Preacher and the Mountain Caesar (19 page)

“Well, here I am. Buck Sears.”

The one who had called out to him spoke first. “M'name's Abel Williams, but folks most call me Squinty. This here's Jack Lonesome and that other feller is Three-Finger. Git yourself around some Arbuckles,” he invited, with a gesture toward the blue granite pot.

“Obliged,” Buck responded.

Settled on a mat of aspen leaves, Buck sipped the strongest coffee he had ever tasted, worried for the lining of his stomach, and exchanged incidentals with the three mountain men for several minutes. Then, when Squinty Williams hinted delicately at what business brought Buck into the mountains, he unveiled his story of New Rome.

They listened in amazement, doubt written plainly on their faces. Buck noted this and concluded his personal story to get to the heart of the situation. “The thing is, six years after I was taken by these lunatics, two of you mountain men were captured; Philadelphia Braddock and Preacher.”

“Naw. Couldn't be,” Jack Lonesome rebutted. “No amount of fellers runnin' around in skirts could best Preacher.”

“All the same, it's true,” Buck insisted. “He said I might run into some—ah—resistance. Sent along this note.” He dug into his shirt pocket and produced the scrap of paper upon which Preacher had scribbled his appeal.

Squinty took it and peered intently at it. At last he nodded. “That's his name, right enough. An' his Ghost Wolf mark. What's it say, Jack?”

Jack Lonesome took the message and read it aloud.
This is to advise any fellers contacted by Buck Sears that we has us a large problem needs solvin' right fast. Buck will explain it to you an'I ask you to come fast to Trout Creek Pass and lend a hand. Yours for old times, Preacher.

Squinty cocked his head to one side. “Well, I'll be damned. You got our help, Buck. Tell us about this place again; then we'll make use of the rest of this day gettin' out of here.”

Buck related the final days in New Rome and what Preacher and Philadelphia were up to at the moment. All three mountain men thought on it; then Squinty came to his boots. “We know where half a dozen of our friends are fixin' to hang out for the winter. We'll go get them and then head for this rendezvous with Preacher. I ain't never seen me a man in a skirt before, but I reckon we can sure put the fear of God in a bunch of 'em.”

* * *

On his fourth day away from New Rome, Philadelphia Braddock ambled into a camp in the Medicine Bow range occupied by Blue Nose Herkimer. There he also found Four-Eyes Finney, a wild Irish brawler turned mountain man; Karl “Bloody Hand” Kreuger; Nate Youngblood; and, surprisingly to him, Frenchie Dupres. After a few bear hugs, some foot stomping, and a lot of genial cussing, Philadelphia filled them in on what had been happening in the Ferris Range. Bloody Hand Kreuger did not believe it.

“Pferd Scheist!
That's all it is, horse shit. I was through there back a ways, and I never saw anything like that.”

“How long ago was that, Karl?” Philadelphia asked, using the German mountain man's given name because he knew Bloody Hand did not like it.

Bloody Hand thought on it a moment. “Ten . . . maybe twelve years ago.”

“A lot can happen in that time. An' it surely did. That's about the time this crazy feller, calls himself Marcus Quintus Americus, came out here. Boys, I've been there, saw the buildings, took baths in a fancy buildin', and fought for my life in a place where folks come an' watch ya die for the fun of it. Preacher was there with me, like I said. Now, fellers, what'll it be? Are you goin' to join us in doin' away with this place of corruption or not?”

An old and dear friend of Preacher, Frenchie Dupres rose and dusted off the seat of his trousers. “I am ready,
mon ami.
These people sound to be
tres
evil. If Preacher needs our help, I say we give it to him.”

“You can count on me,” Nate Youngblood agreed.

“I'm with you, Philadelphia,” Blue Nose Herkimer added.

Four-Eyes Finney tugged at a thick forelock of sandy hair. “Sure an' it sounds like a fine donnybrook. Count me in.”

Although the Kraut mountain man had a long list of grievances against Preacher, Karl Kreuger sighed heavily and nodded in acceptance. “I'll go. What the hell, Preacher is one of us, and no fancy Roman is gonna put down a mountain man.”

