Authors: William W. Johnstone

Preacher's Journey (25 page)

BOOK: Preacher's Journey

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“He . . . died . . . protecting the children. I found his body when I climbed into the wagon. The Indian who killed him was lying on top of him with his head blown off.”

“Aw, hell,” Preacher said, and meant it.

Tears sparkled on Jonathan's cheeks, sparkled in the light of the rising moon. “He died fighting, like a mountain man. That's another marker you'll have to put up, Preacher.”

“I'll do it,” Preacher promised.

“At least it's over now,” Jonathan said. “All the Indians are dead. We're safe. All we have to do is make it to Garvey's Fort.”

“That's right. Safe,” Preacher repeated. They had suffered losses, heavy losses, but now the rest of them would make it. He was sure of it.

That same night, about twenty miles to the east, four men rode through the gate in a high wall made of sod and bricks. The wall ran around the compound of several buildings that made up Garvey's Fort, the trading post and lone bastion of civilization in this part of the country. The riders were lean, hard-faced men, and when they dismounted, they went into the trading post's barroom and asked if anyone knew the whereabouts of a family called Galloway. . . .

THIRTY-SEVEN

Again they dug a single grave in the morning, and laid Geoffrey and Peter to rest side by side in it. Preacher was getting mighty tired of lowering blanket-shrouded shapes into the ground. He figured Garvey's Fort was only about twenty miles away, though, and with the threat of the Arikara war party taken care of, he hoped they could make it the rest of the way without running into any more trouble.

One thing he noticed as he checked the bodies of the warriors was that Mart Hawley was no longer with them. He wondered what had happened to the renegade trapper. It could be that Swift Arrow had gotten tired of him and killed him, or maybe Hawley had sickened and died from the wound he'd suffered during the fight back in the foothills. Or maybe he had just frozen to death. Preacher hoped that whatever had happened, he had crossed paths with Hawley for the last time.

He didn't like leaving the bodies of the Arikara for the scavengers, but there was no handy gully or ravine where they could be placed, and he didn't want to take the time necessary to dig a grave big enough for a dozen corpses. Still, it bothered him, and when he said as much, Jonathan frowned at him and said, “Why? They were trying to kill us. I don't see why you'd worry about not burying them.”

“You've learned a lot about frontier ways, Silvertip,” Preacher told him, “but you still got some things to learn. Them old boys were our enemies, sure enough, but they weren't without honor. They were tryin' to avenge a wrong that was done to their people.”

“The murder of that young man,” Jonathan said solemnly.

Preacher nodded. “That's right. The way they looked at it, they was just after justice. I can't say as I disagree with 'em.”

“And yet you helped us. You probably killed more of the Arikara than the rest of us put together.”

“And if they'd just gone after Peter, I might've stayed out of it. But it wasn't right for them to try to kill the rest of you either.” Preacher shrugged. “Most of the time in life, there ain't no right or wrong answers, just shades of good and bad on both sides. You got to go with which side looks the best.”

“Most of the time?”

“Yep. But there's such a thing as pure evil too, and now and then you run across it. When you do, you fight it. Simple as that.”

Jonathan shook his head. “I don't think there's anything all that simple about you, Preacher.”

“You just ain't known me long enough,” the mountain man said with a grin.

There had been a heap of crying over Geoffrey and Peter, but everybody was dry-eyed again as the wagons rolled eastward later that morning. White clouds floated in the sky, pushed around by a breeze from the south that was still cold, but not as cold as it had been. Just as before, they would have a few days of better weather before another storm came roaring down out of Canada, Preacher thought as he rode out ahead of the wagons with Dog at his side. By the time that happened, they would be safe and sound at Garvey's Fort.

Angela and Nate had to each drive a wagon now. The young'un was nervous about handling a team, but his pa and his uncle had given him some pointers and Preacher was confident that Nate would do just fine. The boy had the right stuff in him.

Roger had come through the fight without a scratch, as had Angela. Jonathan had a shallow arrow wound in his side, but Angela had cleaned it and bound it up, and with any luck it would heal just fine. The injury was stiff and sore but not enough so to prevent Jonathan from driving one of the wagons.

