Preacher's Assault

CHAPTER 7

For more than an hour after the heavens opened up, the rain continued to pour down. At last the deluge began to slow, and when it did, it tapered off quickly and then came to an abrupt end. Mere minutes later, the sun started peeking through tiny rifts in the thick gray clouds.

That was the way of prairie thunderstorms, Preacher thought as he pulled the canvas back and got ready to climb out of the wagon. Once they were over, they were over.

But Lord, that one had left a mess behind.

The trail was a broad swath of thick muck and standing water. Preacher’s boots splashed when they hit the ground. He sunk almost ankle-deep in the mud. When he turned back to the wagon to lift Dog down, the big cur looked at the mess and whined a little, as if to say he’d rather just stay right where he was, thank you very much.

Preacher grinned and said, “All right, if you want to be particular about it.”

Bartlett looked down from the wagon as well. “Good Lord,” he said. “It’s a swamp out there.”

“Yep,” Preacher said. “Just like I told you. You couldn’t go very far without boggin’ down again. Better to wait until things dry out a mite.”

The air was hot and steamy. Preacher took off his hat and sleeved sweat off his forehead as he slogged along the line of wagons, checking on the vehicles and telling the occupants that it was all right to come out again, if they wanted to.

Casey was a little flushed as she looked down from the wagon where she had taken shelter with Roland Bartlett. “What a terrible storm,” she said. “I thought we were all about to blow away.”

Preacher nodded. “We came mighty close. That cyclone almost got us.”

“I hope I never have to go through anything like that again.”

“It wasn’t that bad,” Roland put in. “At least we weren’t alone.”

Casey flushed a deeper shade of pink. Preacher managed not to chuckle. He figured there had been some clinging to each other going on in that wagon during the height of the storm.

He moved on and helped Lorenzo climb down from the lead wagon, then the two of them checked on the horses. The big gray stallion was wet and annoyed but seemed fine otherwise, as did the other horses. The same was true of the oxen hitched to the wagons. Considering the ferocity of the storm, they had all come through it pretty well.

They had been lucky, Preacher thought. Mighty lucky.

Lorenzo made a face as the mud tried to suck his boots off with every step. “We ain’t goin’ anywhere any time soon, are we?” he asked.

“Not until tomorrow at the earliest,” Preacher replied.

Word spread quickly among the bullwhackers that the wagons weren’t budging. Several of the men who had been over the trail before came up to Preacher and told him they agreed with the decision.

“Gonna be a cold camp tonight,” one of those veteran frontiersman said. “There’s nothin’ out here dry enough to burn right now.”

Preacher knew that was true. Without a fire, they would have to make do with leftover biscuits for their supper, and no coffee. But that was still a lot better than going hungry, which he had done many times in the past.

Since the wagons weren’t in their usual circle, Preacher rigged a makeshift corral with poles and a couple ropes. Then the bullwhackers unhitched the teams and drove them into the enclosure. The massive, stolid beasts of burden weren’t easily spooked, so it was easy to keep them penned up. Preacher told a couple men to keep an eye on them, anyway.

The last of the clouds moved on, leaving the late afternoon sky clear and hot. It was sticky, miserable weather, and it wasn’t long before everyone was on edge. Preacher was going to be glad when night fell. At least it would cool off a little then.

Remembering the thing he had caught a glimpse of during the storm, he told Lorenzo, “I’m gonna scout around a mite.” The likelihood of finding tracks in the mud was slim, but it wouldn’t hurt anything to take a look.

“You want me to come with you?” the old-timer asked.

“No, I’d rather you stay here and keep an eye on this bunch. Don’t let them do anything stupid.”

Lorenzo snorted. “You reckon they’re gonna pay any attention to a black man?”

“Well, you try to talk sense to them, anyway,” Preacher said.

He lifted Dog down from the wagon and swung up on Horse’s back. Riding north, he kept an eye on the muddy ground as he searched for signs. Dog splashed along through the puddles.

