Absaroka Ambush (2 page)

Preacher swung into the saddle. “Lead on, Blackjack,” he called, again hiding a smile. “I want to get there 'fore Charlie falls over from old age.”

Charlie Burke was no spring chicken, but neither was he likely to fall over from old age anytime soon. Preacher just wanted to play the game as long as possible. He might be able to come up with several more if he kept this sham up long enough.

“Old age!” Charlie fumed at him. “If I didn't like you so much I'd flatten your snoot, you damn whippersnapper. Let's go lead these poor pilgrims 'crost the plains and the mountains.”

Preacher grinned at him. “Don't get all worked up, Charlie. You liable to have a seizure, or something.”

Charlie glared at the younger man, and then a slow grin creased his lips. “These others,” he said, jerking a thumb toward Blackjack and Ned, “they don't know what you're up to. But I do, you connivin' horse thief.”

“What's he up to?” Ned demanded. “What's he talkin' 'bout, Preacher?”

“I ain't got no idee,” Preacher said innocently.

“Say!” Blackjack said. “How about 'ol Snake?”

“I thought he was dead!” Preacher blurted.

“Naw. He just looks dead. He's 'bout as old as dirt.”

“You know where he is?”

“Shore. He's got him a cabin 'bout two days south of here.”

“What's Preacher up to, Charlie.”

“You boys try to figure it out,” Charlie told the pair. “While we ride.”

 

 

The old mountain man known as Snake was ancient. He could have been anywhere between seventy and ninety. Not even he knew. But what Snake did know was every trail between the Missouri River and the Pacific Ocean, and for his age, he was almighty spry and as tough as a boot. He still had enough of his teeth to gnaw with, and was no man to try to push around. Snake would either cut you or shoot you faster than a striking rattler. Hence, his name.

“I ain't never in my life been around a hundred and fifty females,” Snake said. “And I ain't right sure I wanna be now. But you boys is friends, and a friend is a valuable thing. So count me in.”

They were gone within the hour, heading east toward what would someday be called Kansas. Days later, they rode into a sea of waving grass and rolling hills and hostile Indians. And the men knew they were very likely to run into any number of tribes: Kiowa, Comanche, Pawnee, Osage, Shawnee, Arapaho, Wichita, and Kansa. None of whom would be terribly thrilled to see a hundred wagons come lumbering across their land. But a war party would be delighted to spot five men alone with no place to run.

“Been years since I been this far east,” Charlie said, waiting for the coffee to boil over a hat-sized fire. “Ten years, at least.”

“Longer than that for me,” Snake said, gnawing on a piece of jerky. “I had me a runnin' battle with a war party of young bucks not too far from right where we's sittin'. That must have been, oh, 1820 or so. I think they was a raidin' party from down south that had just got whupped and they decided to take it out on me. They fought me pretty good and I still got a piece of arrowhead in my back from that skirmish. They chased me for miles, but my good horse carried me safe. I finally lost 'em up past the Little Beaver.”

“What tribe?” Preacher asked.

“I never knowed. I gleamed right off that they didn't appear to be in no mood for genteel conversation. As a matter of fact, they was right unfriendly.”

Blackjack said, “Preacher, there ain't no way the five of us is gonna be near enough. Have you give that any thought?”

“Practically ever hour on the hour,” Preacher replied, dumping cold water into the coffeepot to settle the grounds. “I'm hopin' they'll be some ol' boys we know around the stagin' area that'll be willin' to throw in with us.”

“And if they ain't?” Ned asked.

“We hire some pilgrims, I reckon.”

Snake shook his head. “We're gonna need at least twelve to fifteen more men to see to the needs of all these heifers. And that ain't takin' into consideration them that might feel the need for some servicin'.” He lifted wise old eyes to Preacher. “And that's gonna create problems, Preacher.”

“I been givin' that some thought, too. I'm just gonna have to lay the law down to the men and the ladies. I can't keep men and women from doin' what comes natural, but I can damn sure warn them that something like that could tear this wagon train apart. Well, we got about three hundred miles to go 'fore we have to do much worryin'. I think it's the first week in March. We're'pposed to be there in three weeks. Give or take a day or two. I figure a week or ten days to sort things out and hire men. Then, boys, our troubles really begin.” His eyes cut around as Hammer's ears pricked up. “Look sharp. We got company.”

The men had picked up rifles and taken up positions before Preacher's words had stopped echoing in the cool air.

“Relax,” Charlie said, standing up. “It's Ring and Steals Pony.”

