Absaroka Ambush

10

Preacher awakened long before the others and looked up into a brilliant star-filled sky. He lay in his blankets and smiled. The storms were past and they could move on. Under the hot sun, the plains would dry faster than a man unfamiliar with it would believe. In two days they’d be choking with dust and bitching about the heat.

Preacher had no way of knowing it, but in the spring of 1839, back in Peoria, Illinois, Thomas Farnham and thirteen other men were just leaving with a pack train, heading for the Willamette Valley in Oregon Territory. Both Preacher and Farnham were riding into destiny. That spring, the population of the United States was sixteen million people. Ninety-nine percent of it was east of the Mississippi River.

The people had to move west. The east was getting too crowded. And the Indians would be caught up in the middle. Later in the year of 1839, the horrible Trail of Tears would take place, when the U.S. government would force many thousands of Indians from their homes in Alabama, Georgia, Florida, and Tennessee, to the Indian country in what would someday be called Oklahoma. Several thousand men, women, and children, of the Cherokee, Choctaw, Chickasaw, Creek, and Seminole—the Five Civilized tribes—would die on the forced march.

“The women are up to something.” Steals Pony whispered the caution to Preacher at the cookfire.

Preacher got a plate of food and a cup of coffee and he and the Delaware sat down on a log to eat. “What?”

“Don’t know. But I think it has something to do with the dead women.”

Charlie Burke and Snake came up, both carrying plates piled high with food. One thing could be said with absolute certainty about the mountain men: they could all eat enough for two or three men.

“The women is puttin’ together a choir,” Snake said, then filled his mouth with food.

“A choir?” Preacher looked up. “What the hell for?”

Ring, Blackjack, and Ned, strolled up, their plates filled to overflowing. “At first light,” Blackjack said, “the women is gonna have a tribute to them three dead ladies. Singin’ and readin’ from the Bible.”

“Damnit, I already read from the Good Book!” Preacher said. “Me and Steals Pony both done it.”

“You tell them they can’t do it.” Blackjack settled that point quick.

Preacher grunted, ignoring the smile on the big mountain man’s face. “Oh, hell. I ain’t gonna interfere with no Bible thumpin’ and praisin’ the Lord in song. I ain’t no heathen. But whilst that’s goin’ on, I’ll saddle up and scout ahead for a few miles. You wanna come along, Steals Pony?”

“Actually, I find the sound of feminine voices blending together in song quite moving. I shall stay and perhaps join in song with them.”

Snake looked at him. “I know you got you a hellacious good education. Seventh grade, I think I heard. But I wish just once you’d talk like a damn dumb Injun.”

Steals Pony nodded his head and grunted, “Grub heap good.” He smiled. “Are you satisfied now, Snake?”

Snake took his plate of food and his coffee and walked off, muttering about smart-aleck Injuns. Fifteen minutes later, he had his horse and Preacher’s horse saddled and was ready to go, ’fore them females started singin’ and preachin’ and got all emotional and started blubberin’ all over the place. Snake didn’t think he could stand that.

As soon as the women started tunin’ up their vocal cords, Preacher and Snake rode out to the west. The sun was beginning to color the east with dawn’s silver hue.

“Snake,” Preacher said, after the camp was behind them and the voices of the women were faint in the early light and cool air of the plains. “I been knowin’ you ever since I come out here. And I been out here since I was knee-high to a grasshopper. You ain’t changed none. How old are you?”

“I don’t rightly know, Preacher. I think I’m some’eres ’tween seventy and eighty. I know I was years out here ’fore Lewis and Clark come a-traipsin’ through. You see, I killed me two men in Vermont back in ’85.”

“Seventeen eighty-five?” Preacher blurted. That was about seventeen or eighteen years before he was even born!

“Yep. I fit with Washington in the Revolution. And a mighty cruel time that was, too. Anyway, I lit a shuck for the far western lands and never looked back. Not one time has I looked back further than St. Louie.”

“Never heard another word from kith and kin?”

“Nary a peep. I reckon they’re all gone now. I’ve lived more ’un I ever figured I would. There ain’t no place west of the Mississippi that I ain’t seen, neither…well, you know what I mean. Cain’t no man see it all, but I reckon I’ve crossed ever’ crick and river there is out here. Preacher, can I ask you a favor?”

“You know you can.”

“If you’re clost by when it comes my time to check out, you bury me high, will you? You wrap me up real good and tight so’s the smell won’t make you puke, and tote me up to the highest peak you can find. Plant me there.”

“I’ll do ’er, Snake.” He cut his eyes to the old man. “You figurin’ on cashin’ in this trip, are you?”

“You never know, son. You just never know. But I got a feelin’, I do. I’ll be honest with you. I’m tired. Almighty tired. It ain’t so much that I’m tired in my body as it is I’m tired in my mind. I’ve rid all the trails there is to ride, seen all the sights—some of them a dozen times over—and I’ve buried more friends than I care to think about. They’re callin’ to me, Preach. I swear to you they is. I hear ’em in my sleep. You reckon I’m losin’ my mind?”