Philadelphia could not hide his happy smile. “By jing, that shines. Ya can all head out at first light; it's a ways to Trout Crick Pass. I'm leavin' now to see if I can scare up some other fellers.”

19

Preacher found Bold Pony and his band settled down in their winter camp in a tidy little valley. He was welcomed with stately courtesy. Then Bold Pony noticed Preacher's injuries. He sent at once for the medicine man.

“I coulda taken care of that for myself,” Preacher protested without sincerity. The poultices the shaman put on his cuts and bruises felt cool and soothing. And the Arapaho medicine man could get to the claw marks on his back better than he had been able to.

“Not while you are in my camp, friend,” Bold Pony responded. “You will speak of how you received these injuries at the council fire tonight?”

“Yes. I sort of hunted you down for that exact reason. There's some mighty bad people out there that need a lesson taught them.”

“We eat first. And drink coffee.”

After filling himself with elk stew, Preacher sat back and belched loudly, rubbed his belly to show how much he had enjoyed it, and allowed as how he was ready to talk to the council. They gathered around a modest fire in the center of the village. Bold Pony spoke first, as was his right, then formally introduced the man well known to them. Preacher rose and addressed the council while Bold Pony translated.

He told them of New Rome and what had happened there. “Until some dozen years ago, only the Crows and the Blackfeet roamed through the Ferris Range,” he began. He went on to describe the city that had grown there, of the cruelty of the people who lived in it. When he came to the games, Bold Pony used the Arapaho words for “savage” and “barbarian.” That amused Preacher. Although he knew the Arapaho tongue well enough to pass the time of day, Preacher wanted to be sure the whole sordid story of New Rome came across clearly. It appeared to him that Bold Pony was doing that right enough.

Angry mutters rose when he described the Arapaho warriors who had been enslaved and killed, and added, “We sang their death songs after the gladiators finished with them.” He concluded his account with the escape and an appeal for help in destroying this menace. Buffalo Whip, an aged former peace chief, rose to speak against the Arapaho involvement. “We do not know these people. They have done us no harm. Those men you told about are not of this band. It is not for us to avenge them. It is not wise to take the war trail against people who do not have anger toward us.” He rambled on awhile, then repeated the admonition to avoid war.

Preacher rose again. “Thing is, they've got anger toward everyone. They call us barbarians, an' you folks, too. A feller who had been there six years told me they plan on fighting everyone out here. An' he tells the truth.”

Another older councilman stood to argue against joining in Preacher's fight. A third followed him. Preacher considered that it wasn't going well. Then came the turn of some of the younger men. Yellow Hawk took his place in front of the assembly.

“There are too many white men out here now. Most are like our friend, Preacher. These men have bad hearts. They hurt women and children. I say we fight them.”

Badger Tail agreed. Buffalo Whip spoke again. Two more of the fiery, youthful warriors responded, urging that a war party be organized. The debate raged on into the night. The fire burned low, and young boys, apprentice warriors, built it up again. At last, Bold Pony put a hand on Preacher's shoulder.

“You might as well take some sleep, old friend,” he advised. “This will take a while.”

Preacher nodded and came to his boots. Stifling a yawn, he ankled off to the lodge where he would spend the night.

* * *

Birds twittered in the trees outside the Arapaho camp while the eastern sky turned pink. Preacher emerged from a buffalo hide lodge as the velvet dome above magically turned blue overhead. He wore a huge, relaxed smile on his leathery face. He tucked his buckskin hunting shirt into the top of his trousers and paused. He turned back to wave a sappy goodbye to the occupant, one thoughtfully provided by Bold Pony, and received a very feminine giggle in reply.

After his morning needs had been taken care of, he sat down with Bold Pony to a bowl of mush that sported shreds of squirrel meat. They ate contentedly. Then Bold Pony nodded toward the center of camp, where the debaters had already begun to assemble.

“You must have other visits to make, Ghost Wolf. You may as well tend to them now. This will be a long time deciding. Go to the trading post and wait for us. We will be along, if we are coming, within two days.

