Absaroka Ambush (3 page)

The man nodded his head. “I am fully aware of that, Arthur.”

Preacher cut his eyes to the man. First time he'd heard his Christian name spoke aloud in years. “Done some checkin' on me, did you?”

“As much as we could. We had to be sure you were the right man for this assignment. You are. Your parents are alive and very well and living comfortably in retirement. They have moved up into Southern Ohio. Near your mother's relatives. You have several brothers and sisters still living. They didn't seem to be particularly interested in your whereabouts or well-being.”

“I left home when I was about the size of a tadpole, mister. I wouldn't know none of them if they was to walk through that door right now. They went their ways, I went mine.”

“You haven't communicated with them at all over the long years?”

“No. Well, that ain't rightly true. I posted a letter to ma and pa some years back. I never knowed if it got through to them. Then I heard they had died. I sorta lost interest in going back.”

“They know you are alive and doing well and they've been reading about you. They are both very proud of you.”

“Mayhaps I'll go back east after this is over and visit with them some. Might be the last chance I'll ever get. They sure as hell ain't gettin' no younger. You gonna be here when we pull out?”

“Oh, yes. I shall leave for the east as soon as I see you off.”

“I'm probably off, all right, for taking this job. Off in the head.”

The man from Washington smiled. “Oh, I think not.” He splashed some more whiskey into Preacher's cup. He lifted his own cup. “Shall we drink to the success of this journey?”

The mountain man the the bureaucrat—circa 1839—smiled at one another and clinked their cups.

“You gonna be at the meetin' this afternoon?”

“Oh, yes. I'll be there. You might get some questions thrown at you that you can't answer. That'll be my job.”

Snake stuck his head inside the tavern. “They's some yahoo in town lookin' for you, Preach. Says you kilt a friend of hisn last year and he's gonna pin your ears back.”

“He got a name?”

“Didn't say. But he's a shore nuff big 'un.”

Preacher pushed back his chair and stood up, hitching at his pistols. “You want to come along, Mystery Man?”

The man from Washington smiled. “I hate violence.”

Preacher laughed. “Somehow I doubt that, friend. I surely do.”

Preacher stepped out of the tavern and almost knocked Faith Crump off the steps. He grabbed her just in time or she would have landed on her bustle in the muddy street.

“Missy, what the hell are you doin' hangin' around a place like this?”

She struggled free of his grasp and said, “I wanted a sip of whiskey. That's why!”

“Woman, you can't go in no tavern! That ain't no fittin' place for a lady.”

“Who says I can't?”

“Well . . . it's the law, I think.”

“And who makes the laws?”

“Men does!”

“Men have no right to tell a woman what she can or cannot do.”

“The hell you say! And a woman ain't supposed to partake of strong drink, neither.”

“Who says so?”

“I don't know who says so! It just ain't right.”

“Well, I think it would be perfectly all right if I want to do it!”

“Good Lord, lady, I ain't got the time to stand here and argue this silly stuff with you. I got to go hunt up a man and whup up on his head some.”

“What?”

“You there, Preacher!” the harsh shout came from across the muddy and rutted street.

Preacher turned and faced the man across the muddy expanse. He didn't think he'd ever seen the fellow before. But Snake had sure been right: the guy was big, for a fact.

“You know him, Preach?” Snake asked.

“I don't think so. What the hell do you want?” Preacher shouted.

“To put some knots on your head, Preacher!”

“Why?”

“‘Cause you kilt a friend of mine up the mountains last year. He was ridin' with the Pardee's.”

“He deserved killin', then,” Preacher replied.

The man cussed Preacher loud and long, while a crowd began gathering on both sides of the street. A man with a large badge pinned to his shirt came running up.

“Here now!” the badge-toter shouted. “I won't have any of this in my town.”

“Shut your mouth and get out of the way 'fore you get yourself hurt accidental,” Preacher told him. “This ain't none of your affair.” And while the town marshal stood with his mouth hanging open at such an affront to his authority, Preacher yelled to the oaf across the mud: “Do you have a name or are you all mouth?”

“Tom Cushing, you mangy bastard.”

“Somebody call the police!” Faith yelled.

“I am the police!” the marshal told her.

“Well . . . stop them!”

Preacher looked at the marshal. “You go in the tavern there and have yourself a drink on me. Just stay the hell out of this. I stomp on my own rats.”