Preacher shook his head. “No,” he said slowly. “I don’t think that at all, Snake. But I do believe a man knows when it comes his time to go. I’ll plant you high, Snake. You got my word on it.”

The old mountain man nodded his head. “’ppreciate it. Takes a load off my mind, it do.”

The voices of the ladies could no longer be heard, and with one hundred and forty-seven of them shoutin’ to the Heavens, that meant the men had ridden about two miles, more or less.

“You want to stop?” Snake asked.

“Hell, no! I want to put some distance ’tween us and them females. Blackjack knows the way. I want to see what the Platte looks like.”

“It’s wet,” Snake said with a straight face.

“Thank you. I remember that much about it.”

“We gonna cross it just north of here?”

“I ain’t made up my mind yet. What worries me is why Washington wanted us to leave Missouri so soon. Ain’t no way they could have predicted this early spring with plenty of graze.”

“That’s why them extra wagons of feed was put on, Preach. At the last minute,” he added.

“But why?”

“So we stand a better chance of coverin’ two thousand miles ’fore the snows fall.”

“Maybe. Maybe.”

“You got something stuck in your craw?”

“Yeah. Plenty. All of it worrisome. You and me and the others, we’ve seen buffalo stampede, and we was lucky enough to get out of the way. You know what’s gonna happen to the women and the wagons if they get caught up in one?”

“I can make a fair guess.”

“Yeah. And on top of that, we got alkali water and Injuns to worry about. We’re gonna lose livestock and lives crossin’ rivers and run off by Injuns. These women are gonna have to boil water ’fore they drink it to keep from gettin’ sick. We was lucky back yonder that no lightnin’ was with that storm. But we’ll face it in the months ahead. We’re gonna be humpin’ it to keep this train in fresh meat. We’re gonna have to wind-lash these wagons down the grades up ahead. And I mean we. Them ladies won’t be able to do it alone. You noticed these big bastard wagons don’t have no brakes? That’s why I raised so much hell back yonder about additional heavy rope.”

Snake cut his eyes to Preacher. “You’re just a barrel of laughs today, ain’t you, Preach?”

“Hell, Snake, I ain’t even got goin’ good yet.”

“I was afraid of that.”

“I laid in a good stock of dried apples. But it won’t last the trip.”

“Scurvy?”

“You bet.”

“And the last of it?” Snake pressed. “I hope.”

“We’re gonna face dust storms, wind storms, busted wagon wheels…and the lonelies.”

“We can deal with all them things ’ceptin’ the last,” Snake said, his eyes never stopping their scanning of the countryside. “Over the last fifty-odd years, I seen big, strong men fall under the vastness of it all. I mean, go stark, ravin’ mad. You’ve seen it, too.”

Preacher nodded in silent agreement. He’d seen men succumb to the silent horizon that seemed to have no end; to the enormity of it all that reduced man to a tiny nothing. Most men just shrugged it away and accepted it. A few others lost their minds.

One or two, or more, of these women would not be able to cope with it. And then they’d have a raving lunatic on their hands.

Preacher had seen that, too.

“And let’s don’t forget them men on our backtrail,” Snake said. “They shore ain’t up to no good.”

Again, Preacher nodded. The past night, alone under one of the supply wagons, Preacher had carefully gone over the documents given him by the government man back in Missouri. Preacher was convinced the papers were genuine and that the man from Washington was up to no skullduggery. He did not believe the government man was in any way mixed up with that band of scallywags who were following them.

So what were they up to?

He didn’t know.

Who was the tall, well-dressed man who appeared to be leading the group?

He didn’t know that either.

But Preacher had him a hunch he’d know the answers to his questions pretty damn quick.

The going was slow that first day after the torrential rains, and the train made only a few miles. But under the blistering sun, the land dried out quickly and on the second day after the passage of the storm, the wagons made a good fifteen miles. The westward women had said and sung their goodbyes to the three ladies who had become discouraged, and no more was said about them, at least not to Preacher.

Preacher told Blackjack and the other mountain men to take over for a few days. He was going to lag behind and get him an eyeball full of the men following them. He had a place all picked out, and he had his good spyglass. Then Preacher decided he’d best tell Lieutenant Worthington of his plan.

“You’re not going to ambush them, are you?” Rupert asked, a worried look on his face.

“Me? Against forty or fifty armed men? Hell, no!”

“I had to ask, Preacher. Your exploits of daring-do are well known.”

“Uh-huh.” Preacher had no intention of telling the young lieutenant that he did plan—if possible—to grab one of the bunch and get the truth from him.

“In case you are not back when we reach the Platte, do we cross it when we come to it?”

“No. Stay on the south side of it. But you won’t reach it ’fore I return. I’ll be back ’fore you know it.”