Preacher cast back and forth for quite a while but didn’t find anything, and Dog didn’t react to any unusual scents. Just as Preacher had suspected, the downpour had washed away any tracks or smells. As the sun lowered toward the horizon, he called Dog to his side and said, “We might as well ride on back to the wagons.”

He was about a mile from the caravan, he judged. As he headed south again, movement to the east caught his eye. He reined in and his eyes narrowed as he peered into the distance. After a moment, he was able to focus on the moving objects well enough to recognize them as several men on horseback.

The riders were headed west along the trail, toward the stalled wagons. Not knowing who they were but being naturally cautious, Preacher muttered, “We’d better get back there,” and heeled Horse into a ground-eating lope.

As he rode up to the wagons, Lorenzo came out to meet him. “Find anything?” the black man asked.

Preacher hadn’t explained what he was looking for, since to tell the truth, he didn’t really know. He shook his head and said, “Nothin’ unusual, except for some fellas comin’ in from the east on horseback.”

Lorenzo’s hands tightened on the flintlock rifle he carried. Even though he lacked Preacher’s experience on the frontier, he was smart enough to know that strangers could mean trouble.

“You know who they are?”

“Not a clue,” Preacher said as he dismounted. He looped Horse’s reins around one of the wagon wheels. “Where’s Bartlett?”

“Last I seen of him, he was goin’ through the wagons, checkin’ to see if the rain damaged any of the freight.”

Preacher walked along the line of wagons until he found Bartlett, who was climbing out of one of the vehicles. “Riders comin’,” Preacher told him.

“Is that a problem?”

“Most likely not, but it could be, if they’re lookin’ for trouble. Get your men together.”

Bartlett nodded and hurried off to do as Preacher said. The mountain man walked on past the wagons until he reached the end of the caravan. Then he waited for the riders to arrive. They were already in sight and coming steadily closer—close enough for Preacher to be able to count them.

Five men, and one of them was leading a pack horse. Not a real threat, considering that Bartlett had twenty bullwhackers working for him, but Preacher was still wary. His instincts wouldn’t allow him to be otherwise.

“Preacher?”

Casey’s voice came from behind him. He looked over his shoulder and saw her plodding through the mud toward him with a worried expression on her face. Not surprisingly, Roland trailed after her. So did Lorenzo.

“Someone is following us?” Casey asked.

“Somebody’s goin’ the same direction we are,” Preacher said. “It ain’t necessarily the same thing.”

“You don’t think they could be some of Beaumont’s men, do you?”

Back in St. Louis, Casey had worked for Shad Beaumont, a prominent criminal. Beaumont was dead, but ever since they had left St. Louis, Casey had worried that some of the surviving members of his organization might come after them and seek vengeance.

Preacher didn’t think that was likely, but he couldn’t rule out the possibility entirely, which was yet another reason to be cautious. He told Casey, “I’d be mighty surprised if those fellas had anything to do with Beaumont, but if they did and if they’re lookin’ for us . . . well, we’ll deal with it, that’s all.”

“Who’s Beaumont?” Roland asked.

Casey looked over at him and shook her head. “No one. He’s dead. But some of the men who worked for him might have a grudge against Preacher and Lorenzo and me.”

“Oh.” Roland was clearly puzzled, but he didn’t indulge his curiosity. Preacher figured Casey hadn’t told him she used to work in a whorehouse, and she probably wouldn’t tell him unless she was forced to for some reason. Her past didn’t matter to Preacher and she knew that, but likely Roland would be a different story.

As the riders came closer, Preacher’s keen eyes saw that they were all wearing buckskins. A couple sported coonskin caps, the others broad-brimmed felt hats like the one Preacher wore. He recognized them as fellow mountain men, even though he had never seen any of them before.

