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Authors: William W. Johnstone

BOOK: Preacher's Journey
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TWO
Now that their surprise attack was ruined, the Indians burst from the trees and raced toward the wagons, whooping and shooting arrows. Preacher's shot had warned the immigrants, though, and they went diving for the cover of the wagons. As guns began to bang and puffs of smoke came from behind the bulky vehicles, Preacher gave the pilgrims a little reluctant credit for being prepared. At least they had some loaded weapons close at hand.
Preacher swapped rifles as he rode, pulling the loaded one from the saddle boot and ramming the empty back in its place. He guided the dun down the slope with his knees. When he had the Hawken primed and ready, he left the saddle and landed on his feet, running forward a few paces before he bellied down on the ground. Arrows cut the air above his head.
He fired without seeming to aim, but the ball flew true. It struck one of the warriors right where his arm joined his shoulder and busted the socket to smithereens, shredding so much flesh in the process that the arm wound up attached to the Indian's body only by a couple of strands of meat. The warrior flopped on the ground, his lifeblood pouring out onto the grass from the hideous wound.
Dog flashed by, a gray streak low to the ground, as Preacher surged to his feet and drew the pistols from behind his belt. He had covered enough distance in his initial charge that he was now within range for the short guns. An arrow tugged at the fringe of his buckskin jacket as he cocked and leveled the right-hand pistol. It roared and bucked in his hand, launching its double-shotted load of death.
The first ball caught an Indian in the belly while the second smashed his kneecap and dropped him. Preacher was already pivoting and drawing another bead before that warrior hit the dirt. The left-hand pistol thundered. Only one of those balls hit its target, but since that one smashed through the throat of one of the remaining Indians, it more than did its job. The Indian spun around crazily, blood fountaining from severed arteries.
Preacher saw that only one Indian was left, meaning there had been five to start with. The lone survivor had a bullet burn on his arm, a souvenir of the volley that had come from the wagons, but the minor wound didn't slow him down as he charged at Preacher, screaming out his hate as he lifted his war 'hawk.
Preacher dropped the empty pistols and yanked the hunting knife from its sheath. He got the heavy blade up just in time to block the tomahawk stroke. Preacher grunted under the impact. The Indian was strong and fast, a worthy opponent. Preacher slashed at him with the knife, making the warrior give ground for a second.
At times such as this, when Preacher was locked in a struggle for his life, he didn't burden his brain overmuch with thinking. His eyes, his reflexes, his muscles all knew what to do already. He acted. Later, if he lived, he would think about what had happened, because despite his rough exterior and his sparse education, Preacher was a thoughtful man.
He grabbed the wrist of the hand in which the warrior held the tomahawk. The Indian grabbed the wrist of Preacher's knife hand. Muscles straining, they stood there locked together, each knowing that the first one who slipped or eased up would probably die. Their faces were only a few inches apart. The warrior's features were contorted with hate behind their war paint. Preacher's jaw was tight with strain, but he didn't hate the Indian. Likely the fella believed he had a good reason for wanting Preacher dead. For his part, Preacher just wanted to stay alive, and he knew that meant killing the Indian.
The Indian suddenly tried to hook Preacher's leg with his foot and pull it out from under him. Preacher shifted his stance with blinding speed, and the warrior missed his try. That gave Preacher his chance. He got a heel behind the Indian's leg and jerked, and the Indian went over backward. Preacher went down with him, using the impetus of his fall to break free of the Indian's grip and plunge his knife into the man's chest. The muscles in Preacher's arm and shoulder bunched as he turned the knife and ripped to the side with it. The blade rasped against ribs and cleaved through flesh and organs until it reached the heart. The warrior spasmed for a second underneath Preacher before dying nerves relaxed. The Indian's fingers opened and let the war 'hawk fall on the ground beside him. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth as he stared up into Preacher's eyes and died.
Preacher pushed himself up and tugged the knife free, then wiped the blade on the dead warrior's buckskins as he knelt beside the corpse. “Mighty good fight, fella,” he muttered.