No one knew if Ring was the man's first or last name, and he never volunteered any explanation. Ring had come west about the same time as Preacher and was a man with no backup in him. Steals Pony was a Delaware Indian who had been taken in as a child by a white family and educated back east until he was about thirteen. He'd then said to hell with it and took off for the far western mountains. He had never been back. He was the finest horse thief Preacher had ever seen and he had a wicked sense of humor.

“What the hell are you two doin' comin' in from the north?” Charlie asked, as the men rode in and dismounted.

“Runnin' from the goddamn Pawnee,” Steals Pony said, walking to the coffeepot.

“I think we lost 'em,” Ring added.

“You
think?
” Preacher said.

“They might show up,” Steals Pony replied, pouring a cup of the hot, black brew. “I told Ring not to mess around with that girl. She was a chief's favorite daughter.”

Ring grinned. “I can't help it if I'm so handsome women just naturally throw themselves at me.”

“The girl's name was Stands Like Dog,” Steals Pony told them. “That ought to tell you something about how attractive she was.”

“How many Pawnee is there?” Snake asked.

“Oh, 'bout fifty or so,” Ring said casually.

“How far behind you and how long have they been chasin' you?” Ned asked.

“They've been chasin' us for a week,” Steals Pony said. “And I think they're about two hours behind us.”

Ten minutes later, the mountain men had packed up and were moving east. Rapidly.

 

 

The days passed as the men left the rolling sea of grass, the endlessly blowing wind, and entered the flint hills section of what would someday be called Kansas; that gave way to the rolling hills and forested eastern one-third of the region. A half a day's ride from the Missouri border, the men stopped at a clear-running little creek and took turns bathing while the others watched for trouble. They then shook out their best duds—mostly buckskins—and let them air some.

“This town we're'pposed to meet the wagons at,” Snake said. “How big you reckon it is?”

“I was told about five hundred or so people live there,” Preacher replied.

“Why?” Charlie asked.

Preacher shook his head. “I sure can't give you no answer to that, Snake. Takes all kinds to make up this old world, I reckon.”

“Fools,” Steals Pony said. “I lived like that for years in my youth. All jammed up like pickles in a barrel. No good way to live.”

The same man who had approached Preacher with the envelope from President Van Buren last fall was waiting for them on the trail, accompanied by a half dozen other men, who, while dressed in civilian clothing, all bore the stamp of cavalrymen. Those men stared openmouthed at the seven mountain men.

Even though they had bathed and either shaved clean or trimmed their beards and moustaches, they were still a wild-looking bunch. Faces burned dark by years of sun and wind, hats that had lost their shape months back. All carried at least two pistols at their waists and four or five more hung on their saddles in addition to at least one rifle, which they carried across the saddle horn, and another rifle in a boot. Each man carried at least one war-axe and a long-bladed knife, either in a sheath or jammed behind a waist sash. They all had bows and quivers of arrows on their pack animals.

“Howdy, Mister Government Man,” Preacher said, swinging down from the saddle. “I'm here like I said I'd be. Where's all the females?”

“Ah ... in Missouri. Just a few miles away. I take it these are to be your assistants?” He waved at the others.

“No, they ain't my assistants,” Preacher told him. “I brung 'em along 'cause they's first class fightin' men, hunters, scouts, trailblazers, liars, drunkards, card-cheats, and for the moment, clean. Although I can't guarantee they'll stay that way for very long. I also trust 'em with my life, and a man can't say that about very many other folks. I told 'em what this here job would pay, and they agreed to that. If you don't, we all just get back in the saddle and head west and you can push this gaggle of hens to the coast yourself.”

“Oh, I'm sure the sum is agreeable, Preacher. As I told you last fall, I would leave that entirely up to you. I have taken the liberty of hiring on a dozen or so other men—subject to your approval, of course.”

“Let's go look this mess over,” Preacher said, and turned toward his horse.

A hand fell on his shoulder and spun him around. Preacher faced a young man who carried himself like some army officers Preacher had known over the years. Very arrogant ones.

“Git your goddamn hand off me, pup,” Preacher told the young man.

“I take exception to your surly attitude and your very cavalier approach to this important historical undertaking, sir,” the stuffed shirt said.

Preacher smiled while his friends rolled their eyes and elbowed one another, all knowing that Preacher was about two heartbeats away from knocking the young man on his butt.

“I'll tell you one more time, sonny-boy,” Preacher said. “Git your goddamn hand off me.”

The young man's hand tightened on Preacher's shoulder. “I am Lieutenant Rupert Worthington, sir. United States Army. I will be in command of the small detachment of troops accompanying this train. All in civilian clothing, for obvious reasons. At least to those of us with some formal education. I might have to explain that to you and your . . . assistants. But one thing we shall straighten out right now is this:
You
will take orders from
me.”

