Blood on the Divide (17 page)

But Preacher had left a surprise in the cold ashes – in the form of a black-powder bomb he'd made with spare powder he'd found in the supplies of the outlaws. Preacher lay in the rocks and watched, hardly able to contain anticipatory laughter over what was going to happen in a few minutes.

One outlaw began gathering up twigs and sticks and a few larger branches of dead wood. He got the twigs blazing, then laid on a few sticks. Malachi stood up and walked over to warm his hands, as did several others, for the day had turned off cold in the high country.

The men stood in silence, their expressions glum.

They'll soon be a lot glummer, Preacher thought. He had to stick his fist over his mouth to stifle his laughter.

“Far shore feels good,” Kenrick said, rubbing his hands briskly.

“Shore do,” an outlaw named Clifford said. “And some coffee would be right tasty too. I think Dillman done found a mite of it.”

Dillman walked up just as the bomb blew. The fire pit contained most of the killing effects of the blast, but dirt and rocks and ashes were flung all over the place, and the force of the explosion knocked down those who were standing around the fire. The charge created a huge dust and ash cloud that completely engulfed the camp for a few seconds. Dillman's sack of coffee went one way and he went the other, tumbling ass over elbows. Malachi took a stone right between his eyes and it knocked him to the ground and out like a snuffed candle. Several horses had wandered back into camp and the explosion sent the already skittish animals off and racing away, galloping at full tilt. Ansel had dropped his trousers and hung his butt over a log just as the powder blew. He landed in what he had just deposited as a fist-sized rock impacted with the top of his head. If it was possible to be goofier than he already was, Ansel Pardee had reached the zenith. Kenrick had been completely lifted off his boots and thrown backward, slowly twisting in the air. He landed on his belly and the wind was knocked from him. Clifford had turned his back to the fire to warm his butt and the blast not only set his trousers on fire, but lifted him into the air and tossed him about fifteen feet from the fire pit. Clifford was now scooting around on the ground, bellering and cussing, trying to put out the fire that was scorching his butt.

Animals were snorting and rearing and running around in a wild-eyed panic. Men were hollering and cussing and in a state of utter confusion. Finally, the shattered camp began to calm down as the dust began to settle.

Preacher knew it was foolish to stay around any longer – he'd taken a terrible chance by staying around this long – so while a bit of confusion still held sway over the outlaw camp, he took off. The last thing he heard was Ansel's voice. The fool was shuffling around the camp, his pants down around his ankles, singing an old church song. However, it seemed that he could only remember one line.

“Hark, the glad sounds, the Savior comes ...”

Preacher shook his head and hit the trail. As soon as he was far enough away, he'd sure sit down and have himself a real good laugh about this day.

“Hark, the glad sounds, the Savior comes ...”

“Aw, shut up, Ansel!” one of his brothers said. “And pull your britches up, you fool.”

Malachi sat up on the cold ground, one hand to his throbbing and aching head. He listened to the song. “I've done died and gone to Heaven,” he mumbled. Then he opened his eyes and saw Ansel, standing bare-assed and bellering out song. “Or Hell,” Malachi added.

There is no arguing with Johnson: for if his pistol misses fire, he knocks you down with the butt of it.

 

“Preacher ain't fightin' fair,” Valiant Pardee said.

Malachi looked at his brother and shook his still-aching head. He used to think there might be some hope left for Valiant. But no more. “How much did you boys salvage?”

“Not near 'bout enough,” Henry Pardee grumbled. He wore a bloody bandage around his head where a panicked horse had run over him.

“We lost eight or ten horses,” Kenrick told his brother. “But then, we lost eight or ten men, too, so that all evens out. We got enough supplies to go on... if you want to go on.”

“Damn right I want to go on!” Malachi snapped. “Way I see it, we ain't got no choice in the matter. None a-tall. We can't let this story get out. We wouldn't have no respect from nobody if it do.”

“Running Man picked up Preacher's trail,” Clifford said, wearing a pair of pants he had taken from the supplies of the dead men. They were too short and made him look about as stupid as Ansel was. “He said Preacher was a-layin' over yonder in them rocks just a-watchin' us all the time.” He pointed.

“That sounds about right,” Malachi said sourly. “Preacher had him a good laugh, too, I reckon. On us. Well, from now on we don't fall for no more of Preacher's tricks. We got to sit down and work us out a plan.”

“I been thinkin' some on that, Malachi,” Ansel said, wiping the slobber from his lips and chin.

“Lord help us all,” Kenrick muttered.

“I can't hardly wait to hear this,” Malachi replied in a whisper. “All right, Ansel, let's hear it.”

“Let's make Preacher come to us 'stead of us al'ays a-goin' to him.”

The gang members all exchanged glances. Malachi was silent for a moment, then said, “You be right, Ansel. That there is a good scheme. You done come up with a right good plan.” He was forgetting that Preacher came to them in the first place, with disastrous results for the gang.

