“If I had the strength, I’d kill you!” John Lucas said, blood leaking out of his mouth and nose.
“Oh, and I wouldn’t blame you, neither. I ’magine I did mess up your day quite a bit.”
“I feel sorry for my…poor mother.”
“I do too,” Preacher said solemnly, nodding his head in agreement. “I ’magine it grieved her old heart something terrible to see her boy turn out to be such a rotten no-count scallywag like you. You want me to post a letter to her?”
“I don’t want you to…do anything ’cept…die, you bastard!”
“You closer to doin’ that than me, John Lucas. But I will be nice and plant you. I ain’t plantin’ none of these others though. You was kind enough to engage me in civil conversation over vittles, and that was fairly polite, so I’ll bury you.”
“Oh, Lord!” John shouted. “I’m comin’ home!”
“I hate to break this news to you, but you shoutin’ in the wrong direction, John Lucas.”
“I see the light, Lord!” John gasped.
“Them’s probably the flames of the pits,” Preacher muttered.
John Lucas belched, broke wind, and died.
“Hell of a way to check out,” Preacher said, pouring the remainder of the coffee over the fire.
He then buried the man like he said he would and, using a knife taken from the scabbard of one of the others, Preacher carved into a tree: JOHN LUCAS, 1839. HE WAS A FOOL.
5
Preacher took his time tracking the remnants of Bedell and his gang as they headed deeper into the Absaroka wilderness. Wilderness to most of them, home ground for Preacher. He suspected that sooner or later, probably sooner, they would have an ambush set up for him.
They had to be hurting, for Preacher knew they had precious few supplies left them, and if they had doubled back—which they had not done, as yet—they would have found that Preacher had burned all the supplies he hadn’t taken with him. So far he had heard no shots at all, so they weren’t eating any fresh meat. He didn’t know what they were doing for food, for they were no more than a few miles ahead of him and in this country he would have heard any shots.
“Goin’ hungry, probably,” he muttered.
Just then his ever-roaming eyes caught a bit of color that didn’t fit in with the surroundings. He left his saddle about one second before the rifle boomed. Rolling to his knees, Preacher brought his Hawken to his shoulder and sighted in. His shot was true and the man stumbled out of cover, both hands holding his punctured belly, his face pale with pain and shock. Tom Cushing fell to his knees and cried out.
“You’ve killed me, Preacher!” he screamed.
“I damn sure tried my best,” Preacher called over the distance.
Tom Cushing fell forward on his face and began sobbing like a baby.
Preacher squatted where he was and reloaded. Then he slowly looked all around him. His packhorses were grazing and Thunder, after looking around, joined them. Preacher walked up to the crying man and stood over him. Tom rolled over onto his back and stared up at the mountain man.
With tears cutting paths through the grime on his face, Tom said, “You played hell with us, Preacher.”
“You should have took my advice back in Missouri, Tom. I told you to go on home and leave me alone.”
“You gonna bury me proper and read words from the Good Book over my grave?”
“I ain’t plannin’ on it.”
“But you cain’t just leave me for the varmits!” the gut-shot man wailed.
“Why not? That’s what you’d a-done for me. And don’t say you wouldn’t have. You don’t wanna die with a lie on your lips.”
“Oh, Lord!” Tom squalled. “My poor body’s gonna be et by a bear.”
Preacher kicked the man’s rifle away from his reach and threw his pistols into the brush. Then he sat down on a rock and chewed on a piece of jerky. “You best hurry up and expire,” he told Tom. “I ain’t gonna sit around here no two or three days and listen to you complain.”
“Sweet Baby Jesus!” Tom said. “You the hardest man I ever seen in all my borned days!”
“You come after me, Tom. I didn’t start this affair. I told you to leave me alone.”
“Do something for me!”
“Cain’t. Ain’t nothin’ I can do. Can you move your legs?”
“No. I can’t feel nothin’ from my waist down.”
“You’re done for.”
That really set Tom to hollerin’. He squalled and blubbered, prayed and cussed.
“If you’ll shut up and stop all that blasphemin’, I’ll bury you proper,” Preacher finally told him. “Way you’re actin’ now, you’re givin’ me a headache.”
“You promise you’ll see me in the ground proper?”
“Yeah, yeah. I promise.”
“Bless you, Preacher.”
“Just get on with it, Tom.”
It got kind of rough for Tom toward the end, as Preacher knew it would. But he could work up no sympathy for the man. Folks who choose to ride a dark and twisted trail do so willingly and with full knowledge that at trail’s end lies a violent passage to the other side. But Preacher had to admit that Tom’s end was sort of pitiful. He didn’t go out like a man. One minute he was cryin’ and prayin’, hollerin’ and turnin’ the bloody ground into a revival, the next instant he was gone.
Preacher had dug the hole while Tom was implorin’ Heavenly choirs to sing him home gently. Preacher had found Tom’s horse and stripped saddle and bridle from the animal and turned him loose. He rolled Tom up in his blanket and laid him to rest, then covered the shallow grave with rocks.
Preacher took off his hat and looked up at the amazing blue of the skies. “Lord, You do what You’ve a mind to with this sorry piece of crap. That’s all I got to say.”
He then swung into his saddle and headed out. “One less,” he muttered. “Eight or nine to go.”
That afternoon, he rounded a curve in the animal trail and whoaed up at the sight before him. Four women were sitting on a fallen log. They had propped their rifles against a tree and their pistols were Iying on the ground a dozen feet from them. Their horses were picketed nearby. The women looked up at Preacher and one said, “I’m Camille. This is Lydia, Nadine, and Melba. We left Bedell. We’re tired, hungry, cold, and lost. We give up. We surrender to you.”
“Hell, I don’t want you,” Preacher told them. “I wouldn’t even take the lot of you on a bet.”
“You can’t just leave us here!” Nadine screamed loud enough to shake leaves from the trees.
Preacher winced and Thunder laid his ears back. Damn whore had a voice that would put a puma to shame. “I’ll give you enough food to see you through and blankets to keep you warm. And I’ll point you in the right direction. Other than that, you ladi…women is on your own.” And God help any Indian who blunders up on you, he added silently.
To a person, the ladies cussed him loud and long. Preacher swung down from Thunder and faced them. When they had paused for breath, he said, “You cuss me one more time and I’ll leave you out here with just what you got, and you damn well better believe I’ll do it, too.”
The four whores sat in sullen silence and stared at him. “That’s better,” Preacher told them. He unloaded supplies and laid them out on the ground. “That way,” he said, pointing.
“But what if we’re taken captives by the red savages?” Camille hollered.
“Just squall once or twice,” Preacher replied. “I guaran-damn-tee you they’ll turn you loose faster than you can blink. Injuns ain’t stupid. Goodbye.”
Preacher got gone from there as fast as he could. The women could not tell him where Bedell and his shrinking band of crud and crap had gone, and Preacher believed them. He didn’t know if the women would make it out of the wilderness, and he didn’t much care. But they had a pretty good chance of making it. They stunk to high heaven and no self-respecting Injun would get within ten feet of them. They were as vicious a lot as Preacher had ever run across and he wouldn’t trust none of them any further than he could throw a grizzly. But he was glad he wouldn’t have to harm no more of them. Shootin’ a woman sort of cut across the grain…even women like them that had thrown in with Bedell.