Preacher erased all signs of his tiny camp and got gone from there. In this weather, the bodies of the Bedell brothers would not begin to stink for days or weeks, or they might never be found. Whatever the case, the deed was done and Preacher put miles behind him before he swung off into timber along a tiny crick and made his lonely camp for the night.
One thing he knew for certain, Victor Bedell’s reign of terror was over and done with.
Sitting by his tiny fire that night, Preacher inspected the contents of the wallets he’d taken. He burned all papers that identified the men—Vic had changed his name to Walter Burdette—and counted the money. A lot of money. More paper and gold than Preacher had ever seen. It boggled his mind. But it was dirty money; had blood on it.
On his way east, Preacher stopped at a store and bought clothes to fit the time and locale, carefully stashing his buckskins among his belongings on the packhorse. He stored his pistols with his clothing and carried only his knife on his belt and his Hawken in the saddle boot. And he began dropping off the dirty money along the way, giving it to poor houses and orphanages and churches and down-on-their-luck families who was havin’ a tough time of it in this hard winter. Never no huge amount in any one place—not enough to draw any particular attention to him—but stretching it and doling it out a bit here and a bit there.
He neither heard nor read any news about the bodies of the Bedell brothers ever being found. After this long a time, if the bodies had not been found and planted, they would have been gnawed on by varmints and the like, and positive identification would be near impossible.
And Preacher was amazed, awed, and, he had to admit, a bit frightened as he rode deeper and deeper into civilization. He saw a huge train roarin’ through the countryside on steel tracks, the damn thing a belchin’ smoke and spewin’ out sparks and racin’ along at a terrible rate of speed. Made a horrible noise, too. Couldn’t even think until the thing had passed. Scared his horses something awful. Preacher couldn’t imagine how anybody would be comfortable riding that fast. Wasn’t a natural thing to his mind. Damned if he’d ever get on one of them things.
He saw some amazing things as he traveled, things that he’d only read about and never dreamt of actually seeing. He saw new inventions and learned that the U.S. Government now had over ten thousand post offices and two hundred thousand miles of postal routes. Preacher couldn’t figure out just who in the hell would have that much to say to a body that they’d have to write it down and post it clear across the country. He learned that there were over half a million people now living in Indiana. He couldn’t even imagine that many people. And he read in a newspaper that Chicago now had over six thousand people living there, and New Orleans had over seventy thousand people all jammed up there. Preacher sure didn’t have any desires to visit them places. All crowded up like that, a body would be sure to catch some horrible disease.
Even with his store-bought clothes he drew stares. For he did not belong in this part of the country and clothing would not hide that fact. The women cut their eyes to him and the men were a tad on the hostile side. But not too hostile. For the men pegged the hard-eyed and wind-burned and sun-darkened man as being a man one had best not push. And they were damn sure right about that.
He crossed over into Ohio and stopped at a roadhouse to ask directions. The man was friendly enough and told Preacher that he was only about a two hours ride away from the village where his family lived. The innkeeper knowed them all and said they was right nice people. But he didn’t care much for their kids. They was all a tad on the uppity side to suit him.
Preacher didn’t tell the innkeeper that he was kin to the old man and woman. Just a friend of the family. He thanked the man and rode on.
Then Preacher got him an idea. He reined up in a copse of woods and damn near froze his privates off changin’ back into his buckskins; the new ones that he’d swapped from back on the Plains. My but they was fancy and fit him to a fare-thee-well, they did. He unwrapped his new bright red sash he’d bought back in the city and wound it around his flat and hard-muscled belly, sticking one of his big pistols behind the sash.
By God, he was a mountain man, not a damn pilgrim. These were his clothes, and if anybody didn’t like the way he dressed, they could go kiss a duck.
Now, he’d go see his ma and pa.
8
Preacher got all choked up and sort of misty eyed when he swung down from the saddle in front of the neat little home on the edge of town. There was an old man choppin’ kindlin’ wood by the side of the house, and some good smells comin’ from the house. His ma was bakin’ bread. But why was pa havin’ to chop wood? Seemed like some of his brothers could come over every day and tend to that. Preacher would have to talk to his brothers about that, and make arrangements of some sort. One way or the other.
Preacher pushed open the gate and stepped inside the small yard, walking around to the side of the house. He stood for a moment, looking at his father. The man grew conscious of eyes on him and straightened up with an effort, to stand staring at the rugged-looking stranger in buckskins.
“Can I help you, stranger?” the old man asked.
Preacher had to clear his throat a time or two before replying to that. Stranger? Then Preacher realized that he’d been gone for twenty-odd years. And he had changed.
“You want me to finish up the choppin’ and tote that wood in for you, Pa?” he managed to say.
The old man moved closer. “Arthur? Art, boy? Is that really you, son?”
“It’s me, Pa.”
The back door opened and a gray-haired lady stepped out. “Who’s there, Homer?”
The old man smiled. “The wanderer’s come back, Mother. It’s our son, Art.”
The lady caught her breath and then quickly dabbed at her eyes with a tiny hanky. Then she was off the porch and into Preacher’s arms.
The mountain man had come home.
COURAGE OF THE MOUNTAIN MAN
Necessity brings him here, not pleasure.
—Dante
Those who’ll play with cats must expect to be scratched.
—Cervantes
SMOKE JENSEN
He drifted West with his pa, just a boy, right after the War Between the States ended. Hard work was all he’d ever known. After his ma died and his sister took off with a gambling fellow, Young Jensen had worked the hardscrabble farm in the hills and hollows of Missouri and just did manage to keep body and soul together. Pick up one rock and two more would take its place the next morning, seemed like. Then his pa came home.
They pulled out a week after the elder Jensen’s return home. Heading west. Young Jensen had him a .36-caliber Navy Colt that Jesse James had given him after the boy had let some of the guerrilla troops of Bloody Bill Anderson rest and water their horses at the farm. Jesse had seemed a right nice person to Young Jensen.