It had been pretty hectic while it lasted, which was no more than three minutes. In that time, five men had died. At least five, Preacher amended to himself, because he didn't know if any of the pilgrims from the little wagon train had gone under.
He turned toward the wagons, thinking to see if any of the immigrants had been wounded or killed, when he got a surprise. One of the pilgrims came at him, rifle in hand, and pointed the gun at him in a threatening manner.
“Stand right there, mister! Don't move or I'll shoot!”
Most times, pointing a gun at Preacher was a mighty efficient way of getting dead, but today Preacher controlled his instincts and didn't throw the knife in his hand. He knew a flick of his wrist would have buried the blade hilt-deep in the damn fool's throat. Still could, if the tarnal idjit didn't lower that rifle.
“Better point that thing at the ground, friend,” Preacher rumbled. “Case you didn't notice, I just risked my own scalp to keep these Injuns from takin' yours. We're on the same side.”
“You're one of those wild mountain men!” the man with the rifle said. “I don't trust you! How do we know
you
won't try to kill us?”
The man was tall and fairly muscular for a pilgrim, with a shock of black hair and bushy black eyebrows. He was also scared half to death, which was a dangerous thing. He might pull the trigger without even meaning to.
“Peter!” someone shouted from the wagons. “Peter, wait!”
The man turned his head toward the shout, and that was all the opening Preacher needed. In a flash, Preacher was across the open space between him and the man. His left arm hit the barrel of the rifle and knocked it aside as flame geysered from the muzzle. An instant later, Preacher's right fist, which was still wrapped around the handle of the knife, crashed into the man's jaw and sent him flying backward. Preacher had pulled the punch a little; otherwise he would have broken the man's jaw or maybe even killed him with the blow.
The man landed on his back and lay there motionless, stunned. The rifle was empty and posed no danger now. Preacher didn't think the fella was likely to get up any time soon, let alone come after him using the rifle as a club.
“Back away from him! If you try to hurt him again we'll kill you!”
Preacher looked toward the wagons and saw that another young man and two older ones were advancing slowly toward him. The older men were armed with rifles while the younger one held a brace of pistols.
“Hurt him again?” Preacher repeated scornfully. “He was the one wavin' a rifle around. Like I told him, I'm on the same side as you folks, or I wouldn't have come ridin' down here to give you a hand.”
“That makes sense, Roger,” one of the older men said. “I think Peter just lost his head.”
“This man saved our lives,” the other old-timer put in.
Preacher was glad to see that somebody understood that. He said, “Why don't we all just take a deep breath here and calm down?”
The young man called Roger lowered his pistols. “Yes, you're right, of course. I'm sorry.” He nodded toward the man still lying dazed on the ground. “My brother just lost his head.”
“Might have lost it literally, as hard as that fella punched him,” one of the old-timers said as he nudged the other one in the ribs with an elbow and grinned.
Roger came forward. “I'm Roger Galloway,” he said, introducing himself. “That's my brother Peter, there on the ground, and these are our uncles, Geoffrey and Jonathan Galloway.”
The mountain man nodded. “Call me Preacher.”
One of the older men—Preacher didn't yet know which was which—stared at him and said, “Not
the
Preacher?”
“Why, you're famous!” the other one said.
Fame was not something Preacher had ever sought, but when mountain men gathered at Rendezvous or other places, they liked to swap yarns. Some of the best ones were about Preacher, who despite his relative youth had already lived a full and very adventurous life. They would talk about how he had skirmished with river pirates on the Mississippi when he was naught but a boy, fought the British at the Battle of New Orleans alongside Andy Jackson when he was only a little older, and killed a grizzly bear with nothing but a knife, nearly dying himself from the mauling he had received. And the best story of all, at least to the mountain men, was the one about how Preacher had gotten his name. Captured by Blackfeet, he would have been put to death if he hadn't gotten the idea to start preaching to them, inspired by a street preacher he had seen one time back in St. Louis.
