bedell with the erroneous news.

“You're sure it was smoke?” Bedell asked, his spirits lifting.

“Positive. Them savages must have hit them after we run 'em off. Preacher and them women is buzzard bait now.”

Bedell smiled. “Excellent. Very good, boys.” Bedell happily put Preacher out of his thoughts. He gathered the prisoners and told them what his scouts had found. “So there is no point in trying to escape,” he warned them. “You'd be committing suicide. So my advice to you all is just settle down and accept your fate. You cannot change it.”

The shoulders of the women sagged in defeat. That evening, Bedell selected a very young and very pretty woman to satisfy his perverse desires. Her screaming shattered the night for hours.

One man with courage makes a majority.

Popular saying.

Lt. Rupert Worthington lost his breakfast, and only Eudora Hempstead and Faith Crump had the iron in them to stand with Preacher and look upon the body of the young woman. The other ladies fled the scene and returned to the wagons.

“Bedell's work,” Preacher said, covering the battered body with a blanket. “Doin' things like this pleases him. He's a twisted man. There was all kinds of talk around St. Louie about him. Somebody get a shovel.”

Eudora's face was pale and her eyes were furious. “It would take a madman to do something this hideous,” she said.

“No,” Preacher disagreed. “Just a man who won't control himself. Any man that can function, speak proper, dress themselves, work, and step out of the way of carriages, and so forth, ain't crazy. And I don't give a damn what these so-called smart people say. Men like Bedell, and anyone who rides with him and stands by and watches while something like what was done to this poor child and don't do nothin' about it deserve a bullet or a rope. They sure as hell don't deserve no sympathy.”

“This journey has changed me considerably,” Faith said. “I shall never be the same. I used to deplore the conditions of prisons and jails and the treatment of criminals. I will never again editorialize on that subject.”

“Then you'd be wrong,” Preacher surprised her. “They's innocent men in prison, Missy. They'd be men behind bars who couldn't pay their debts because of one good reason or another. Just because a man falls on hard times don't mean that man should be locked up like a murderer or horse thief or the like. They's men in prison for defendin' hearth and home, and that's wrong. Man has a right to protect kith and kin. I'll go to my grave believin' that.”

“I certainly agree with you, Preacher,” Rupert said. “I wouldn't have a few weeks ago, but I damn sure do now. Like Miss Crump, this journey has changed me immeasurably. I will never be the same.”

“None of us will,” Claire said, walking up. “None of us.”

You can count me in there, too, I reckon, Preacher thought. But I'm afraid ain't none of you seen nothin' yet. “Let's get this child buried, people.”

By the time they finished burying the young girl, and Eudora once more reading words from the Bible and then the ladies singing some sweet church songs, they could only make a few more miles before it was time to prepare for the night's camp. But Bedell was using every moment of daylight to push on westward. What Bedell didn't know was that three tough, very angry, and determined mountain men were paralleling him on the north side of the Platte.

Snake, Steals Pony, and Blackjack.

The three had not been back to the site of the attack and they all presumed Preacher had been killed along with Ring, Charlie, and Ned, for they had all seen the others take a lot of lead. The trio of mountain men would have their revenge against Bedell and all those with him. But they would wait until the wagons hit the mountains.

“I'm gonna miss Preacher,” Blackjack said. “As I know you'll miss Ring, Steals Pony.”

“I will have my revenge,” the Delaware said.

All three men had been wounded, but none seriously. By the time they had found each other, the fight was over and there was nothing they could do except save themselves and see to their wounds.

“I'm glad we're goin' back to the high country,” Snake said. “I got me a feelin' this is gonna be my last ride.”

Steals Pony glanced at him. The Delaware did not make light of such predictions. He had seen too many of his own kind predict nearly to the minute when they were going to leave this world to walk over to The Other Side.

Blackjack said nothing about it. The mountain man had lived with Indians and knew when it was a man's time to go, a lot of men could predict it . . . or will it to happen, he silently added. But ol' Snake had lived a good long life. A hell of a lot longer than most.

Snake told them the agreement he'd had with Preacher, and both Steals Pony and Blackjack agreed that they'd bury him high up.

“We got company,” Snake said. “Ponca. They're not lookin' for trouble; they got their families and belongings with them.”

