So far none of the women had voiced any desire to turn back. And the men had been surprised at that, for they had been watching about a dozen of the ladies whom they felt were the weak ones, not necessarily in body, but in spirit. But even those women had toughened up and were enduring the trail.
They saw no signs of the Sauk or Fox as they rolled out. Preacher knew they had killed at least three of the attacking Indians and wounded at least two more. To an Indian’s mind, those losses were too great to continue the battle. They had failed, but perhaps there would be another day.
Preacher headed the wagons for the Platte.
In about seven years, when the flow of westward pioneers would number in the thousands, the U.S. Army would establish a fort on the south side of the Platte, and it would be one of the most important forts on what would soon be called the Oregon Trail. But for now, Preacher, his friends, and the ladies on the wagons, were alone in hostile country. Should it be needed, there was no one they could turn to for help. If something were to happen to them, it might be months before a patrol was mounted to look for them. And by then it was doubtful any trace of them would be found. There are no accurate records as to the number of men, women, and children who just vanished—disappeared from the face of the earth, with wagons, mules or oxen, and equipment, forever—on their way west. Some place the numbers in the hundreds, others say it was in the thousands. No one really knows because many wagon trains were hastily thrown together and headed west without U.S. Army permission. Many foolhardy folks headed west in small trains—three or four wagons—and were never seen again. Once the wagons left the edge of civilization and hit the Great Plains, they were adrift in a sea—a vast sea—of silence, void of all the amenities they were accustomed to. Danger lay all about them. The horizon seemed to stretch forever.
They were alone.
Totally alone.
7
Steals Pony had been gone for two days. Something had been troubling the Delaware and he had pulled out, heading toward the wagons’ backtrail. On the afternoon of the third day of his absence, he reappeared and swung down from the saddle. The wagons had completed their circle, cookfires were blazing, and the coffee was ready when Steals Pony rode in.
Preacher took one look at the Delaware’s worried face and asked, “What’s wrong?”
“A large band of white men are following us. They carry supplies for a long journey and are well-armed. They are being careful to stay two days’ ride behind us. We are in trouble,” he ominously ended it. He poured a cup of hot, strong coffee and took a big gulp.
“Did you recognize any of the men?” Snake asked.
“Jack Hayes,” Steals Pony said, refilling his cup. “Tom Cushing. Rat Face. I could not recognize any of the others, but a tall, well-dressed man appears to be in command.”
Preacher waved Lieutenant Worthington over to the fire and told him what Steals Pony had just reported.
For the last several days, Rupert and his small troop had been very quiet and reflective. Preacher and the other mountain men knew what had happened. They’d seen it many times over the years. The vastness of the land had numbed Worthington and his men. This was what Preacher had tried to explain back in Missouri. But the plains could not be described. It was simply impossible to do that. They had to be seen and tasted personally. And for most, it was a very humbling experience. Their next humbling experience would be when they hit the Rockies.
“Is it possible, Preacher,” the young soldier said after a few seconds’ pause, “that these men are heading west on legitimate business?”
“I wouldn’t think so, Rupert. I got me a hunch—’cause I run into this very same thing last year—that Jack and Rat Face was supposed to be the inside men. Once we got several weeks from the jump-off point, them others in the gang would ambush and take over the train. Hell, folks have been doin’ this ever since men and women left the colonies and headed west. It ain’t nothin’ new.”
“But…but this is, well, dastardly! Well! We’ll just alert the authorities and let them…” He slowly trailed that idea off, suddenly remembering that there were no authorities out here. The nearest law was days to the east and almost two thousand miles to the west.
Preacher took a sip of coffee and smiled. “Now you’re beginnin’ to understand what we been tryin’ to tell you, Rupert. There ain’t no law ’ceptin’ the pistols buckled around your waist and the rifle in your saddle boot. We’ll find us a good ambush spot up ahead and you and your men will take the wagons on. Me and my friends will take care of Jack Hayes and his bunch of no-counts.”
“Ambush spot?” Lieutenant Worthington said.
“Yeah.”
“You’ll lay in wait and…ambush those men coming up behind us?”
“Yeah. You got a better idea?”
“But…but…you can’t do that!”
“Why not?” Snake demanded.
“Because those men haven’t done anything. That’s why.”
“But they’re gonna do something!” Preacher said.
“You don’t know that for sure.”
“I know Jack Hayes. He’s a murderin’, stealin’, rapin’ no-good, and has been that all his miserable life. And anyone who rides with him is just as bad.”
Rupert shook his head vigorously. “Sir, I have studied the law at a very fine university. I know something about the law. And what you are proposing just won’t do. There is such a thing as due process. Every accused person is entitled, under the constitution, to a fair trial. You can’t just kill somebody because you think they might be planning some evil deed.”
The mountain men exchanged glances. “Why not?” Blackjack asked. “We’ve all done it before.”
Lt. Rupert Worthington had supper with Eudora Hempstead, Cornelia, and Anne. He confessed to them his worry about Preacher and what he might do.
“I can’t leave the train,” Rupert said. “None of us can. I mean the men in my command. We are under strict orders to stay with the train at all costs—even if it means my life and the lives of my men. Otherwise I would send a runner back to alert the Army at Fort Leavenworth.” He sighed. “I am certainly impaled upon the horns of a dilemma.”
Eudora sopped out her plate with a hunk of bread. “I agree with Preacher,” she said. “Ambush the murdering scum.” She popped the bread into her mouth and chewed.
“Miss Hempstead!” Rupert said, horrified. “I cannot believe you said that.”
“Why not? I come from seafaring stock, Lieutenant. For over a hundred and fifty years my people have answered the siren’s song of the sea. Ships’ captains all. And they worked their way before the mast, from cabin boy to master. Do you know much about the sea, Lieutenant?”
Rupert shook his head no.
“Ships signal with flags. They talk with flags. They have flags for every conceivable occasion and threat. Ships that sail under no flag do so at considerable risk to themselves. Many a ship has been blown out of the water for refusing to show their colors. Or to strike them,” she added without a smile.
“This is not the sea, Miss Hempstead,” Rupert replied softly.
“Same as,” she told him. “It’s a vast, ever changing, constantly windswept, landlocked sea. Those men behind us are deliberately staying behind us—out of sight. Like pirates until they make their move to shoot and board. We can’t let them get ahead of us, Rupert. Preacher can’t take that chance. They’ll ambush us at their leisure. I see Preacher’s methodology.”
“What he is suggesting is murder, Miss Hempstead.”
“When there is no one in the woods when a tree falls, does it make a sound?” she asked with a smile.