Preacher hit him with a left that crossed the lieutenant's eyes and set him down on the ground, on his U.S. Army butt.

Then Preacher turned and stepped into the saddle, the other mountain men following suit. The president's man's eyes were amused. Preacher looked down at the young officer, being helped to his feet by two of his men.

“I figure, boy, that you just got out of some sort of highfalutin' military school and you're still pretty wet behind the ears. I also figure you ain't never heard a shot fired in anger. I figure, too, that you got all sorts of ideas about fair play and rules of war and that sort of crap. Leave them here. They don't work in the wilderness. And don't you ever speak down to me again, young feller. Not to me, not to none of us. Mayhaps we don't have no fancy de-gree from some university. But what we do have is about three hundred years of experience in stayin' alive in hostile country. When one of us tells you the trail is wrong, you leave it. When we say don't drink the water, don't drink it. And when one of us tells you to get ready for an Injun attack, you damn well better get ready. And then you might stay alive out here.”

Preacher and the others swung their horses and rode off at a trot.

“Savage!” Rupert said, holding a dampened handkerchief, handed to him by one of his men, to his swollen jaw.

“Son,” the president's man said. “Preacher might be wild and woolly and uncurried, but he and those men with him opened up this country. Neither you, nor I, can even come close to understanding the hardships and mind-numbing deprivations they have stoically endured over the years. There is no law past this point, Lieutenant. None except what powder and shot the individual carries with him. There are no courts of law. Past this point, it is a hard and violent land, where life is cheap and death can be either quick or terribly long and painful. You don't know the breed of men called mountain man. And I scarcely know much about them. But I do know this: crowd them and they'll hurt you. The best advice I can give you all is to keep your mouths shut and your ears wide open.”

The president's man swung into the saddle and rode after Preacher and the others.

“It's going to be a very interesting journey,” a young soldier said.

“Sergeant Scott,” Lieutenant Worthington said, after withering the young man silent with a hard look, “mount the men.”

Preacher and his friends sat their horses in a line on a ridge and stared openmouthed at the scene before them. None of them had ever seen anything like it, and had nothing with which to compare it. Before them there were more women than any of the men had ever seen gathered in one place. And when the mountain men came into view, all the women fell silent and heads turned to look at the mountain men on the rise above them.

“I think,” Steals Pony broke the silence, his voice mirroring his inner shock at the sight of so many women, “that I should prefer to be elsewhere.”

“Well, you ain't,” Preacher told him. “But I do know what you're talkin' about.”

“There must be a thousand females down yonder,” Snake said.

“One hundred and thirty-five,” the president's man said, riding up behind the mountain men. “With fifteen more due in sometime today or tomorrow.”

“How many wagons?” Charlie Burke asked.

“Sixty-five.”

“God have mercy on us all,” Blackjack muttered.

“There is a female journalist among the ladies, coming along to chronicle the event.”

“A journal-whichilist to do what?” Ned asked.

“A writer to keep a diary.”

“Oh. Why?”

“It will be printed in newspapers back east.” He smiled. “You gentlemen are about to be famous.”

Preacher grunted. “Stay here,” he told his friends. He flipped the lead rope to his packhorse to Snake. “Hold onto that for me, Snake.”

“What are you gonna do?” Snake asked.

“I'm gonna go down there.”

“You be careful, Preacher,” Charlie told him. “Them females look man-hungry to me. They grab you, you'll disappear amongst all them petticoats and paint and powder and they'll wear you down to a shadder. There won't be enough of you left to bury.”

“You want me to tie you into the saddle?” Steals Pony asked.

“Now, gentlemen,” the president's man said with a smile. “Those are ladies down there. They were all carefully chosen from hundreds of applicants. Many of those ladies come from fine old respectable families.”

“And some of 'em are bound to have come from whorehouses,” Preacher added. “But that don't make no difference to me. I got to eyeball 'em all up close.”

“I'll pray for you,” Blackjack said.

Snake looked at the huge mountain man. “You—
pray?”

“I prayed a-plenty when them goddamn Utes had me back in '31. You can bet on that.”

Lieutenant Worthington and his detachment had ridden up. “You probably antagonized them,” Rupert said. “I was taught that the Utes were very friendly toward the white man.”

“You shore have a lot to learn, sonny-boy,” Snake told him. “Utes is like any other Injun tribe. They're all notional. Some good, some bad. But an Injun don't think like so-called civilized white folks do.” Snake looked at the young officer. “You been around many Injuns, sonny?”

