And it was then that Preacher realized he had been wrong about the man from Washington. The ladies were expected, and they were spoken for. It made him feel some better about politicians…but not much.
“This is becoming a regular yearly visit for you, Preacher,” the chief banker of the post said to him, accepting a cup of coffee.
“Not no more,” Preacher told him. “This is my last run. Somebody else can look out after them poor pilgrims from here on in. You got my money?”
The banker handed Preacher a thick envelope. Preacher thanked him and took his friends aside to divvy up.
“More money than I’ve seen in many a year,” Blackjack said. “I think I’ll leave the mountains and head on down to Californey and buy me a little business of some sort.”
“You lie,” Steals Pony told him.
“Shore, I do,” Blackjack replied indignantly. “You didn’t expect me to tell the truth, did you?”
“That would be a novel experience, to say the least,” Steals Pony replied.
“What you gonna do, Delaware?” Blackjack asked.
Steals Pony cut his eyes to him. “Ride with Preacher if he wishes.”
“Yeah,” Blackjack said brightly. “I think that there’s a right good idea.”
But Preacher shook his head. “No, I ’ppreciate it. I truly do. But it’s my fight, boys. And mine alone. It’s a personal thing with me. I lost good friends on this run. They’d still be alive if it wasn’t for me. Now they lay moulderin’ in the ground. Them that we could find, that is,” he added bitterly. “Y’all lay around the post and enjoy yourselves. After I say my goodbyes, I’ll be pullin’ out ’fore the dawnin’.”
Preacher walked away.
“I don’t feel a bit sorry for Bedell and them scum that ride with him,” Blackjack said. “But I’d shore hate to have Preacher on my trail.”
Faith had walked up while Preacher was stating his intentions of going it alone. She had just washed her hair and was toweling it dry. “Don’t tell me,” she said. “Let me guess. He’s going after those men, but the reason for his doing so, other than they killed some of his friends, is mainly because they killed his horse.”
“You’re learning, lady,” Steals Pony told her. “You’re learning.”
“I never will understand that man!” she said, stamping her little foot.
That night, long after the wagons and most of the tents had gone dark and nearly everyone was sleeping, Preacher pushed back the flap on Faith’s tent and stood for a moment.
She lay in her blankets, the lone lit candle highlighting the sheen of her strawberry blonde hair. Her shoulders were bare, and it wasn’t hard for Preacher to see that under the blankets, everything else about her was bare, too.
“I thought you’d come by to say farewell,” she said.
“I’m here.”
“And?”
Preacher smiled and laid his rifle aside. She watched him kneel down by her bed and take off his shirt. She noted the bullet scars and knife scars and the place where he’d once had an arrow cut out. He was powerfully muscled. He reached out and gently touched her face with a hard and calloused hand.
“Is that the best you can do?” Faith asked.
Preacher chuckled softly and pinched out the candle.
When she awakened the next morning, Preacher had been gone from the camp for several hours. He had left her a note on his pillow.
“I know yore goin to writ about me. I dont mind.
Just tell the truth.”
“I shall, Preacher,” Faith whispered. “Oh, I shall!”
2
The Appaloosa was a strong horse and loved to roam. Preacher had known when he’d first laid eyes on him he was the first horse he’d seen in a long time that would be a match for Hammer. By the time Faith had awakened, Preacher was miles from the Willamette Valley, heading east.
Preacher knew he had a long way to go and not a whole lot of time in which to do it. He guessed that it was the first week in September, and in the high-up country, light snow would already be dusting the land. What he had to do was talk to some Indians and they’d spread the word about Bedell. Then it wouldn’t be long before somebody would have seen something and reported it. He did feel for certain that Bedell and his men would not chance heading back east. To do that would risk a hangman’s noose.
Preacher headed straight east, taking the trails that he knew would get him there the fastest. After traveling for days, and speaking with dozens of Indians from many tribes, he got a fix on Bedell’s location. A band of friendly Nez Perce did their best to trade him out from under Thunder, giving up when they only realized Preacher was not about to trade away his horse. It was then they told him about the band of white men—not mountain men—who, so they had heard, had been spotted repeatedly in the area of the land that smokes and thunders.
Preacher smiled at the news. He knew exactly where the land was that they were talking about. He’d wintered south of there a time or two, in a place called Jackson’s Hole, and knew the area the Indians stayed out of ’cause they considered it to be spirit-haunted. A Frenchy had named the place Roche Jaune. Yellow Stone.
If Bedell and his people wasn’t real careful, they’d get lost as a goose in that area, for the place had canyons that were so deep, they would boggle the mind, and dotting the landscape were holes, from which there were sudden fountain bursts of scalding hot water.
Preacher headed out, a grim smile on his lips. He figured he knew that area ’bout as well as any man and better than most. It was high-up country, in the Absaroka Range, and it was country to Preacher’s liking. Bedell figured that the country was so isolated he’d be safe there. He was wrong. Dead wrong. With emphasis on dead.
Preacher stayed north of Hell’s Canyon and rode through the Clearwater Mountains, heading for the Bitterroot Range. The nights grew colder and Thunder’s coat began turning shaggy, in preparation for the bitterness of the harsh winter that was only weeks away. Preacher knew he had him a horse that was a stayer and a friend, but there would always be a soft spot in Preacher’s heart for Hammer. He hoped that Man Above had allowed Ol’ Snake to get together with Hammer, so’s they could ride the clouds and the valleys of the Beyond. Ol’ Snake would take good care of Hammer until the day come that Preacher would finally meet up with the Man Above.
Preacher was not a religious man, not in the sense of a Bible-shouter or them that followed the fiery spoutin’ of gospel-thumpers. Preacher had been raised in the Church, but for years now he’d subscribed to the Indian way of thinking. Man Above had created all living things, and all living things that was useful to mankind had them a place up in Heaven. To the Pawnee it was Tirawa that was their principal god. The Cheyenne danced the Massaum, the animal dance, to ensure that the earth would remain bountiful—their main god was Wise One Above. To the Cheyenne, the soul was Tasoom. The Sioux, and many other plains tribes, had a dance they called Gazing At The Sun, which they did to help keep troubles from them. The Mandans danced and tortured themselves while doing the O-kee-pa, dressed as animals. To the Indians, and to Preacher, it was stupid to think that animals did not have a place beside Man Above up yonder in the Beyond.
The beaver was an engineer. The horse and the dog was man’s friend, protector, and worker. Dogs came from wolves so the wolf certainly had a place Up Yonder. Buffalo kept the plains Indians from starving, kept them dressed, and provided material for their tepees, cooking utensils, and weapons. They, too, had them a place, as did the coyote, the bear, the eagle, and lots of other animals. Preacher did have some doubts about whether the rattlesnake would make it to Up Yonder, but he figured that since Man Above had created it, the damn thing had to be good for something. He just hadn’t as yet figured out what that might be. He’d eaten rattlesnake more than once, when pickin’s was slim. They were right tasty, but he wouldn’t want to maintain a steady diet of it. Damn things was hell to catch.