Forty Guns West (9 page)

9

Preacher rose from his blankets and squatted for a moment in the grayness of pre-dawn. In the brush and timber surrounding the little pocket of clearing where Preacher had made his camp, he could see gray and black shapes moving silently about, slowly circling him but making no attempt to enter the clearing.

“My brothers,” Preacher said softly, his eyes on the big ever-moving wolves “You've come to warn me.”

Low snarls greeted his softly-spoken words.

“So today it really starts,” Preacher whispered. “They're really gonna come after me.”

As one, their mission accomplished the wolves vanished, running deeper into the timber.

Kit Carson once said that Preacher was the“gawd-damnest feller” he'd ever seen. He had a way with animals like no man he'd ever known. Ol' Bill Williams said Preacher was spooky. He felt that Preacher could actually talk to animals, most especially with wolves. Jim Beck-wouth once told a writer that of all the mountain men he'd ever known, the man called Preacher was the most fascinating. John Fremont confided in his friends that the mountan man Preacher was almost mystical in his dealings with animals. He swore that he actually witnessed a pack of wolves playing with Preacher one day, in a small meadow deep in the Rockies. He said that when they all tired of playing, they fell down on the grass and flowers and rested in a bunch, Preacher right in the middle of the huge wolves. Jim Bridger said that Preacher could be as rough as a cob, mean as a grizzly bear, and as gentle and compassionate as a mother with a baby.

Smoke Jensen, the West's most talked about, written about and feared gunfighter, whom Preacher took under his wing as a boy to raise after Smoke's pa died, wrote later in the biography, that the man called Preacher was a highly complex man, who lived under only one set of rules, his own. He said that Preacher was an inordinately fair man, but once his mind was made up, and his moccasins set on the path of his choosing, would brook no interference, from any man.

If those who made up the party who were now hunting Preacher for sport had known anything at all about the inner workings of the man, they would have immediately packed up and left the mountains as quickly as possible.

But they did not really know the matter or manner of the man they sought. And by the time they finally found out, it would be too late for most of them. It wasn't just that Preacher was a mountain man. For there were mountain men, albeit not many of them, who were as skittish as an old maid in a men's bath house. It was the individual himself that should have been studied closely. Bones had never had any experience with Preacher, or with men like him. His reputation as a successful man-hunter had come about by chasing down escaped convicts, weakened by physical abuse, poor food, and brutally hard work. He had chased down embezzlers who by the very nature of their work were not physically imposing people. Bones had chased down and captured—or shot dead—men who had killed their wives and wives who had killed their husbands. He had killed or captured ignorant farm boys who broke jail after some minor infraction. True, Bones had tackled some mean and vicious men and emerged victorious. But he had never taken on anyone who came even close to being in Preacher's league.

As for the royalty who were members of this party of man-hunters, to them this escapade in the wilderness was still nothing more than good sport and fun. Quite entertaining, really, don't you know? It was irritating to them that Bones had forbidden them to kill a savage or two, but perhaps when this Preacher matter was concluded, then they could hunt some Indians. They'd never taken a scalp, and that would be quite a novel thing to take back to show their friends. They were all looking forward to scalping some savages.

It just never entered their minds that they might be the ones to get killed and scalped.

* * *

Preacher struck first, three days after he'd waylaid Hunter and Bates. He still had it in his mind that he could maybe harass them into leaving the mountains. There was no way he could have known that the blood-hungry royalty had upped the ante on his head. He had checked on Eddie and found the boy was happier than he had ever seen him.

Wind Chaser was uncommonly blunt with Preacher. “My woman and I wish to keep Ed-de as our own, Preacher.”

Preacher nodded his head. “And what does Eddie think about that?”

“He is a child. He does not know what is best for him. As adults, we do.”

Preacher had to hide his smile. The Indian and the white man were so much alike, in so many ways, and yet, so far apart that their two cultures could probably never co-exist side by side.

“Well, when the time comes, I'll talk to Eddie. If it's all right with him, it's all right with me, Wind Chaser.” He smiled and to soften his words added, “And I'm purty sure it'll be just fine with Eddie.”