Preacher was a spiritual man, but not a religious one. He worshipped in his own way, in places of his choosing, instead of in some gloomy church where a fella couldn't quite breathe right. But for a day and a night and part of another day, he had given forth with the Gospel of the Lord, and as the appointed time of his death had approached, the Indians had decided he was crazy and given him a reprieve. None of the Blackfeet wanted to risk harming one who might be under the protection of the Great Spirit. Before that incident, he had been only Arthur, his given name, or more commonly Art. After it, forever and always, he was Preacher, and his name was spoken in every fort and trading post and isolated settlement where frontiersmen gathered.
Now he shook his head and said, “Never mind about me. What are you folks doin' up here in the high country?”
Before any of the men could answer, another shriek came from the wagons. Sometime during the ruckus, the screaming had stopped without Preacher really noticing. He couldn't miss it now, though, as it started up again.
“Lord have mercy!” he exclaimed. “What's that?”
“Don't worry,” Roger Galloway said. “That's just my wife—”
He didn't have a chance to explain why his wife was inside one of the wagons yelling her head off. A shout came from the trees back along the creek bank, followed by a burst of savage growling.
Preacher swung around and stepped over to his horse, which had come to a halt nearby. He jerked the pair of pistols from the saddle holsters and went toward the trees at a run. The Galloways stayed where they were, gathered around the fallen member of their clan.
When Preacher reached the trees, he followed the growling until he came to a spot where Dog stood over a buckskin-clad body that lay half in and half out of the water. Preacher had wondered where Dog had gotten off to during the fight, and now he knew. The big wolflike animal had sniffed out another of the hostiles. Preacher had been right in his original estimation: there had been six of the Indians.
This one was dead too, his throat torn out by Dog's savage fangs. Preacher rubbed Dog's ears and said, “Good boy. This fella must've seen things were goin' bad and tried to slip off. If you hadn't stopped him, he would've gone back to his village and likely brought the whole bunch of 'em down on us. Reckon you saved the day, you old varmint.”
Preacher dragged the dead Indian out of the creek. He would gather up the corpses later and bury them.
In the meantime, he wanted to get back to the wagons and see what all that other screaming was about.
He had a feeling he wasn't going to like the answer.
THREE
Preacher had made a mistake. It was rare, but it happened every now and then. He was human, after all. Though he had eyes like an eagle, not even he could see everything.
There had not been six members of the war party that had attacked the wagons. There had been
seven
.
Now the seventh warrior, a young man called Nah Ka Wan, crouched shivering on the bank of the creek several hundred yards from the spot where the wagons of the hated white men were parked. He had made it into the water when the huge gray wolf attacked him and his companion while they were attempting to get away. Running from a fight went contrary to everything Nah Ka Wan believed in, but it was necessary that someone return to the main band and let Swift Arrow know what had happened. Swift Arrow and his warriors had been searching for these whites for some time, and the war chief would be displeased if they were allowed to escape from the righteous vengeance of the Sahnish people.
While his companion had struggled with the wolf, Nah Ka Wan had slipped into the deeper water and started swimming, staying under the surface as long as he possibly could. The water was cold, very cold. On some morning soon, a skim of ice would appear on it, and after that it would be only a matter of time until the entire surface was frozen over. For now, though, it was just brutally frigid, but Nah Ka Wan could stand it for only so long. Then he had to crawl out onto the bank.
Instantly, he felt even colder when the wind hit his soaked buckskins and his wet skin. Not even a single particle of heat equal to the faintest ember in a long-extinguished campfire was left inside him, he thought as his teeth chattered. They clicked together so hard and so loud that surely the whites must hear the noise, especially the tall, hair-faced one who had killed so many brave Sahnish warriors. Nah Ka Wan did not know who that man was, but surely he was the most dangerous white man in this part of the country.
A shaft of sunlight found the young warrior where he lay in the brush and warmed him slightly, but not enough to make him stop shivering or still his chattering teeth. He had to move, a small voice in the back of his head warned him. If he continued to lie here, he would freeze to death before much longer.