One of the men edged his horse in front of the others as the party closed to within thirty feet and reined in. The self-appointed spokesman was tall and rangy in the saddle, with a gray-shot brown beard that jutted from his angular jaw. He put a grin on his face and nodded to Preacher, who walked out from the wagons to meet him.

“Howdy.”

“Afternoon,” Preacher said as he returned the nod. He had his rifle cradled in his arms with his thumb looped over the hammer. The stranger couldn’t fail to note that sign of being ready for trouble. As a matter of fact, the man’s own rifle was resting across the saddle in front of him, also ready for quick use.

“Looks like you folks are a mite bogged down,” the man commented. “We saw that storm blowin’ through, but we were lucky and the worst of it missed us. Looked like it was a ring-tailed roarer, though.”

“It sure was,” Preacher agreed. “A big cyclone came down from the clouds, and for a minute I thought it was gonna carry us off.”

The man shook his head. “I saw one of those things down in Texas once. It’d be mighty fine with me if I never saw another one.”

“Same here,” Preacher said.

The man leaned over and spat. “Name’s Garity.” He waved a hand at his companions. “This here’s Levi Jones, Walt Stubblefield, Micawja Horne, and Edgar Massey. We’re headin’ for New Mexico.”

“They call me Preacher.”

He saw the looks of recognition that appeared on the faces of all five men. They knew the name, all right. Most folks who roamed the wild places west of the Mississippi did.

“Preacher, eh?” Garity said. “Didn’t know you’d started guidin’ wagon trains to Santa Fe. I reckon that’s where these wagons are goin’?”

“That’s right. What do you plan to do in New Mexico?”

It was an unusually blunt question. Whenever folks met somebody for the first time, they normally waited for the other fella to offer whatever information he wanted to about where he came from and where he was going . . . and what he planned to do once he got there.

Garity frowned. “Figured we’d do some trappin’.”

“Ever been to that part of the country before?”

“Nope. I’d wager you have, though, what with you bein’ the famous Preacher and all.”

Preacher stiffened at the edge of mockery in Garity’s voice. The man obviously didn’t think that based on looks alone, Preacher lived up to his reputation.

Preacher didn’t give a damn about that, but he didn’t like the predatory gleam he saw in Garity’s eyes when the man looked at the wagons . . . and at Casey.

“Yeah, I’ve been there several times. Pretty country. The trappin’s better farther north, though. That’s where the real fur trade is.”

“Yeah, but there’s more competition up there,” Garity pointed out. “We figure the field’ll be clearer down south.” He scratched at his beard. “How long do you folks figure on stayin’ here?”

“Until the trail dries out enough that the wagons won’t get stuck when they try to move,” Preacher said. The answer was obvious, so he didn’t see any harm in giving it.

“Muddy as it is, that may be a while. Anything we can do to give you a hand?”

Preacher shook his head. “Nope. I reckon we’ll do just fine.”

“All right, then. I reckon we’ll mosey on.” Garity lifted a finger to the brim of his hat. “You folks be careful, now.”

He jerked his head at his companions. They moved their horses over to the side of the trail and rode around the wagons. Preacher saw that each of them eyed Casey as they moved past her. That wasn’t surprising. A man could go a long time out there without seeing a woman, and an even longer time without seeing one as pretty as Casey.

She wasn’t the only thing that interested the men, however. They looked long and hard at the wagons, too, as if they were weighing how much money the freight in the vehicles might bring in Santa Fe.

Preacher kept an eye on the men until they vanished into the setting sun. Leeman Bartlett came up beside him and said, “That was a rather rough-looking bunch.”

“Yeah,” Preacher agreed. “I wouldn’t trust any of ’em. Good thing is, there were only five of ’em. We outnumber ’em four to one, so there ain’t much chance they’ll try to bother us.”

“But our guards should be especially alert tonight anyway, don’t you think?”

Preacher grinned at the man. “You’re learnin’, Mr. Bartlett. You’re learnin’.”