The temperature remained cold enough to keep the snow from melting very fast, although the sun took care of some of it. The wagons made good time because Preacher kept them moving all day with only short, occasional stops. He wanted to cover enough ground today so that they could reach the fort the next day. By nightfall, he was fairly certain that they had. He thought he could have ridden ahead and reached Garvey's place that night, but that would have meant leaving the wagons and he didn't want to do that. He could wait until the next day and ride in with them.

That night they had a good fire and a hot supper, and although the mood was still solemn because of the losses the group had suffered, there was also talk about what would happen the next day when they reached the fort, and even a mention or two of going on to Oregon in the spring. Preacher sipped from a cup of coffee as he looked across the fire at Roger and Angela sitting together on a wagon tongue. They had been through a hell of a lot, and while the friendship they shared might or might not blossom into anything else, at least they would always have that friendship. Preacher hoped it stayed strong.

Far behind the wagons, Mart Hawley walked along, his feet scuffing in the thin coat of snow on the ground. He saw the faint, distant eye of the fire and knew the pilgrims were there. He wasn't trying to catch up. The shape he was in, he didn't want another showdown with Preacher. He had food now, and weapons, all scavenged from the bodies of the Arikara war party when he came on them earlier in the day. He would survive and grow stronger and recover from his wound, and maybe one of these days, when the time was right, his trail would cross Preacher's once again.

An ugly grin tugged at Hawley's mouth as he thought about that. He wouldn't forget, and he sure as hell wouldn't forgive, all that Preacher had done. Sooner or later he would have his revenge.

One of these days . . .

The flat terrain meant that the walls of the fort were visible long before the wagons reached them. Preacher, ranging out ahead on the dun, saw them before anyone else and galloped back to tell the others. “Hallelujah!” Jonathan exclaimed. A short time later, when the wagons came in sight of the fort, the children began chattering excitedly. Preacher couldn't even begin to imagine what a grueling, terrifying journey this had been for them.

People inside the fort must have seen them coming, because the gates opened and several riders emerged. As they came closer, Preacher recognized one of them as a trapper he knew, Cephus Rattan. He lifted a hand in greeting and called, “Howdy, Cephus!”

Rattan reined his horse to a stop and stared at the wagons trailing behind Preacher. “Whoo-eee!” the lean, bearded trapper exclaimed. “What you got there, Preacher? Been pickin' up strays?”

“I reckon you could say that,” Preacher replied with a grin. “I ran into a whole family of pilgrims who thought they could make it over the Rockies with winter comin' on.”

Rattan shook his head at the sheer damned foolishness of that idea.

“I got 'em turned around and brought 'em back here,” Preacher continued. “Figured they could try again next spring.”

“That was smart of you,” one of the other men said. He was tall, powerfully built, and sported a thick black mustache. “Fred Garvey,” he said introducing himself as he thrust out a hand. “This is my place.”

Preacher shook hands with the trader, whom he had never crossed trails with before. “Pleased to meet you.” He jerked a thumb at the wagons. “Those folks behind me are the Galloways.”

“Galloway?” Rattan repeated, sounding surprised.

“From Philadelphia?” Garvey asked.

Preacher tensed. Something was wrong here. “Yeah, that's where they're from,” he said. “How in blazes did you boys know that?”

Rattan, Garvey, and the other men, who looked like trappers but were unknown to Preacher, glanced at each other, and then Garvey said, “There are some men inside the fort looking for a family name of Galloway that came out here from Philadelphia. They rode in a couple of days ago.”

“Hard-lookin' bunch too,” Rattan said, leaning over in the saddle to spit on the ground.

“We told them we didn't know any Galloways,” Garvey said, “and it was true at the time. They said they'd stock up on supplies and rest their horses for a day or two before they left.”

“And they're still there?” Preacher asked sharply.

Garvey nodded. “Still there. They keep to themselves and don't say much, but like Cephus said, they look like hard cases.”