“How does we do that?” Clifford asked Ansel.

“Don't strain his brain too hard,” Malachi said quickly. He glanced at Ansel. “You done good, Ansel. Real good. Now go somewheres and rest for a time.”

“How
does
we do it?” Kenrick asked his big brother after Ansel had danced away. His performance posed absolutely no threat to any ballet dancer in the world.

“I don't know,” Malachi admitted. “I got to ruminate on that for a spell. Go on and leave me be for a time.” Truth was, Malachi desperately wanted to just give it up and get the hell gone from this part of the world. More and more he was getting the feeling he had just about played out his string and what little was left on the spool was being controlled by that damn Preacher.

He looked around the ruined camp and at what was left of his gang. He shook his head. At one time, Malachi Pardee ran the most powerful and feared gang of road agents and outlaws west of the Mississippi. And not that many months ago, either. Sure as hell didn't look like much now.

Malachi had the sinking feeling that the game was just about over for him. He tried to push that emotion from his mind, but could not. It was just too incredible for him to accept that one man could destroy an entire gang of some of the meanest cutthroats in all the West.

But he had only to look around him to see the truth in the matter.

“Damn!” Malachi whispered.

 

Miles away, Preacher rested and waited. For the time being, he didn't have a clue as to what he might do next to harass the Pardees, but then this came to him: if he were in their shoes, he'd do nothing and try to draw the enemy to him.

Preacher chewed on some jerky and thought about that. The more he thought about it, the more he became convinced that was what the Pardees might try.

If so, what was next for him?

Preacher didn't try to kid himself a bit. He'd been lucky so far. Real lucky. He wasn't dealing with amateurs, even though the Pardee gang had behaved as such since this personal little war began. Preacher realized that had to end and he'd better stop treating the conflict as a joke and tighten up. No more stunts like the one he'd pulled this day, hiding in the rocks and stifling laughter at the antics of the Pardee gang. That had been dangerous and plumb foolish on his part.

True, his actions had taken a fearful toll on the Pardee gang. But he'd been brash in the doing of it. He'd have to cut back on some of that.

He wondered how the wagon train was faring. He'd been so busy of late he hadn't had much time to ponder on those folks. Well, least he was keeping the Pardees busy and away from the train. And the train was of a size that it would take a goodly bunch of Indians to attack it. By now the train should be clear out of this part of the country.

 

In all the weeks that Preacher had been trailing and doing battle with the Pardees, the train had made good time. But sickness had overtaken the movers and brought the train to a halt. The sickness, a strange fever that weakened muscles and caused the joints to ache and brought on chills one minute and burning-up hotness the next, had even struck the mountain men, putting Carl and Caleb and Windy flat on their backs along with most of the others . . . except for the kids. Not a one of them had been touched by the odd sickness. Now it was the kids taking care of the adults and the seeing-to of the livestock and such.

As the days drifted by, the mountain men worried that none of them would have the strength to push on in time to beat the snows. And if they weren't over the mountains come snowfall, they would be stuck right where they was till spring.

What finally saved their bacon was the return of Rimrock. The huge mountain man had a change of heart and turned around, riding back and picking up the ruts of the train and following it. Rimrock took one look at the adults a-layin' flat of their backs, weak as sick cats, and the exhausted and drawn faces of the kids, who'd been doing all the work, and he pitched right in.

“I seen this 'fore,” Rimrock told Weller. “I don't know the name of the sickness, but I seen it 'fore. You ain't gonna die from it, but it makes a body so sick and weak some folks might wish they was dead to get some relief.”

“I certainly agree with that,” Weller whispered. “Any news of Preacher?”

“Injuns say they's a big war goin' on in the high country. East of here. Two renegades that broke from the Pardee gang claim that Preacher brought a whole mountain down on some of the gang. Wiped 'em out without no trace left. I doubt if it was an en-tar mountain, but Preacher probably caught some in a slide. Preacher is something to be-hold when he gets his dander up.”

“You'll stay and help us, Rimrock?”

“Shore. Wouldn't be fittin' for me to do nothin' else. You just lay back and take 'er easy. I'll see to the rest of it.”

Squatting down beside Windy, Caleb, and Carl, he said, “I can't leave y'all for no time 'fore you get in trouble. I reckon I'm gonna have to nanny the three of you for the rest of your days.”

“We've got to get these folks well fast, Rim,” Caleb said. “We ain't got much time left 'fore the snows come. They'll die out here.”

“Forget it,” the big man said. “It's gonna take weeks 'fore ever'body gets their strength back. Like I told Weller, I seen this sickness 'fore. That winter you went to St. Louie, Windy. I told you about it.”

“Then we're in bad trouble,” Carl said.

“Maybe not. The Whitman Mission ain't far from here. 'Bout a hundred miles. Worst comes to worser, we'll winter there. They'll welcome us.”

