He rode the ferry ‘crost the Mississippi and stepped onto Illinois soil. It was like a whole new world to the man who had spent nearly his entire life in the wilderness. He hadn’t ever seen so many people. They were everywhere he looked. And they was all lookin’ at him! He didn’t understand how anybody could ever get any rest with all the commotion. Why, you couldn’t ride an hour on the roads without seein’ somebody a-foot, or in a wagon, or on a horse. Damned if he’d want to live like this.
In a small town just across the Wabash, Preacher had his first run-in with civilization. He had stopped at a tavern on the edge of town, a coach stop, for a glass of ale and a plate of food. He had become accustomed to the stares and whispers from people and didn’t pay much attention to it anymore. He had cut his hair and shaved, leaving only a mustache, and he had bought himself a new hat in St. Louis. Other than that, he still wore his buckskins and high-topped Apache moccasins. If people didn’t like the way he dressed, they could all just go right straight to hell.
He heard the door open and felt the blast of cold air. But he did not turn around to see who it might be. He just wasn’t that interested.
“Who owns that funny-looking, rump-spotted horse in the livery?” a loudmouth asked.
Preacher took him a swig of ale and turned his head. A big-bellied man wearing a star on his chest stood in the center of the room. Preacher took a dislike to him right off. He knew the type and had no use for them. “I do, lard-ass,” he told the man. Then he resumed his eating.
The room became very quiet, very quickly.
“What’d you call me?” the badge-toter said in a shocked tone.
“I said you was a lard-ass.” Preacher raised his voice. “And don’t you be callin’ my horse funny-lookin’. You’ll hurt his feelin’s. I got to live with him, you don’t. You ever tried to ride a humiliated horse?”
Heavy footsteps shook the floor. The badge-toter stopped at Preacher’s table and stared down at him. “I’m the law around here.”
“Congratulations. Now go away.”
A heavy hand fell on Preacher’s shoulders. It was a very bad mistake. “I think you better come with me to the jail. I don’t like you very much.”
Preacher drove his fist into the big man’s groin. The marshal hit the floor, both hands to his groin. He rolled around and moaned and groaned.
Preacher ignored him and finished his meal, laying a coin on the table when he was done. Then he stood up and plopped his hat on his head just as the marshal was slowly getting to his boots. The marshal made his second mistake when he reached for the pistol in his belt. Preacher flattened him, stretching him out stone-cold unconscious on the floor. Feller seemed to like the floor a lot, Preacher thought.
Preacher turned as several men crowded in through the front door. One of them was an older feller, an intelligent-looking, nicely dressed man who bore an air of importance about him. Preacher got the impression that the man had been across the river a few times. He had that look about him.
The older man sized up the mountain man quickly. He’d seen the type and knew them for men who could be extremely dangerous at the blink of an eye. “Why did you knock Marshal Bobbins to the floor, young man?”
“’Cause he insulted my horse and then put his goddamn hands on me and tried to tote me off to jail. No man puts his hands on me. Not you, not nobody.”
The older man could not contain his smile. “And your name, sir?”
“Preacher.”
All heads turned. Preacher was one of the most famous mountain men in all the nation. Right up there with Carson, Bridger, Beckwourth, Smith, and Hugh Glass.
“I…see,” the man replied. “Well, I am Judge Madison. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Mister, ah, Preacher.”
“Same here,” Preacher said, and stepped over the unconscious marshal, who had not moved since his latest encounter with the tavern floor.
“Might I have a few words with you, sir?” the judge asked.
“All right.”
“We’ll use your back room, Sidney,” the judge told the barman. Sidney nodded.
Preacher picked up his rifle and followed the judge and the other men into the vacant room. “Ale, Sidney,” the judge said. “And some of you men carry the marshal back to his office.” Then he closed the door.
Seated at the table, the pitcher of ale and glasses before them, the judge asked, “Your first time back to, ah, civilization, Preacher?”
“It’s been a while.”
“Things have changed, sir.”
“I noticed. You folks give badges to loudmouthed bullies, do you?”
“It can be a very rough job, Preacher. Takes a rough man.”
“He wouldn’t last fifteen minutes in the wilderness,” Preacher countered. “He’d be totin’ that badge in a mighty uncomfortable place.”
The judge could not contain his chuckle while one of the other men looked embarrassed. “Preacher,” the judge said, “I must give you some advice. You may take it, or ignore it. But I assure you, I mean well.”
“Speak your piece.”
“You have come from a land filled with hostiles and fraught with danger. But it isn’t that way here. We have laws and codes of conduct that most obey and follow. The marshal was out of line. Frankly, I feel he deserved what he got. Others will not see it that way. They would feel he was only doing his job the best he saw fit. You are traveling east, sir?”
“I am.”
“The laws will become more firmly enforced the further east you travel. You will be seeing more towns and villages with more marshals, more constables, and more sheriffs. The wearing of skins has almost passed. So you will be attracting more and more attention as you travel. Most lawmen will be cordial and civil with you. There will be some who might take a more aggressive stance.”
“If they bother me whilst I ain’t done nothin’, they won’t be aggressive for long.” Preacher spoke the words hard and flat and no man there doubted the famed mountain man’s intent.
“Some cities have passed laws forbidding the carrying of firearms.”
“I hope they don’t try to forbid me.”
“Do you understand what I am trying to tell you, Preacher?” the judge pressed him.
“Sure I do. And I thank you kindly.” He stood up. “I’m not a trouble-huntin’ man, Judge. I come east to do two things. One of them is to see my ma and pa. I ain’t seen them in over twenty years. Now compared to you-all and your hand-sewn pretty duds, I know I just look like a savage, but fancy clothes don’t no gentleman make. As long as people leave me alone, there ain’t nobody got nothin’ to fear from Preacher. Oh, tell your marshal he best find a job farmin’. Constablin’ seems to be a mite wearin’ on the man.”
Four days later, Preacher swung down from the saddle and gave the reins to a livery boy. “Rub him down and feed him good, boy,” he told the young man, who was staring openmouthed at Preacher’s manner of dress. “Dave Mott still own this place?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Fine.” He gave the boy a coin and walked into the combination general store, tavern, hotel, eatin’ place, and livery.
An old man looked up from behind the counter and grinned hugely. “Wagh!” he hollered. “Ain’t you a sight to behold, Preacher.”
The two men hugged each other and done a little dance, much to the delight of several of the patrons, who were shopping in the store.
“You old mountain lion!” Preacher said. “How can you stand it out here amongst all these pilgrims?”
Dave Mott had left the mountains about ten years back, bought this place, and settled in. Had said his rheumatism was gettin’ too bad for him to stay up in the high country any longer. Dave had kept in touch right good though. Why, he’d posted three letters west in ten years. Even though it sometimes took them two years or so to reach the addressee.
“I heard you got married, Dave.”