“I'm obliged for the information,” Preacher said with a nod of gratitude. “I'll try to find out what it's all about.” He wheeled the dun and rode back to the wagons, about seventy-five yards behind him. Rattan, Garvey, and the other men trailed behind him.

Preacher held up a hand, signaling for Roger to stop. Roger was at the reins of the lead wagon now, with Jonathan bringing up the rear and Angela and Nate second and third in line, respectively.

“Why are we stopping?” Roger asked. “We're almost at the fort. I can see it right up there.”

“There's somethin' we better talk about first,” Preacher said, leaning forward to ease himself in the saddle. “Some men at the fort are lookin' for a family named Galloway. A family from Philadelphia. I don't reckon that's a coincidence, do you?”

Roger's face tightened. “What sort of men?”

“A bad sort, accordin' to what I been told. What's this all about, Roger? Who are those fellas?”

Roger sighed and said, “I was hoping . . . we all hoped . . . that no one would follow us.”

The other wagons had stopped behind Roger's, and now Jonathan came forward, carrying a rifle. “What's the holdup?” he asked. “Why aren't we going on into the fort?”

Roger turned to look at his uncle. “There's trouble, Jonathan,” he said. “Some men are there looking for us.”

“For us? What in the world for?”

“Money, I suspect,” Roger said heavily. “They've been paid to track us down.”

“Spit it out,” Preacher said, his voice like flint now. He had suspected all along that there was more to the story than he had been told, and he was tired of having the truth hidden from him.

Angela hopped down from the wagon she was driving and came forward too, in time to hear Roger say, “My father paid to outfit us for this trip, but what none of the rest of us knew except for Peter and myself was that most of the money was . . . well . . . stolen.”

“Stolen!” Jonathan exclaimed. “Simon was a thief?”

“He took the money from his partner, but only because the man was a thief to start with! He had been cheating Pa for years.” Roger's voice lost some of its certainty. “At least, that's what Pa said. . . .”

“So now this old partner of your pa's has a grudge against him and hired men to come out here and look for him,” Preacher said, having no trouble connecting up the rest of the story. He added contemptuously, “Bounty hunters.”

“That's what I suspect, yes,” Roger said.

“Why didn't you tell the rest of us, or at least Geoffrey and me?” Jonathan wanted to know.

Roger shook his head. “I suppose Pa was ashamed. I . . . I guess he really
was
a thief. But he asked Peter and me to keep it to ourselves, and we decided to honor his wishes.”

“So that's why we had to leave so quickly,” Angela said, “why there was such a hurry about getting out of Philadelphia. Simon wanted to get far away before his crime was discovered.”

Roger nodded miserably. “That's right.”

Well, things made a heap more sense now, Preacher thought, but there was still one very important question left unanswered: What were they going to do now?

“Those men who are looking for us . . .” Roger said. “When we tell them that Pa is dead, I suppose they'll go back where they came from and report that to the man who hired them?”

“Maybe,” Preacher said. “It just depends on how much vengeance the fella wants. He may have given them orders to go after the whole bunch of you.”

“But that's not right! Pa was the one who took the money. The rest of us had nothing to do with it.”

“Yeah, and your brother was the one who shot that Arikara brave too, but that didn't stop the 'Rees from wantin' to lift the hair from all of you.”

Roger paled. “My God! You mean they may try to . . . to murder the rest of us?”

“I wouldn't put it past 'em. I could be wrong, though. Only one way to find out.”

“Yes, we'll go in and talk to themâ” Roger began.

“Nope.
I'll
go in and talk to 'em, try to find out just how bad they want you folks.”

“No, Preacher, that's not fair,” Jonathan said. “You've done so much for us already, we can't ask you to risk your life for us again.”

Preacher ignored him. “Keep the wagons right here,” he told Roger. “Don't you come on in unless me or Cephus here rides out to tell you it's all right.” He glanced at Rattan. “That all right with you, Cephus?”

The trapper nodded. “Sure, Preacher.”

Fred Garvey spoke up, saying, “I can't take sides in this. I've got to do business hereâ”

BOOK: Preacher's Journey

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