The three men rode over to the small band of migrating Indians and greeted them as friends. An old man peered closely at Snake. “I know you,” he said. “You shared my tepee many, many winters ago. My wife and family were sick and you hunted meat for us. I have never forgotten you. I have news that might interest you. My old friend Preacher has taken up the blood hunt for those who attacked him. I do not know what happened, but it must have been terrible for Preacher to swear such vengeance.”

“When did you hear this?” Steals Pony asked.

“Two days ago. Preacher is leading a small band of womenless people through to the shining waters across the mountains. I always wanted to see the shining waters,” he added wistfully.

“Did you learn where Preacher is?” Snake asked.

“South of the river,” the Ponca said, pointing in the direction of the Platte. “On the trail. East of a huge line of wagons that are driven by very unfriendly men. Stay away from them.”

After the Ponca had moved on, Blackjack looked at his friends. “Well?”

“Well, what, you lard-butt?” Snake asked, knowing full well what his friend was asking.

Blackjack grinned, not taking umbrage at the friendly insult. “Which direction do we head?”

Steals Pony said nothing. He just turned his horse south and rode off. Blackjack and Snake galloped after him, wide grins on their faces.

 

 

“Riders coming,” Rupert called out. “Three men, coming from the north.”

The boy is gettin' good, Preacher thought. He seen them 'fore I did. Preacher squinted his eyes and immediately grinned. That elephant in the middle couldn't be nobody 'ceptin' Blackjack.

“Hell, Preacher!” Blackjack boomed as the trio drew near. “We done sang death songs for you, flung praises to the Lord about you, and made up highlaycious lies to tell about you. Now here you show up alive. Ain't you got no corn-sideration for your friends a-tall?”

“I purely am sorry you found me alive, Blackjack,” Preacher called. “I do apologize for not dyin'. But on the other hand, I done buried you three in my mind. Now I got to adjust myself to look upon your ugly faces agin. At least you and Steals Pony, that is. Snake's looked dead for years. It's gonna be kinda hard to tell when he do pass.”

“If'n I don't move nor eat for several hours,” Snake said, “you come over and take a long sniff. If'n I'm ripe, then you can plant me, you heathen.”

Steals Pony looked at the old man. “If that is the case, we should have buried you years ago. You haven't taken a bath in all the time I've known you.”

The men dismounted and hugged each other and danced around, whooping, hollering, and filling the air with profane insults. While the mountain men sated their appetites of jubilation, Eudora halted the wagons and started a fire for coffee and food. Preacher told his friends what had transpired.

“That's about it, I reckon,” Preacher said. “Them no-count trash killed Hammer, and I aim to avenge my good horse.”

The men nodded solemnly. They knew how deeply a man could feel about the loss of a good horse or dog. Since the domestication of animals, more men have probably been killed over horses and dogs than have been killed over women. Leaving a man alone and without a horse in hostile country was just about the same as signing his death warrant.

The mountain men then sat, drank, and ate and listened to the women tell of what had happened to them . . . and to those they had buried.

“They got to be kilt then,” Snake opined when the women had finished. “It offends me to have to breathe the same air as men who done things like that.”

The women then sat wide-eyed and open-mouthed (Rupert included), and listened to the suggestions the mountain men had as to what should be done to Bedell and his followers. Some of the suggestions were quite inventive. The women were learning quickly that the mountain men, while oftentimes unshaven and shaggy, and certainly hard, crude, and lewd to the eyes and ears of so-called civilized easterners, operated under a strict code of conduct. Step across their invisible line, and one faced death at their hands.

“So they're linkin' up with another party of outlaws up the trail, hey, Preacher?” Blackjack asked.

“Yep.”

“How many?” Steals Pony asked.

“I don't know. Twenty-five or so, I'd guess. And I don't know whether Bedell's headin' for California or the northwest. Mayhaps he had plans to split up. But now . . . I'd take me a guess that he's gonna stay together and head for the gold he claims he's found.”

“Then we got to hit them 'fore he links up with them others,” Snake said. “We let him get too strong, and we ain't gonna be able to do nothin'.”

Preacher nodded his head in agreement. “That's right. But I don't see no way of gettin' ahead of Bedell. We can't leave the wagons. They'd be looted and burned 'fore we got ten miles.”