“I have studied them extensively,” Rupert said stiffly.

“Uh-huh,” was Snake's reply.

Preacher rode down the ridge and walked Hammer up to a group of women. The women stared at him, none of them ever having seen anything quite like Preacher.

“He's a savage,” one whispered.

“I think he's cute,” another said.

Soon there were women of all descriptions, sizes, and shapes surrounding Preacher. Even Hammer got a little nervous. Some of the ladies were beautiful, others were so ugly that they could stop a rampaging herd of buffalo with one look. There were ladies who were slim and trim and others of more than considerable heft. But Preacher was looking for the boss lady, and he knew there had to be one. Or two.

“You there!” a woman's voice bellered out from the crowd. “Up there on that wild-eyed looking horse.”

Preacher cut his eyes to a tall and full-figured female all decked out in a black dress. She was comin' stridin' through the crowd of women and they was partin' the way like Moses done the Red Sea. The woman wasn't no real looker—to Preacher's eye—but she had her a commanding manner that he liked, and he knew he'd found one of the ramrods of the petticoat train.

Hammer turned his head to stare at the woman and Preacher tightened up on the reins. If Hammer didn't like somebody, he didn't draw any distinctions about gender. He'd just as soon bite or kick a woman as he would a man.

“Are you the famous mountain man everybody's been bragging about?” the woman demanded, staring up at him, hands on her hips. “The one who is going to lead us across the wilderness?”

“I don't know about famous, lady,” Preacher matched her stare. “But I'll get most of you acrost to the blue waters.”

“My name is Eudora Hempstead. And what do you mean by 'most of us?'”

“I mean that not all of you ladies is gonna make it. And the whole kit and caboodle of you damn well better understand that now. Now gather around and hear what I got to say. But stay out of bitin' and kickin' distance from Hammer here. He's like me; he ain't the most cordial thing in the world. Now listen up: some of you will quit and try to find your way back. But you won't make it back; Injuns will grab you and tote you back to their camp. That is, if you don't give them too much trouble. You aggravate 'em and they'll just rape you, kill you, and scalp you where you happen to be. If they make slaves of you, well, that ain't such a terrible life. They'll work you hard and only beat you occasional. Some of you are gonna die out yonder on the trail from stupid fool accidents, Injun attacks, snakebite, hydrophoby skunks, drownin'. One or two will go crazy in the head and wander off and get et up by a bear. And don't think I'm funnin' you, 'cause I ain't. I'm just tellin' you like it is.”

A group of men had gathered around at the edge of the crowd of women. Preacher figured they were the ones the president's man had hired. Preacher picked out two that he was going to unhire right off. One he knew slightly and the other had a shifty look to him. He pointed at the one he knew.

“You, Jack Hayes. Get gone from here and take that ratty-eyed friend of yours with you.”

“I wasn't hired by you, Preacher,” Jack said.

“No. But you're gettin' fired by me. Now hit the trail. If I see you in an hour, I'll either shoot you or stomp you. Move.”

Jack and his buddy left, but from the look in their eyes, Preacher sensed he'd not seen the last of them. “Jack Hayes is a murderer and a thief,” he told the large group of women. “He's wanted back in Virginia.”

“He told us his name was Wilbert Dunlap,” Eudora said.

“That proves he's a liar too.”

“We only have your word for that, Mister Preacher whatever-your-name-is,” a voice sprang from Preacher's other side.

Preacher turned his head. “Preacher'll do. Who you be?”

“Faith Crump. I am a journalist.”

And a damn pretty one, too, Preacher thought. Redheaded and green-eyed. A shape that'd cause young men to act silly and old men to weep in remembrance of better days. Them duds she had on was handsewn for her, and fine material they was, too. Preacher knew a little something about ladies and their clothes.

Eudora stepped close and whacked Preacher on the leg, startling him. “Well, I like you, Mister Mountain Man,” she thundered. “You don't priss around and honey-coat your words. I like that in a person. But don't you get the wrong idea about me. My man's waiting for me by the blue waters. You lead, and we'll follow, right, ladies?” she roared.

The women gave Preacher a loud hip, hip, and a hooray and Hammer just about came unhinged. Preacher had to fight to keep a hold on the reins. The president's man came riding to his rescue.

“There will be a meeting right after lunch tomorrow afternoon, ladies,” he said. “Any and all questions will be answered then. Shall we go, Preacher?”

“With pleasure,” Preacher muttered.

 

 

The president's man tried to put Preacher and his friends up at an inn, but the mountain men would have no part of that. The feather ticks were always too soft and the rooms too small. The men preferred to sleep out under the skies and stars.

