Blood on the Divide Read online

  “I been thinkin’ some on that, Malachi,” Ansel said, wiping the slobber from his lips and chin.

  “Lord help us all,” Kenrick muttered.

  “I can’t hardly wait to hear this,” Malachi replied in a whisper. “All right, Ansel, let’s hear it.”

  “Let’s make Preacher come to us ’stead of us al’ays a-goin’ to him.”

  The gang members all exchanged glances. Malachi was silent for a moment, then said, “You be right, Ansel. That there is a good scheme. You done come up with a right good plan.” He was forgetting that Preacher came to them in the first place, with disastrous results for the gang.

  “How does we do that?” Clifford asked Ansel.

  “Don’t strain his brain too hard,” Malachi said quickly. He glanced at Ansel. “You done good, Ansel. Real good. Now go somewheres and rest for a time.”

  “How does we do it?” Kenrick asked his big brother after Ansel had danced away. His performance posed absolutely no threat to any ballet dancer in the world.

  “I don’t know,” Malachi admitted. “I got to ruminate on that for a spell. Go on and leave me be for a time.” Truth was, Malachi desperately wanted to just give it up and get the hell gone from this part of the world. More and more he was getting the feeling he had just about played out his string and what little was left on the spool was being controlled by that damn Preacher.

  He looked around the ruined camp and at what was left of his gang. He shook his head. At one time, Malachi Pardee ran the most powerful and feared gang of road agents and outlaws west of the Mississippi. And not that many months ago, either. Sure as hell didn’t look like much now.

  Malachi had the sinking feeling that the game was just about over for him. He tried to push that emotion from his mind, but could not. It was just too incredible for him to accept that one man could destroy an entire gang of some of the meanest cutthroats in all the West.

  But he had only to look around him to see the truth in the matter.

  “Damn!” Malachi whispered.

  Miles away, Preacher rested and waited. For the time being, he didn’t have a clue as to what he might do next to harass the Pardees, but then this came to him: if he were in their shoes, he’d do nothing and try to draw the enemy to him.

  Preacher chewed on some jerky and thought about that. The more he thought about it, the more he became convinced that was what the Pardees might try.

  If so, what was next for him?

  Preacher didn’t try to kid himself a bit. He’d been lucky so far. Real lucky. He wasn’t dealing with amateurs, even though the Pardee gang had behaved as such since this personal little war began. Preacher realized that had to end and he’d better stop treating the conflict as a joke and tighten up. No more stunts like the one he’d pulled this day, hiding in the rocks and stifling laughter at the antics of the Pardee gang. That had been dangerous and plumb foolish on his part.

  True, his actions had taken a fearful toll on the Pardee gang. But he’d been brash in the doing of it. He’d have to cut back on some of that.

  He wondered how the wagon train was faring. He’d been so busy of late he hadn’t had much time to ponder on those folks. Well, least he was keeping the Pardees busy and away from the train. And the train was of a size that it would take a goodly bunch of Indians to attack it. By now the train should be clear out of this part of the country.

  In all the weeks that Preacher had been trailing and doing battle with the Pardees, the train had made good time. But sickness had overtaken the movers and brought the train to a halt. The sickness, a strange fever that weakened muscles and caused the joints to ache and brought on chills one minute and burning-up hotness the next, had even struck the mountain men, putting Carl and Caleb and Windy flat on their backs along with most of the others . . . except for the kids. Not a one of them had been touched by the odd sickness. Now it was the kids taking care of the adults and the seeing-to of the livestock and such.

  As the days drifted by, the mountain men worried that none of them would have the strength to push on in time to beat the snows. And if they weren’t over the mountains come snowfall, they would be stuck right where they was till spring.

  What finally saved their bacon was the return of Rimrock. The huge mountain man had a change of heart and turned around, riding back and picking up the ruts of the train and following it. Rimrock took one look at the adults a-layin’ flat of their backs, weak as sick cats, and the exhausted and drawn faces of the kids, who’d been doing all the work, and he pitched right in.