Preacher handed Snake his Hawken rifle, then he and Tom Cushing started across the street.

“Guns or fists, Preacher,” Tom said. “It don't make a damn to me.”

Preacher answered that with a crashing right fist to Tom's jaw that sent the taller and heavier man slopping into the mud, flat on his back.

“Stop them, stop them!” Faith yelled, jumping up and down.

“Tear his mainsail down, Preacher!” Eudora Hampstead hollered, having just walked up to see what the shouting was all about. “But watch that port fist. He's a lefty.”

Other ladies from the wagon train had gathered, most of them standing silently, some smiling, ready to enjoy a good fight.

Preacher let Tom get to his feet and with a curse, the big man charged him. Preacher sidestepped him and stuck out a foot, tripping the man. Tom once more landed in the mud, wallowing around like a big hog.

“Oink, oink,” Preacher said, a smile on his tanned face.

“Stand still and fight like a man!” Tom roared, climbing to his feet. He was covered head to toe with mud.

“All right,” Preacher said, and drove a right fist to the man's mouth, pulping his lips and loosening his front teeth. Tom's boots flew out from under him and he hit the ground, stirring up another parcel of Missouri mud.

“Stop this barbaric behavior immediately!” Faith shouted.

“Tear his meathouse down, Preacher!” a lady yelled from the crowd.

“I command you both to stop in the name of the law!” the town marshal hollered, pulling out a huge pistol and waving it in the air.

“Ah, hell, Matthew!” a local said. “Put that damn thing away and let them fight. We ain't had a good fight in a month or more.”

“Oh, the devil take them,” Matthew said, and stowed his pistol. He walked into the tavern, took a seat by the window, and ordered a drink.

Tom Cushing again got to his feet and stood swaying, glaring at Preacher. The man had lost his pistols while wallowing around in the mud. He suddenly spread wide both arms like a bear and roared, charging Preacher. Preacher knew better than to let the man get him inside those huge and powerful arms. Tom could easily break his back. Preacher jumped to one side and slammed a fist against the side of Tom's head. Tom grunted with pain and turned. Preacher hit him with a fast combination of blows to the belly and face. Tom's face went white with pain and he went down to his knees. Preacher stepped forward, grabbed Tom's head with both hands and put a knee into the man's face. Tom's nose was suddenly flattened all over the center of his face and the blood flew. He fell backward onto the street and lay still for a moment, his chest heaving.

“It's over,” Preacher told him. “You called me out and I came. It's over.”

“I'll kill you, you son of a bitch,” Tom lay on his back in the mud and pushed the words past bloody lips. “We'll meet again, Preacher, bet on that. And when we do, I'll leave you for the ants and the buzzards.”

“You best just go on back to where you come from and forget it,” Preacher told the man. “I was just playin' with you this time around. If there's ever a next time, you'll find that playtime is all over.”

“Magnificent, mate!” Eudora hollered from the sidelines, while most of the other women clapped their hands.

Faith looked disgusted.

“Write this here little fracas down in your journal, Missy,” Preacher told her, scraping the mud off his moccasins and leggins.

“You . . . you . . .
brute!”
she told him.

“I think she likes you, Preacher,” Blackjack said, as Snake handed Preacher back his Hawken.

“Oh!” Faith said, tossing her head and flouncing off toward the encampment.

Preacher eyeballed her as she left. Mighty pleasin' sight to the eyes. Mighty pleasin'.

 

 

Preacher stood on the lowered tailgate of a wagon and looked out over the sea of females; Faith Crump and Eudora Hempstead were in the front row.

“The man who put all this together tells me you all know how to hitch up a team and handle the reins—for them of you who chose mules and them that preferred oxen, you best know what to do with a yoke and proddin' stick. You all better know. I ain't runnin' no baby school here. I'll let you all know how I feel about this mess right off. I personal think it's probably the most ignorant plan that was ever con-ceived. But I give my word that I'd see it through, and I will.”

Preacher looked out onto the bonneted heads of the ladies; beneath the bonnets were grim and determined faces, showing some fear, but that was good, Preacher thought. When a body stops being afraid in the wilderness, the next move is death.