Death might be welcome. He would cross over to a warmer, friendlier land, where the sky was clear and the hunting was good and there would be a beautiful young woman to greet him and keep his lodge. It was said that for every man there was a woman and for every woman a man, and since Nah Ka Won had not yet met his woman, if he died then surely she would be waiting for him on the other side of that great barrier.
But if he lived, the voice in his head told him, he might still find the one who was fated to be with him here in this world.
Could there be
two
women, one in this world and one in the land beyond death? That was an interesting thought.
But the question could not be answered unless he lived.
He pushed himself onto hands and knees, then climbed slowly and laboriously to his feet. Back to the west, along the creek, the white men talked among themselves. Nah Ka Wan could hear their voices, though their words made no more sense to him than the prattling of a squirrel.
He turned and began to walk, heading east toward the spot where he and the others had split off from Swift Arrow's group to search in this direction for the wagons. Though he felt dazed and found it difficult to think, he was confident that his instincts would lead him in the right path. He would backtrack until he found the others, and then he would tell his story to Swift Arrow. It would be a proud moment when he told the war chief where to find the hated whites.
Nah Ka Wan moved one foot, then the other, one foot, then the other, again and again, until it seemed that he had been walking forever. His brain was so numb with cold that it was several minutes after he had fallen before he realized that he was no longer moving forward. And then even that awareness slipped away from him. He lay there senseless....
So senseless he was completely unaware of the snuffling and the crashing in the brush as the bear approached.
 
 
When Preacher got back to the wagons, he saw that Peter Galloway was on his feet again, although still looking a little dazed from the punch that had laid him out. Those bushy eyebrows drew down in an angry frown as he saw Preacher striding toward him.
Peter's brother Roger stood by him, with the two older men, Geoffrey and Jonathan, behind them. Roger was shorter and slighter than Peter, with sandy hair, and looked a little older. He seemed older too as he put a hand on Peter's arm and said, “Don't lose your temper again. This man is here to help us.”
Peter nodded grudgingly. He said to Preacher, “Sorry I jumped you, mister. I guess I was just too worked up from those Indians attacking us.”
Preacher didn't think the apology sounded completely sincere, but he nodded in acceptance of it anyway. “I don't hear no more hollerin',” he said as he jerked his head toward the wagons. “Mind tellin' me what's goin' on?”
“I was just about to,” Roger reminded him. “That's my wife Dorothy you heard earlier. She's, ah, in the family way and is about to deliver.”
Preacher's eyes widened. “You mean there's a baby bein' birthed in there?” Would wonders never cease?
“Yes. To put it a bit indelicately, there is indeed a baby being birthed in there,” Roger agreed.
Preacher shook his head.
“Is there something wrong with that?” Roger asked.
How to tell a man on the verge of being a proud papa that he was a damned fool for subjecting first a pregnant woman and then a newborn babe to the wilds of the Rocky Mountains? And on the verge of winter, to boot!
Preacher just said, “Babies got a habit of comin' into this world whenever they take a notion to, and there ain't nothin' anybody can do about it. You got anybody in there helpin' the lady?”
“My wife is helping,” Peter said.
“She knows about such things, does she?”
Roger said, “Both of our wives have had children before, Mr. Preacher. They're not without experience in the process.”
“No mister, just Preacher.” He noticed three kids peeking at him from the back of one of the wagons. The oldest one appeared to be a towheaded boy about ten. The other two were a brown-haired girl, five or six years old, and a black-haired boy a year or so younger. They wore expressions of mingled fear and curiosity, but as usual with young'uns, curiosity had the upper hand.
He told himself he could sort out who was who and which youngsters belonged with which set of parents later on, then decided he wouldn't be around long enough for that to be necessary. But a moment later, as more screams came from one of the wagons, he knew that he wasn't fooling anybody, least of all himself. No matter how much he wanted to, he couldn't ride off and leave these pilgrims to fend for themselves in the wilderness.
“Sounds like she's havin' a mighty hard time of it,” he commented.
“It's been a difficult labor,” Roger admitted. “A difficult time for Dorothy all around, I'm afraid.”
And yet you dragged her out here anyway,
Preacher thought.
Roger went on. “But I'm sure she'll be fine. Women always scream when they're giving birth.”