Wind Chaser smiled. “The boy will want to stay with us. You will see.”

“I 'spect you're right. I've cached supplies all over these mountains, Wind Chaser. So I'm gonna leave my horses with you and go this on foot.”

Wind Chaser had noticed the huge pack and had suspected as much. He nodded his head. “This is no longer a game, White Wolf. Why don't you take some of the warriors and end this foolishness once and for all?”

Preacher shook his head. “This is personal, Wind Chaser. I talked to the wolves the other mornin'. They told me.”

Wind Chaser felt the hair on the back of his neck hackle and he resisted the temptation to step back, away from Preacher. He had heard about Preacher and his relationship with the great gray wolves that roamed the countryside. It was just that sort of thing that made many people, Indian and white alike, believe the story that Preacher had been found as a baby and raised by wolves, suckled on their milk. Preacher had, of course, heard the story, and, naturally, being Preacher, he had never done anything to dispel the myth. Indeed, whenever he got the chance, he added a few words to strengthen the myth. The more Indians were spooked by him, the safer he was.

“Your brothers, the wolves, they were close to you?” Wind Chaser asked.

“'Bout as clost as me and you is right now.”

“Ummm!” Wind Chaser said softly.

Smiling, knowing Wind Chaser would repeat the story and the legends about him would grow all over the Indian nation, Preacher walked out of the Ute village and made his way toward the timber. His pack would have bowed the back of a normal man. Preacher walked like he was carrying a pack full of feathers.

* * *

“Not a sign of him,” the teams of men reported back to Bones after an all day search in an ever-widening circle around the base camp of the man-hunters.

“We seen savages,” Mack Cornay said. “Plenty of them. But all they done was look at us. They didn't make no move, no gesture, nothin'.”

“No tracks of that big rump-spotted horse he rides?” Van Eaton asked.

“No. Nothin'.”

“He is on foot,” Dark Hand spoke from where he sat on the ground. “He has hidden supplies all around and is now living with some wolf pack.”

“Aw, hell!” George Winters said. “No human man lives with wolves. They'd tear him to pieces. All that talk is nothin' but poppycock and balderdash.”

Dark Hand shrugged his shoulders in total indifference to what these foolish white men believed. Dark Hand and Preacher were about the same age, and Dark Hand had heard many things about the mountain man called Preacher over the years. Much of what was said about him was indeed nonsense. But some of the talk was true. Dark Hand knew that Preacher was not unique in his ability to get along with wolves. He knew of Indians who possessed the same talent. He also knew that Preacher did not sit with the spirits for guidance. Preacher was just a very highly skilled woodsman—as good as any Indian—and he had honed those skills to a knife blade sharpness.

Dark Hand also knew that Preacher had not killed the man called John Pray. He had scouted for miles the day after Pray had vanished and found where Preacher had taken him, tied him, questioned him, and then turned him loose.

And most importantly, he knew he would be much better off if he would leave the company of these foolish white men and strike out on his own. But the white men fascinated him. They were so ignorant about so many things. Dark Hand never tired of listening to the babble. They prattled on and on about the most unimportant subjects.

Tatman said sarcastically, “All right, Injun. You seem to think you more'un the rest of us. So what is Preacher gonna do now?”

“Start killing you,” the Pawnee said matter-of-factly.

“Oh, yeah?” a big, ugly unwashed lout called Vic said, standing up. “I reckon you think this here Preacher is just gonna walk right in this camp and start blastin' away, huh?”

Dark Hand smiled knowingly. None of the white men had taken note that when he sat, he sat with his back to a boulder, or log, or tree. No one seemed to notice that Dark Hand utilized every available bit of cover even when in camp. How these men had lived this long was amazing to Dark Hand.

“No,” the Pawnee said. “He will not come into camp firing his guns.”

“Well, then,” Vic said, his voice dripping with ugly sarcasm, “I reckon you think he'll call down lightnin' or something to strike us all dead? You seem to think this feller is some sort of god.”