“They might,” Windy said, his voice weak. “But them Cayuses might not.”

“I know Chief Tamsuky,” Rimrock said. “I've et with him and slep' in his lodge. He's all right. It's all them gospel shouters up yonder that he don't take to worth a damn. They gonna keep on stirrin' up them Cayuses and one day it's gonna backfire on them all. You boys rest now. Ol' Rim's here. So don't worry.”

The first movers up were Miles Cason and George Martin, and tenderfeet they might be – in Miles case that was still more than true – but Rimrock welcomed their help. The big man had shouldered a terrible burden taking care of everything.

“I have never experienced anything like that debilitating malaise we just recovered from,” Miles told Rimrock. “It rendered me quite impuissant.”

Rimrock stared at him for a few seconds. “What the hell did you just say?”

“The sickness.”

“Oh. Yeah. Ain't got no name yet, that I know of. But it's tough. I ain't never had it and hope I never get it.”

Betina and Coretine and a few of the other pioneer women were soon up and moving around, able to cook and wash a bit. But they couldn't do much for any length of time, having to rest every few minutes. But what little they could do was a godsend to those few who were handling the whole load.

“First decent meal I've et since I happened along here,” Rimrock said, spooning another plateful of stew that Coretine had prepared. “I never was no hand at cookin' fancy things like this here. And anything Miles and George dishes up tastes like a boiled moccasin.”

Windy staggered up, using his rifle for a crutch, and sank down to the ground with a sigh. “I reckon I'll live,” the little mountain man declared. “But for a time there, I shore had some serious doubts.”

“I's a hopin' when you recovered your looks might have improved,” Rimrock said, eyeballing his friend. “But you just as ugly as ever.”

“I'd talk was I you,” Windy retorted. “Thank God it's nigh on to fall and your beard is bushy-out. Any of these kids see your face, they'd run off into the woods and hide.” He thanked Coretine for a plate of food and said, “Rimrock's the onliest man I ever knowed who could frighten a grizzly bear just by lookin' at the poor beast. He shaved off his beard one spring and come face to face with a she-bear out eatin' berries. You never heard the like of bellerin' and snortin' and carryin' on. That bear was so scared she took off runnin' and didn't stop 'til she reached the Canadian line. Never did come back.”

“I think, Mr. Windy,” Coretine said, “I know how you got your nickname.”

Windy grinned up at her and winked. “Mayhaps you do, missy. Mayhaps you do.”

* * *

Preacher went back down his trail and erased all the sign he had deliberately left for the Pardees. Then he found him a nice snug spot and waited. The Pardees and those with the gang, he felt, would not be good at the waiting game. Preacher could, and had in the past, gone without food for days. He did not believe any member of the Pardee gang had such patience. He had access to water and plenty of jerky and pemmican. He would do all right. He had strong doubts about the Pardee gang sitting still for very long.

The spot Preacher had chosen was in timber, about a hundred yards from a spring, and protected by rocks. He had a clear view of all that might go on in front of him. To his rear was the face of a mountain, loose rocks on both sides would warn him if anyone tried that approach. Now all he had to do was wait. And Preacher was real good at that.

Miles away, the Pardees made ready for the anticipated visit from Preacher. They fortified their camp and turned it into a minifortress. Then they all smiled at one another and waited. And waited.

On the afternoon of the fourth day, Malachi said, “It ain't workin'. Preacher ain't gonna fall for this.”

They were nearly out of everything. They had no coffee, no salt, no beans, and were living mostly on what they could slip out and hunt. And a body can only live so long on rabbit. Man needs fat. Fat's scarce on a rabbit.

“We got to do something almighty quick,” a gang member said. “We can't go on like this.”

All the gang sure agreed with that and all were very vocal about it.

“I'll think on it some,” Malachi told them.

“Malachi,” Kenrick said when they were alone. “Let's call it quits and get shut of here.”

Malachi looked down at his filthy hands and ragged clothing. Everyone of them, including Malachi, stunk worse than buzzard puke. None of them were prone to taking many baths, but he couldn't remember being this dirty and ragged. He sighed and nodded his head. “All right, brother,” he said softly. “But we got to ride far and fast to outrun the stories. We'll head for Californy. Get a fresh start out there. Change our names and Pardee will be no more. Pickin's ought to be good out there.”

“I'll tell the boys,” Kenrick said.

It did not take the outlaws long to pack up their meager possessions and saddle up. Malachi looked all around him at what he could see of the Big Empty. “You won this time, Preacher,” he muttered. “But there will be another time. Bet on that.” He grabbed hold of the saddle horn and stuck his boot into the stirrup. The patched cinch strap broke and dumped Malachi on his butt on the hard and rocky ground.

Flat on his back, Malachi said, “I hate you, Preacher. As God is my witness, I hate you!”