“You'd know that if you'd ever been around any civilized women,” Peter added.
Preacher's jaw tightened in irritation. “I been around civilized women,” he snapped. Jennie had been a prostitute, but nobody could say she wasn't civilized. And he'd had a mother, of course, although truth to tell, Preacher barely remembered her. Most of the women he'd been around while they were giving birth were Indians, and the men of the tribe stayed far away while that was going on, leaving the process in the capable hands of the squaws. So Preacher supposed Peter Galloway had a point, whether he wanted to admit it or not.
He turned away from the others, saying, “I better do something about them bodies.”
“We can help you,” one of the older men said. He was stout, with white hair and a mustache. He stuck out a hand and introduced himself. “I'm Jonathan.”
“And I'm Geoffrey,” the other old-timer said as Preacher and Jonathan shook hands. He was shorter and slighter than his brother, clean-shaven, with wispy gray hair under a broad-brimmed hat. All of them wore functional homespun, leather, and whipcord garments, no doubt purchased back in St. Louis or wherever they had started from. At least they had the sense not to sport their fancy Eastern duds out here. They weren't totally unfamiliar with firearms either, although they had burned quite a bit of powder during the fracas with the Indians and hadn't done any significant damage. They might not be completely hopeless, Preacher told himself.
With Geoffrey and Jonathan trailing him, he walked back to where the bodies of the warriors lay scattered. For the first time, he had a chance to really study the way they wore their hair, the markings on their faces, and the decorations on their buckskins. What he saw made him grunt in surprise.
“What is it?” Jonathan asked. “They're all dead, aren't they?”
“They've gone under, all right,” Preacher said. “I'm just a mite surprised to see that they're Arikara.”
“That's the tribe they belong to, you mean?” Geoffrey said.
Preacher nodded. “See them bits of horn in their hair, stickin' up like they was real horns? That's a sure sign of them bein' 'Rees, which is what some folks call 'em. They call themselves the Sahnish.”
“I thought all Indians were pretty much the same,” Jonathan said. “They're all savages, aren't they?”
“Not hardly. Some tribes are right friendly to white folks, even though we came into their part of the country without an invite. And it goes deeper than that. Every tribe has its own way of doin' things, its own beliefs. I reckon a fella could spend a whole lifetime out here and not get to know everything there is to know about Injuns.”
“You sound almost like you like them,” Jonathan said in amazement.
“I do. Some of 'em anyway. Never had much use for Blackfeet or Pawnee, though.”
Geoffrey gestured toward the sprawled bodies. “Surely these creatures are from one of the more warlike tribes.”
Preacher scratched his bearded jaw and then shook his head. “That's what's got me a mite puzzled. The Arikaras can be fierce when they want to be, but most of the time, if they're let alone, they let folks alone in turn. A few years back, there was a spell when they were on the warpath because some idjits traded 'em bad whiskey for beaver plews. I was mixed up in that little dustup myself. But they got over it, except for one warrior who stayed so mad at the whites he went over to the Blackfeet and called himself a Blackfoot, just so's he could still make war.”
Preacher didn't go into any more details about how the Arikara warrior Wak Tha Go had carried out a vengeance quest on one particular white man, namely Preacher himself. In the end Wak Tha Go had died and Preacher had lived, and that was all that needed to be said, or remembered.
“Since then, the Arikara have been pretty peaceful,” Preacher continued. “Not only that, their usual stompin' grounds are at least a hundred miles east of here. Something must've really got 'em stirred up for them to be way over here in the mountains, attackin' wagon trains. You boys know anything about that?”
“Of course not,” Jonathan replied immediately. “We've never even seen any Indians like these before, have we, Geoffrey?”
“No, I don't believe we have.”
Preacher wasn't sure whether to believe the two old-timers or not. Some instinct made him doubt what they had just told him. Yet he had no evidence that they were lying. They might really have no idea why the Arikara had attacked the Galloway wagon train.
“Let's get these old boys buried,” Preacher said. The rest of it could wait until after that grisly task was completed.

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