* * *

In New Rome preparations for war went on at a fevered pace. The two bold legions—actually their strength compared more realistically with two understrength platoons—conducted mock battles on the Field of Mars. The Campus Martius swarmed with armed and armored troops, their faces grim and set in concentration. Centurions raised their swords in signal, and the sergeants of the
contaburniae
bellowed the command to lock shields and prepare to form the tortoise. The centurions lowered their weapons rapidly.

“Form . . . up!” the leather-lunged sergeants commanded.

At once, the soldiers in the middle of the squares raised their shields overhead, shielding themselves and the outer two ranks as well. Each
pilum
pointed outward, a hedgehog of defense. A shower of blunted arrows moaned hauntingly to the top of their arcs and descended on the shields. They clattered noisily as the brass-bossed, hardened hides shed them. At another command, the ten squads disengaged their shields and faced the same direction.

“Forward at the quick time,” came the order.

At once the soldiers stepped off at a rapid pace, their javelins slanted forward. Twenty paces along the base course, the commands came again. With more assurance the formation evolved into the famous tortoise. Standing in his white chariot, its basket supports set off in gold, Marcus Quintus Americus looked on with satisfaction. His heart thundered with excitement. Elsewhere, those men who had proven to be passable marksmen drilled with the rifles. What a shock that would be when those mountain rabble returned. Gaius Septimus rode up on a white charger. The stallion snorted at the scent of its fellows drawing the chariot. Wet droplets of slobber stained the sleeve of the military tunic worn by Marcus Quintus.

“A couple more run-throughs and my legion will be ready for a cavalry charge.”

“Excellent. They are learning faster than I expected, and I'm pleased.”

“Here's the bad news. Some of your spies have ferreted out the information that the condemned man, Arturus, was in fact Preacher.”

Color flared on Quintus' face. “By all the gods! All that while I had my hands on Preacher and did not know it? How could that have happened?”

Septimus looked embarrassed. “I suspected it when I saw him fight at the school. Yet, I had nothing to prove it.”

“Who verified his identity?” Quintus demanded.

“Bulbus for one. He overheard one of the other gladiators call him that.”

Quintus scowled. “The fool. He should have reported it. We could have kept him in a cell alone, and fought him differently. None of what happened would have been possible.”

“And we wouldn't be running around like chickens with our heads cut off trying to prepare for war,” Septimus muttered to himself.

“What was that?”

“Nothing, Quintus. I have to get back to my
primus pilus.”
His need to meet with his first spear—his adjutant—was a convenient excuse to avoid the wrath of Quintus.

Half an hour later, a messenger came from Glaubiae to say that his troops were ready for the cavalry. He sent the man on to another part of the Field of Mars, where the mounted troops had been practicing. With whoops of glee, they whirled into attack formation and rumbled across the turf toward the defensive squares of the Thirteenth Legion. A shower of javelins hurtled toward them.

Quickly the spear carriers resupplied the hurlers, and the squares bristled like aroused porcupines. By design, the spears landed short, albeit not
too
short. Marcus Quintus was tickled pink. Not a waver. Not a man broke formation. Those Celtic fools called the plains barbarians the finest light cavalry in the world. Let them come up against the tactics of the legions and see what happens to them. The cavalry whirled and made another approach.

Again the rain of javelins broke their charge. Suddenly the tortoises broke apart and the legionnaires counterattacked, the keen edges of their
gladiae
striking blue-white ribbons from the autumn sun. They descended on the stalled cavalry and began to break into man-to-man duels. Dust became a blinding curtain, from which only sparks from upraised swords could be seen. Quintus knew that Septimus and his officers would be judging the effectiveness of both forces and was not surprised when a
buccina
sounded to end the battle.

Proud of their ability, Varras, the cavalry
legio,
trotted his men forward to salute the First Citizen. Marcus Quintus was beaming with satisfaction, thrilled with how well this mismatched rabble had welded themselves into a disciplined army. That pleasure ended quickly when he recognized his eleven-year-old son, in full armor, in the front rank of cavalry, face begrimed, sweat trickling from under his helmet. It instantly struck him that the boy had been fighting among all the others.