“Then he must be slowed down or stopped for a day or so,” Rupert said. “Allowing us time to catch up.”

“Good thought, boy,” Snake said. “You got a plan?”

“Unfortunately, no.”

“Just below where the rivers split,” Steals Pony said, “there is a place where three men could stall the wagons for as long as need be. You have dozens of weapons here, Preacher. You give us extra rifles and caps, shot and powder, and we'll ride on ahead and buy you the time to close the gap.”

“Sounds good to me,” Preacher said.

“When do we leave?” Snake asked.

Blackjack stood up. “Right now.”

 

 

Bedell sat on the ground drinking a cup of coffee. He still had trouble believing Preacher was really dead. He wanted desperately to believe it . . . but try as he might, something deep within him would not let the doubts fade.

Later on, after he'd had time to think over what his scouts had reported, he'd wanted to scream at them, asking them why they had not worked their way closer to the smoke and made certain that the damn meddling mountain man was dead.

But, it was too late now.

After that one successful attack by the savages, the wagons had encountered no trouble at all. The trip could now be called monotonous. And hot, Bedell thought, looking up at the sun, now just beginning its westward dip. It was time to end the rest and food break and get moving.

Tom Cushing approached him. “The women have requested they be allowed to bathe, sir. And to tell the truth, we all need a good wash and scrub. Ain't a one of us that ain't gettin' right gamey.”

Except me, you oaf! Bedell thought. Well, why not? They certainly weren't in any imminent danger. “Very well. Post the guards and take your baths.”

 

 

Several thousand miles away, in the nation's capital, the man who had recruited Preacher and seen to the gathering of the women who wanted to move west and start a new life sat in his office and stared out at the rain. He took a sip of coffee and spat it out. The coffee had turned cold.

“Miserable weather,” he muttered. He could never understand why anyone would want to build a city in the middle of a damn swamp. He wished he could have gone along with the wagon train, for he truly loved the western frontier. He'd been along when the Iowa Territory had been formed in '38 and had traveled with the Army up to the border of Canada. What a grand adventure that had been. But the President would not post him for long outside of Washington. He had asked so many times, and had been turned down an equal number, that it had now become something of a joke.

He stared out at the rain and the ominous storm clouds that were continuing to build over the capital city. He sure wished he was out on the plains with Preacher and those other characters he'd gathered around him. The man from Washington felt he was missing the time of his life.

Yes, he concluded, Preacher and the ladies must be having the adventure of their lives.

He turned back to his paperwork with a sigh.

 

 

Preacher rode about a mile from the lead wagon. The Great Plains had opened her vastness to summer and it was hot. The wagons were making good time—better time than Preacher had expected—but they were still many days away from the agreed upon ambush point. Only days if the weather stayed good, a few weeks if it turned sour.

He twisted in the saddle and looked back at the wagons, then slowly scanned the plains that lay all around him. This country could crack a man's brain-box wide open. He knew. He'd seen it happen. It was just miles and miles of nothing but more miles and miles. Some folks called it the Big Lonesome. When the buffalo started moving, Preacher had felt the ground actually tremble under the impact of thousands of hooves. The herd might be miles away, but a body's feet could register the deadly awesomeness of a thundering herd of the shaggy beasts. If a man was to get caught afoot with a stampeding herd of buffalo comin' dead at him . . . well, Preacher had seen that, too. There wasn't enough left of the man to bury.

The ladies had been unusually quiet for the past couple of days, and Preacher knew the country was getting to them. It was the awful aloneness of it all. The endless rolling plains, the horizon that just never seemed to quit. Even Rupert had stopped his vocal flights of prose in describing the journey. Well, almost stopped.

But Preacher had seen the young man toughen, mentally and physically, almost right before his eyes. And the journey had really just begun, for what lay ahead of them was ten times rougher than what they'd traveled over since leaving the jump-off point back in Missouri. If Rupert stayed in the army, which he'd said he was going to do, he'd be a fine officer. And this trip would be the steel that would reenforce his backbone. He had courage a-plenty, Preacher had seen that. The young man would do to ride the river with. And there wasn't no finer compliment a mountain man could give than that one.