Dark Hand sighed. An instant later, Vic cried out and looked down at the arrow that was embedded deeply in his belly. Vic screamed as the pain hit him hard. His legs seemed to lose strength and he stumbled and sat down heavily on the ground. “Oh, mother!” he hollered, “Oh, my dear sweet mother!”

Dark Hand had bellied down on the ground before the first yell had passed Vic's lips, presenting no target at all for Preacher, and he was certain it was Preacher lurking in the dark brush and timber around the camp. The men started shooting wildly, hitting nothing and accomplishing only the wasting of lead and powder. Dark Hand suspected that Preacher had turned and slipped away as soon as he saw the arrow strike its mark. That was what he would have done, and Preacher could be as much Indian as he was white when he had to be.

When no more arrows came silently and deadly out of the brush, the men slowly began crawling to their knees and reloading. The cooks and servants of the gentry remained where they were, belly down on the ground, eyes wide with fear.

“Halp me!” Vic bellered. “Oh, sweet baby Jesus, halp me.”

There was nothing anyone could do for the man. The arrow had torn through his stomach and when they laid Vic out on the ground and cut away the back of his jacket and shirt, they could see that the point was very nearly all the way through his back.

“Go ahead and shoot him,” Jimmie Cook said. “I don't want to have to listen to all that hollerin' for days and nights.”

Sir Elmore Jerrold-Taylor waved to one of his men. “Franklin here has received some medical training. See what you can do for this unfortunate wretch, Franklin.”

Franklin knelt down and inspected the puncture wound. “I will have to push the arrow out the back, remove the barbed point, and then pull the arrow out from the front. But I fear the lining of the stomach has been penetrated front and back so all that would accomplish is a great deal of agony for the man. He will die no matter what I do.”

“Oh, very well,” Elmore said. “Wilson,” he called to one of the cooks. “Be a good fellow and fix some tea, will you? I feel the need for something warm and soothing. Something to calm the nerves, don't you know?”

Preacher's big rifle boomed and Elmore's plumed hat went sailing about twenty feet away. His Lordship yelped and unceremoniously hit the ground, belly down in the mud.

The Frenchmen, Louviere and Tassin, jumped behind a fallen log and landed right on top of the Prussian, Rudi Kuhlmann, knocking the wind out of him. Preacher's rifle boomed again and the Austrian, Willy Steinwinder, got a faceful of bark splinters as the heavy ball smacked into the tree he was trying to hide behind. One of Bones's men, Cal Johnson, sprinted for cover just as Preacher fired one of his pistols. Cal turned a flip in the air as the ball slammed into his right leg and sent him sprawling and hollering. Preacher fired again and the ball whined off the big iron cook pot and went ricocheting wildly and wickedly around the camp. One of the servants ran into a tree and knocked himself silly. Van Eaton jumped for cover and landed squarely in a big pile of horse crap. He was so afraid to move that he lay in the dung and suffered the indignity, cussing Preacher loud and quite emotionally. Bones had jumped behind a boulder as the rest of the camp sought cover wherever they could find it. Dark Hand lay safe behind a fallen tree and took silent satisfaction in watching the panic of the white men.

Just before Preacher took off for safer territory, figuring he had done enough damage for one day, he turned and unloaded his pistols into the panicked camp. The sound was enormous and the double-shotted barrels spewed lead in all directions.

Baron Wilhelm Zaunbelcher was just getting to his fancy, hand-made boots when Preacher cut loose and Horace Haywood jumped into the slight ground depression and landed right on top of the Baron. The Baron did not appreciate that at all and began roaring in German. Horace figured rightly that Wilhelm was giving him a sound cussing and rared back and slugged the Baron right on the royal snoot. Horace and Wilhelm, ignoring the whining lead balls, began rolling around on the ground, cussing and punching and kicking and biting and gouging, the blood and the mud and the snot flying in all directions.

Bones rose to his knees and looked at the fist-swinging, bleeding, cussing men, rolling around in the dirt. He shook his head in disbelief.

Horace tried to knee Wilhelm in the groin and then gouge him in the eye with a thumb.