“You will be careful?”
Preacher grunted. Careful? Every time Preacher thought Rupert might be showing some sense, the lieutenant had to go and mouth some stupid remark. Out here, a body best be careful twenty-five hours a day.
Preacher left within the hour. Hammer was getting on in years, but he was still twice the horse of anything that could be found in the train’s herd. And Hammer loved the trail and loved to run. But Preacher had made a promise to Hammer, and when this journey was over, he planned to keep that promise. He’d turn the big horse loose with a bunch of mares and let him enjoy the rest of his life. He knew just the valley, too. Isolated and lovely. Preacher had staked that valley out for himself. He had him a young Appaloosa horse there that he’d been training, as big as Hammer and just as mean and strong.
And that animal was as loyal to Preacher as a good watchdog too, probably because Preacher broke a horse in gentle ways. He had no use for a man who would mistreat a dog or a horse.
Preacher headed for a series of bluffs he’d checked out a few days past, an upthrusting of rocky-faced cliffs that had torn out of the earth hundreds of thousands of years back. Sandstone, Preacher thought. But they had a good stand of timber on top which would offer plenty of cover. From up-top he could see for miles and there were plenty of spots where water gathered and held.
He gave Hammer his head and let him set his own pace. The big horse would trot for a while, then slow to a walk. Hammer could sense no urgency in his master, so when he tired, he stopped and rested. Had his master wanted it, Hammer would have run until his heart burst.
Preacher reached the bluffs about an hour before dark and quickly found the trail up to the top. He wiped the tracks clean and scattered handfuls of dirt over his work. It would not fool anyone who knew tracking and was carefully looking, but it would be dark soon and Preacher would go back over his work come the morning. He picketed Hammer and then spent a full twenty minutes on the bluffs with his spyglass, carefully scanning in all directions. He could see no smoke, no movement other than animals, and could detect no danger within miles of his location. That didn’t, of course, mean there were no Indians about, just that Preacher could not see them. When you couldn’t see an Injun, Preacher had always opined, that was when you best start worryin’ and see to your powder and shot.
There was no way Preacher was going to risk a fire this night, so he ate a cold supper of bread and meat he’d taken from the wagon train, took him a long drink of cold water that had gathered in the rocks, then rolled up in his blankets and went to sleep.
He was up long before dark, once more on the bluffs with his spyglass. He still could see no glow of fires anywhere. He went back to a rock depression where he had gathered up and laid out twigs and dry wood the night before, and built a tiny fire for coffee. When his coffee had boiled and his bacon cooked, he put out the fire and ate his bacon, sopped out the grease in the pan with a hunk of bread, lit up his pipe, and enjoyed his coffee. The whole potful.
At first light he was again on the bluffs, carefully hidden in brush, with his spyglass. He used the glass north, south, and west, but not east. The rays of the sun might reflect off the lens.
He saw no signs of Indians nor of the large party of heavily armed white men he was expecting. When the sun was overhead, he began using the glass toward the east. After an hour had passed, he caught the first sight of the men. When they drew nearer, he began his count, and when he had finished, he was really worried.
Fifty men, all heavily armed, with plenty of packhorses and provisions. And Preacher knew the man out in front of the loose column. Personally.
Victor Bedell. Victor had been a very successful merchant in St. Louis up until a few years back. He had dealt in furs and in gold and precious gems. He had owned saloons and sporting houses and other businesses. And he had also loaned money and grubstaked trappers. The gold and precious gems had all been stolen in far-off places, and Vic cheated the trappers out of everything they brought back. When they complained, he showed the authorities (usually the army), the papers the always uneducated (Bedell made sure of that beforehand) trappers had signed. It was all legal. Bedell made sure of that, for he was a lawyer as well.
The last time Preacher had traveled to St. Louis, Bedell had mistaken him for being unable to read or write, and tried to get him to sign with his fur company. Preacher carefully read the wordy document, then wadded it up and tossed it aside, telling Bedell to go commit an impossible act upon his person.
Bedell got hostile. Bad thing to do with Preacher. Preacher whipped him up one side of a street and then down the other side, thoroughly humiliating the fancy-pants liar, cheat, whoremaster, and all around scoundrel.
Bedell swore he’d someday kill Preacher. Preacher had laughed at him and headed back west. The very next year, so Preacher had heard, the law caught up with Bedell and he barely escaped the hangman’s noose, fleeing St. Louis with his gang. He’d shown up in New Orleans, and Preacher had thought he was still down there, with his whores and dirty deals.
Now here he was, big and bold as brass.
Preacher watched the gang of cutthroats ride on until they were out of sight.
“Well, now,” Preacher said aloud. “That wagon train is surely in trouble. That’s got to be the reason for Bedell followin’ and layin’ back. Now, what do I do about that?”
He decided that for the moment, until Bedell and his men got long out of sight, the best thing he could do was to take a nap.
So he did.
11
Preacher napped for about thirty minutes, then saddled up and broke camp. He was uncertain as to what he should do. Steals Pony had said only that it was a large band of men. But fifty? And why did Bedell want the wagon train? There had to be more to this than meets the eye, Preacher thought.
But what?
He didn’t know.
Preacher had always felt that the story about the men out on the coast wanting wives was a bit thin in spots. He didn’t doubt some of it. The government was trying to settle that area. He’d read in a newspaper that there were millions and millions of people back east of the Mississippi. Preacher couldn’t begin to fathom millions and millions of folks. Why, they must be fallin’ all over each other back yonder. He sure didn’t have any desire to see something as terrible as that.
So what other reason would bring Bedell all the way from New Orleans clear up to the wilderness? For a fact, the wagons were all new, and the man from Washington had said they were specially made just for this trip. But Preacher, a suspicious man by nature, had gone over the wagons personally, looking for secret hiding places where gold might be hidden. There were no specially built hiding places. They were good, strong, sturdy wagons and that’s all they were.
The Army had scouted out some of the wilderness, and reported back that there was no gold to be found west of the Mississippi. Preacher knew that was a crock of crap. He’d found him a vein years back and kept a small pouch filled with nuggets on him at all times. But not being a money-hungry man, Preacher had no special interest in the precious yellow metal.
But Victor Bedell was a money-hungry man—the thought came to Preacher abruptly.
He whoaed Hammer and slid out of the saddle, to sit on the ground and think. Maybe that was it. Maybe Bedell wasn’t after the wagons, but had some information about gold and was going after it. The mules, oxen, and the wagons, filled with supplies, would just be the cherry on top of the cake—not to mention the women. Use up the women, trade them off to the Injuns as a token of friendship, and with the additional supplies, Bedell and his men would be set for months.
“I think you may have it, old son,” Preacher said aloud.