“You will be careful?”

Preacher grunted. Careful? Every time Preacher thought Rupert might be showing some sense, the lieutenant had to go and mouth some stupid remark. Out here, a body best be careful twenty-five hours a day.

Preacher left within the hour. Hammer was getting on in years, but he was still twice the horse of anything that could be found in the train’s herd. And Hammer loved the trail and loved to run. But Preacher had made a promise to Hammer, and when this journey was over, he planned to keep that promise. He’d turn the big horse loose with a bunch of mares and let him enjoy the rest of his life. He knew just the valley, too. Isolated and lovely. Preacher had staked that valley out for himself. He had him a young Appaloosa horse there that he’d been training, as big as Hammer and just as mean and strong.

And that animal was as loyal to Preacher as a good watchdog too, probably because Preacher broke a horse in gentle ways. He had no use for a man who would mistreat a dog or a horse.

Preacher headed for a series of bluffs he’d checked out a few days past, an upthrusting of rocky-faced cliffs that had torn out of the earth hundreds of thousands of years back. Sandstone, Preacher thought. But they had a good stand of timber on top which would offer plenty of cover. From up-top he could see for miles and there were plenty of spots where water gathered and held.

He gave Hammer his head and let him set his own pace. The big horse would trot for a while, then slow to a walk. Hammer could sense no urgency in his master, so when he tired, he stopped and rested. Had his master wanted it, Hammer would have run until his heart burst.

Preacher reached the bluffs about an hour before dark and quickly found the trail up to the top. He wiped the tracks clean and scattered handfuls of dirt over his work. It would not fool anyone who knew tracking and was carefully looking, but it would be dark soon and Preacher would go back over his work come the morning. He picketed Hammer and then spent a full twenty minutes on the bluffs with his spyglass, carefully scanning in all directions. He could see no smoke, no movement other than animals, and could detect no danger within miles of his location. That didn’t, of course, mean there were no Indians about, just that Preacher could not see them. When you couldn’t see an Injun, Preacher had always opined, that was when you best start worryin’ and see to your powder and shot.

There was no way Preacher was going to risk a fire this night, so he ate a cold supper of bread and meat he’d taken from the wagon train, took him a long drink of cold water that had gathered in the rocks, then rolled up in his blankets and went to sleep.

He was up long before dark, once more on the bluffs with his spyglass. He still could see no glow of fires anywhere. He went back to a rock depression where he had gathered up and laid out twigs and dry wood the night before, and built a tiny fire for coffee. When his coffee had boiled and his bacon cooked, he put out the fire and ate his bacon, sopped out the grease in the pan with a hunk of bread, lit up his pipe, and enjoyed his coffee. The whole potful.

At first light he was again on the bluffs, carefully hidden in brush, with his spyglass. He used the glass north, south, and west, but not east. The rays of the sun might reflect off the lens.

He saw no signs of Indians nor of the large party of heavily armed white men he was expecting. When the sun was overhead, he began using the glass toward the east. After an hour had passed, he caught the first sight of the men. When they drew nearer, he began his count, and when he had finished, he was really worried.

Fifty men, all heavily armed, with plenty of packhorses and provisions. And Preacher knew the man out in front of the loose column. Personally.

Victor Bedell. Victor had been a very successful merchant in St. Louis up until a few years back. He had dealt in furs and in gold and precious gems. He had owned saloons and sporting houses and other businesses. And he had also loaned money and grubstaked trappers. The gold and precious gems had all been stolen in far-off places, and Vic cheated the trappers out of everything they brought back. When they complained, he showed the authorities (usually the army), the papers the always uneducated (Bedell made sure of that beforehand) trappers had signed. It was all legal. Bedell made sure of that, for he was a lawyer as well.

The last time Preacher had traveled to St. Louis, Bedell had mistaken him for being unable to read or write, and tried to get him to sign with his fur company. Preacher carefully read the wordy document, then wadded it up and tossed it aside, telling Bedell to go commit an impossible act upon his person.

Bedell got hostile. Bad thing to do with Preacher. Preacher whipped him up one side of a street and then down the other side, thoroughly humiliating the fancy-pants liar, cheat, whoremaster, and all around scoundrel.

Bedell swore he’d someday kill Preacher. Preacher had laughed at him and headed back west. The very next year, so Preacher had heard, the law caught up with Bedell and he barely escaped the hangman’s noose, fleeing St. Louis with his gang. He’d shown up in New Orleans, and Preacher had thought he was still down there, with his whores and dirty deals.

Now here he was, big and bold as brass.

Preacher watched the gang of cutthroats ride on until they were out of sight.

“Well, now,” Preacher said aloud. “That wagon train is surely in trouble. That’s got to be the reason for Bedell followin’ and layin’ back. Now, what do I do about that?”

He decided that for the moment, until Bedell and his men got long out of sight, the best thing he could do was to take a nap.

So he did.