Riveted by that thought, he advanced to the next obvious revelation.
He could have been killed!
For all their well-conducted performance, the legionnaires were only partly trained. One could have gotten carried away, gone farther than orders allowed. And Faustus could be lying on the ground, bleeding, or headless. It chilled his blood and brought an imperceptible shudder to his burly frame. Before he could control himself and rethink the situation, he burst out with a bellow.

“Quintus Faustus, get out of there!”

Faustus could not believe what he had heard “But, Father, I . . .”

Imperiously, Quintus pointed to the driver's position in his chariot. “Get off that horse, come over here, and get in this chariot.”

“But, Father, Varras said it was all right, that I would be safe.”

Blood boiling, Quintus narrowed his eyes. “There is no such thing as 'safe' in a battle. Even in practice, mistakes happen.”

Faustus' voice rose to a near whine. “Father,
please!
I'm not a baby anymore.”

Faustus swung a bare leg over the neck of his mount and hung from the saddle, to drop to the ground. He walked stiff-legged across the space that separated him from the chariot. With each step his face turned from white to a deeper red. His lower lip slid out in a pout until he discovered it; then he sucked it in and bit it with small, even teeth. The first tears slid down his cheeks as he reached one large wheel of the two-person vehicle. The driver stepped to the ground, and Quintus snapped at him.

“Bring that horse and come with me,” he commanded. To a thoroughly frightened Varras, he growled, “I'll see you later at the palace, Varras.”

He said not a word while he drove straight to the palace. There he started to lecture Faustus, who bolted and ran off sobbing, to cry his heart out. Still disgruntled by how he had handled the situation, Quintus found little sympathy from his wife.

Titiana Pulcra stared unbelievingly at her husband. Small, slim hands on her hips, she stamped one slender, sandaled foot. “How could you, Quintus? To humiliate the boy in front of all those soldiers like that is unconscionable. It could have a terrible effect on my son. It could even make him into a sissy.”

Burning with his own demons, Quintus turned deaf ears to his wife's protests. This impending war would be the ruin of him yet.
Goddamn you, Preacher!
he thought furiously.

* * *

Vickie reached across the darkened room and lightly touched her brother on the arm. “Terry, Preacher's comin' back,” she whispered.

“Who told you that?” Terry asked crossly.

“Nobody. I just . . .
know.
”

“You an' your knowin' things,” Terry heaped in scorn. “It's like you sayin' he was in real big danger. A body can't know those sort of things.”

Vickie defended herself staunchly. “Well, I can. I sort of . . . feel things. Preacher's been hurt, too. I know that, so there.”

“How'd he get hurt, smarty?”

Tears threatened in Vickie's words. “Oh, Terry, I can't tell you that. I don't know how I know these things.”

Terry pondered that a moment. “What do you suppose we should do?”

The tears leaked through this time. “Don't ask me. That's for you to figger out.”

Pausing a long moment in the dark night, Terry turned that over in his head. “Why don't we go to meet him?”

“We don't know where he's coming from,” Vickie objected.

“Yes, we do. He went north from here when he left us our new clothes. We'll just go north.”

“Really? Do you think it will work?”

“We won't know unless we try. And we can't tell anyone.”

“When do we go?”

“Tomorrow.”

* * *

Sister Amelia Witherspoon stood in the center of camp. Another two days to reach this trading post. She remembered one they had come upon along the North Platte River. Low-slung buildings, with crude thatch roofs, smelly and dirty inside, hardly more than a poor excuse for a saloon. It reeked of stale beer, spilled whiskey, greasy food and human sweat. She had almost gagged when she entered.

If they had not needed supplies so desperately, she would have prevailed upon the new Deacon Abercrombie to pass this pestilential place by. Thought of their former leader, and how he had died, brought a pang to her heart and a lump to her throat. She swallowed hard, hoping she would not break into tears, because she also recalled that he had betrayed them when the first attempt had been made to escape. And that brought her to Preacher.