Later that afternoon, Preacher went strolling amid the wagons and the women. There were some kids, but not many—something that Preacher was profoundly grateful for. He smiled and spoke to the women as he walked, but did not stop to talk. That would come in a day or two. He wanted to personally talk with every female there, to spot the strong as well as the weak.

Quick as a sneaky snake, Faith Crump was by his side, tablet and pencils at hand. “So what do you think about this venture, Mister, ah, Preacher?”

“I ain't paid to think, lady. I'm paid to get you people through.”

“Do you always carry that big gun wherever you go?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because if I run into Jack Hayes, I might take a notion to shoot him.”

“Why don't you leave Mister Hayes to the proper authorities?”

“What proper authorities, Lady? He's been loose and free for years after all the bad he done back east. Don't seem to me like anybody's doin' anything to grab him and string him up. And this is the last chance for anybody to do something legal-like.” He stopped, turned, and pointed west. A dozen other women had stopped what they were doing and gathered around, listening. “A few miles yonder, Missy, the laws that you live under stop. For hundreds of miles the only law is that which a man carries in his heart and mind and what comes out of the barrel of a gun. Missy, you ain't never seen nothing like what you're a-fixin' to see in a few days. None of you. You're all a-thinkin' this is some sort of grand adventure. But I'll tell you what it is right now. It's dirt and sweat and pain and grief. It's bein' so tired you can't even think. It's pushin' and tuggin' and heavin' and jerkin' 'til your hands bleed. You ever seen a person die, Missy? No? I thought so. You're goin' to. You're goin' to see painted up Injuns who, rightly or wrongly, don't like people comin' through lands they been callin' their own for hundreds of years. You folks back east, now, you think the Injun is dumb and savage. He ain't dumb. Far from it. He's just got a way of life that suits him just fine and he's prepared to fight and die to keep it that way. And who are we to say that he's wrong and we're right? Missy, you better stock up on writin' tablets and quills and ink. 'Cause you're gonna have a lot to write about. And you all had better reach down deep inside you and find all the strength you can muster up. Because you're damn sure goin' to need it.” Preacher turned and walked away from the group.

“He's just trying to scare us off this journey,” Faith finally broke the silence after Preacher had gone.

“No, he isn't,” Eudora said. “I think we've finally found a person who is telling it straight. And I think we all had better remember every word.”

“Nonsense!” Faith scoffed. “The man is no more than an uneducated lout and a bully.”

Eudora looked at the fast-fading back of Preacher, striding through the camp. She was thoughtful for a moment. She came from a long line of seafaring stock, and was quite familiar with the type of man called adventurer. She knew that while they were among the best at spinning tall tales and great yarns, when they became serious, it behooved a body to listen and pay close attention. And she believed every word she'd heard from Preacher.

“Gales are going to blow,” she muttered. “And the seas will be running high before we finally make port.”

“Beg pardon?” a lady asked.

“Nothing, Madeline,” Eudora said. “Nothing at all.”

 

 

On the morning of the second day, Preacher eyeballed the ten men who'd volunteered to accompany the wagon train to the coast. There had been fourteen originally. Preacher had now kicked out Jack Hayes and three others. There would be eight soldier boys, including Sergeant Scott and Lieutenant Worthington.

Bad thing about it, Preacher thought, is that none of these men have ever been more than a few miles past the Missouri line. There ain't an Injun fighter in the lot.

“Get 'em outfitted,” Preacher said to Blackjack. “Plenty of powder and shot and spare molds. I done looked over the spare mounts. They'll do. You boys take a look at them, too. See what you think. I got to go see . . . what is that damn feller's name from Washington?”

“He never said,” Snake replied.

“Smart. This thing goes bad, nobody can blame him. I'll see you boys this afternoon at the meetin'.” Preacher went in search of the mysterious man from Washington and found him at a pub, having him a drink of whiskey. He was sitting alone at a corner table. Just him and the jug. Preacher fetched a cup from the bar and joined him.

“You lay in them britches and shirts like I told you?” Preacher asked quietly, filling his cup.

“That I did. And I approve of your plan. But whether the ladies will, remains to be seen.”

“They ain't gonna have nothin' to say about it. After we pull out, am I gonna see you again?”

“Doubtful.” He pushed a wax-sealed envelope toward Preacher. “Your money will be waiting on the coast. This venture is backed by the government of the United States and there are payment on demand vouchers in there. Open it and look for yourself if you doubt my word.”

“I don't have to do that. 'Cause if I get out there and find that you've cheated me, I'll track you through the gates of Hell and kill you personal.”