“But not all of ’em.”
Preacher shook his head. “No, not all of ’em. The hotheads are still gonna want blood. It’s just a matter of how many are left on each side, and if they can convince the others to go along with ’em.”
Bartlett came up to them and said, “Preacher, I . . . I don’t know how to thank you for saving my son’s life. Roland would be dead now if you hadn’t gone out there and brought him back. I’ve never seen such a thing.”
“And you ain’t likely to see it ever again,” Preacher said, “because most fellas’d have more sense than to try a damn fool stunt like that. But he’s back and he ain’t dead, and there ain’t no need to say anything else.”
“All right,” Bartlett said. “But I won’t forget, Preacher. Not ever.”
“Preacher.” Lorenzo pointed toward the Indians. “Looks like the hotheads won the argument.”
The Comanches were charging again. Preacher called out to the other defenders, “Get ready! Here they come!”
When the warriors were just outside easy rifle range, they swung to the side and began riding in a circle around the wagons. They yipped and shouted and waved their bows and lances in the air.
“What are they doing?” Bartlett asked.
“Showin’ off,” Preacher said. “They ain’t attackin’ after all. They’re just tellin’ us how fierce they are before they leave.”
“You mean they’ve given up?”
“That’s what it looks like to me. For now, anyway. There’s no guarantee they won’t try to rustle up some more warriors and come after us again later. But for now . . . I’d say it’s over.”
“Thank God,” Bartlett said fervently.
The Indians made several circuits around the wagons, yelling ferociously and gesturing threateningly with their weapons. Then they turned and rode up the trail to the site of the first battle to retrieve the bodies of their comrades who had fallen there.
“I’ll bet I could tag one of the red bastards from here,” one of the bullwhackers said as he sighted over the barrel of his rifle.
“Leave ’em alone,” Preacher said sharply. “They’re lettin’ us get out of here with our hair. It’d be plumb stupid to antagonize ’em. Anyway, they’re gatherin’ up their dead. Show some respect.”
“Respect?” the man repeated. “For those red heathens?”
“They’re honorable enemies, and they were here before we were. Sure, they came along and pushed somebody else out, but they were still here before we were.”
The man shrugged powerful shoulders. “Whatever you say, Preacher.”
“It won’t hurt to keep an eye on ’em. If they try to jump us again, then you can shoot as many of ’em as you want to.”
Within fifteen minutes, the Comanches were gone from sight. Preacher knew they might come back, but his instincts told him the trouble was over.
“We got some daylight left,” he told Bartlett. “Best hitch up the teams and get movin’ again.”
While that was going on, Roland sought out Preacher and said, “Casey tells me you saved my life. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I’m sorry I acted rashly in shooting that Indian. I really thought he was going to take Casey with him.”
“Well . . . I reckon it ain’t your fault you didn’t know no better.”
“I’ll do anything and everything in my power to protect her.”
“That’s good to know. Just be sure you know what you’re doin’ when you do it.”
Roland nodded. Preacher had the feeling the young man still didn’t like him very much, but at least Roland had had the gumption to speak plainly.
A few minutes later, the oxen were hitched up and the wagons were rolling again. Since there was only one extra horse, the men who had been working as outriders took the places of the wounded bullwhackers. Casey rode in one of the wagons with Roland. He had volunteered to take over for one of the wounded men, but Casey insisted he rest after being knocked out, and Bartlett agreed with her.
Preacher picked Lorenzo to ride the extra saddle mount starting out. “We’re gonna have to take the place of all those other outriders,” he told the old-timer. “That means scoutin’ the flanks and our back trail as well as keepin’ an eye on what’s up ahead.”
Lorenzo nodded in understanding. “You go ahead,” he told Preacher. “I don’t mind bringin’ up the rear for a while.”
Preacher lifted a hand in farewell as Lorenzo wheeled his horse and rode toward the rear of the caravan. Preacher moved out ahead, wondering how they could get their hands on some more horses, knowing that wasn’t likely to happen short of Santa Fe.
For the rest of the day, Preacher and Lorenzo circulated around the wagons as the heavy vehicles made their slow, steady way southwestward. They checked in every direction for any sign of the Comanches or other trouble approaching the caravan. Nothing threatening appeared. Hot, tedious hours crept by, and finally the sun lowered toward the horizon and Preacher began looking for a good place to make camp.
He found it near a cluster of rocks and motioned for the bullwhackers to pull the wagons into a circle again. It was a good thing they would reach the springs tomorrow, he thought. The water in the barrels was starting to run a little low.
After the strain of the day everyone was exhausted, but the possibility the Comanches might return had the men so on edge that sleep was difficult. Preacher had no trouble getting volunteers to stand guard.
When he checked on the wounded man, Casey reported, “He seems to be sleeping peacefully and doesn’t have any fever. I think there’s a good chance he’ll be all right.”
“It’s thanks to you taking care of him if he is,” Roland said.
“How’re you doin’, boy?” Preacher asked. “You must’ve hit your head pretty hard to get knocked out cold like that.”
Roland shrugged. “I’ve got a headache, but that’s all.”
“Seein’ straight?”
“As far as I can tell.”
“All right.” Preacher turned back to Casey. “If you need me, give a holler.”
She nodded. “I will.”
Despite the tension in the camp, the night passed quietly. The wagons rolled out the next morning without incident, and the day passed, with long hours of slow, hot travel toward Santa Fe.
Late that afternoon, Preacher spotted a patch of green ahead and felt his spirits surge. Vegetation meant the springs were still flowing. He rode ahead to make sure, then returned to the wagons to give the others the good news.
“Looks like the spring is in good shape,” he told an exhausted-looking Leeman Bartlett. “I’m thinkin’ after such a long haul and the trouble we’ve had, it might be a good idea to stay here a few days and let everybody rest up, includin’ the oxen.”
“That sounds like an excellent idea,” Bartlett responded. “I couldn’t agree more.”
“Thing is, we’ll still have to keep our guard up. Injuns have been using this spring for a whole lot longer than wagons have been goin’ to Santa Fe. Wouldn’t surprise me none if they knew about the spring before there ever was a Santa Fe.”
The spring emerged from the ground and formed a pool surrounded by a marshy area covered with reeds and grass. The Cimarron River itself was nearby, its banks lined with scrubby trees, but its water supply was actually less dependable than that of the spring. It had been Preacher’s experience that the spring water tasted better than the river water, which was brackish at times.
The caravan pushed on. The worn-out bullwhackers had more life in their steps, as did the oxen. The big brutes smelled the water and were anxious to reach it.
“Be careful not to let ’em drink too much when we get there,” Preacher warned the men as he rode alongside the wagons. “We don’t need ’em boggin’ down.” He paused and then added, “The same thing goes for you men. You been on short water rations for a few days now. Fill your bellies too full and it’s gonna make you sick.”