“Me and the men I brung with me will personal go over every wagon and every animal, commencing right after this meetin'. And it's gonna be a short one. Bet on that. And I'll tell you the reason why: 'cause I could stand up here and talk about the wilderness and the plains 'til I fell over from lack of breath, and my words would mean nothin' till you all see it and taste it. So there ain't no point in askin' a bunch of damn fool questions. The trail will answer them soon enough, believe you me.” Preacher paused for a few seconds.

“Ladies, I ain't tryin' to be difficult, and I don't mean to belittle y'all's headin' west. Some folks say the country needs settlin'. I got mixed feelin's about that. Howsomever, it ain't up to me to make them decisions. My job is to get as many of you through as I possible can. We're gonna pull out three days from now. We're gonna travel for two days, and then we'll have us some rifle and pistol practice for a couple of days.” He noticed the women exchanging glances. “That's right, ladies. 'Cause when the Injuns attack, and they will, y'all got to fight right alongside us men, and you got to know how to load and fire. I've laid in ample stocks of lead and powder and molds for the balls. When I'm satisfied that y'all can more or less hit what you're aimin' at, we'll stretch out for a week. Then we'll stop and do some shufflin' around. By that time you ladies will have had some squabbles and made friends and enemies and you'll know who you want to travel with for the next four or five months. Now then, I want you all to get back to your wagons for inspection. Right now! Dismissed. Haul your bustles!”

The ladies scampered back to their wagons and Preacher hopped down and came face to face with Lieutenant Worthington.

“I was trying to get your attention ...”

“I seen you out there hoppin' up and down like a bee-stung bear,” Preacher said. “I figured you had to pee, 'way you was actin'.”

“Now see here, Preacher. I represent the United States Army. I ...”

“I got to go, boy. I got wagons to inspect. You go sharpen your saber or something. We'll talk 'fore we stretch 'em out. I can't see no way to avoid it.”

Preacher left him standing with his mouth open, momentarily speechless. Which for Lt. Rupert Worthington, of the Virginia Worthingtons, was a very distressing experience.

 

 

“They look pretty good to me,” Blackjack said.

It was the evening before the wagons would roll out from the last large pocket of civilization for hundreds of miles. The men were lounging around a fire, drinking coffee and talking. All the men were there, including Lieutenant Worthington and his small troop. Of the civilians hired to accompany the wagons, there was Nick, Sam, Jake, Dan, Frank, Barnaby, Teale, Gabe, Hugh, and Upton. They ranged in age from about forty to fifty. Preacher had wanted no young studs along; not with this many females. There would have sure been trouble with young men along.

“Yeah, they do,” Upton said, then smiled. “Twenty-five men and a hundred and fifty odd women, settin' out to do something that ain't never been done 'fore. You think the history books will write about this a hundred years from now?”

“What difference will it make to us then?” Charlie asked lazily, his head on his saddle. “We won't be nothin' but dust in the ground. Providin' we're lucky enough to get a proper buryin' that is.”

“You do have a point,” Preacher said. “Rupert, what do you think?”

The question startled Rupert; he was so accustomed to Preacher ignoring him. “Why . . . yes, I do believe history will record this journey. After all, we do have Miss Crump along. And I'm fair bursting with excitement myself at just the thought of it. It's going to be quite the grand adventure indeed.”

The mountain men had decided to try to be as nice to the young lieutenant as possible, so they hid their smiles and did not look at one another after his remark.

“Well, Rupert,” Preacher said as civilly as possible. “You damn sure right about that.”

It was going to be an adventure all right. With mosquitoes in some places as big as bats, rattlesnakes and scorpions, swollen rivers, hostile Indians, gangs of thugs and murderers, heat and dust and boredom, mud and rockslides, and the seemingly never-ending western horizon that they all had seen drive some men into raving lunatics. Not to mention driving rains that would slow them down to a crawl, or sometimes to a complete halt. For the next three or four hundred miles, Pawnee, considered to be the best horse thieves in the world, would be slipping around trying to steal their livestock. There would be guns going off accidentally, blowing holes in people. Axes slipping and causing hideous wounds. People with twisted ankles, fevers, busted fingers and toes, tempers flaring as the trail got longer.

Oh, yeah. It was going to be quite the grand adventure.

Rupert got up to go check on something or the other. He was always checking on something and writing things down in a book, and his men left with him. Ring cut his eyes to Preacher.

“A grand adventure, Preach?”

Preacher tossed the dregs of his coffee onto the ground. “Yeah,” he said with a sigh. “Ain't that what they all say startin' out?”