  “I seen this ’fore,” Rimrock told Weller. “I don’t know the name of the sickness, but I seen it ’fore. You ain’t gonna die from it, but it makes a body so sick and weak some folks might wish they was dead to get some relief.”

  “I certainly agree with that,” Weller whispered. “Any news of Preacher?”

  “Injuns say they’s a big war goin’ on in the high country. East of here. Two renegades that broke from the Pardee gang claim that Preacher brought a whole mountain down on some of the gang. Wiped ’em out without no trace left. I doubt if it was an en-tar mountain, but Preacher probably caught some in a slide. Preacher is something to be-hold when he gets his dander up.”

  “You’ll stay and help us, Rimrock?”

  “Shore. Wouldn’t be fittin’ for me to do nothin’ else. You just lay back and take ’er easy. I’ll see to the rest of it.”

  Squatting down beside Windy, Caleb, and Carl, he said, “I can’t leave y’all for no time ’fore you get in trouble. I reckon I’m gonna have to nanny the three of you for the rest of your days.”

  “We’ve got to get these folks well fast, Rim,” Caleb said. “We ain’t got much time left ’fore the snows come. They’ll die out here.”

  “Forget it,” the big man said. “It’s gonna take weeks ’fore ever’body gets their strength back. Like I told Weller, I seen this sickness ’fore. That winter you went to St. Louie, Windy. I told you about it.”

  “Then we’re in bad trouble,” Carl said.

  “Maybe not. The Whitman Mission ain’t far from here. ’Bout a hundred miles. Worst comes to worser, we’ll winter there. They’ll welcome us.”

  “They might,” Windy said, his voice weak. “But them Cayuses might not.”

  “I know Chief Tamsuky,” Rimrock said. “I’ve et with him and slep’ in his lodge. He’s all right. It’s all them gospel shouters up yonder that he don’t take to worth a damn. They gonna keep on stirrin’ up them Cayuses and one day it’s gonna backfire on them all. You boys rest now. Ol’ Rim’s here. So don’t worry.”

  The first movers up were Miles Cason and George Martin, and tenderfeet they might be – in Miles case that was still more than true – but Rimrock welcomed their help. The big man had shouldered a terrible burden taking care of everything.

  “I have never experienced anything like that debilitating malaise we just recovered from,” Miles told Rimrock. “It rendered me quite impuissant.”

  Rimrock stared at him for a few seconds. “What the hell did you just say?”

  “The sickness.”

  “Oh. Yeah. Ain’t got no name yet, that I know of. But it’s tough. I ain’t never had it and hope I never get it.”

  Betina and Coretine and a few of the other pioneer women were soon up and moving around, able to cook and wash a bit. But they couldn’t do much for any length of time, having to rest every few minutes. But what little they could do was a godsend to those few who were handling the whole load.

  “First decent meal I’ve et since I happened along here,” Rimrock said, spooning another plateful of stew that Coretine had prepared. “I never was no hand at cookin’ fancy things like this here. And anything Miles and George dishes up tastes like a boiled moccasin.”

  Windy staggered up, using his rifle for a crutch, and sank down to the ground with a sigh. “I reckon I’ll live,” the little mountain man declared. “But for a time there, I shore had some serious doubts.”

  “I’s a
hopin’ when you recovered your looks might have improved,” Rimrock said, eyeballing his friend. “But you just as ugly as ever.”

  “I’d talk was I you,” Windy retorted. “Thank God it’s nigh on to fall and your beard is bushy-out. Any of these kids see your face, they’d run off into the woods and hide.” He thanked Coretine for a plate of food and said, “Rimrock’s the onliest man I ever knowed who could frighten a grizzly bear just by lookin’ at the poor beast. He shaved off his beard one spring and come face to face with a she-bear out eatin’ berries. You never heard the like of bellerin’ and snortin’ and carryin’ on. That bear was so scared she took off runnin’ and didn’t stop ’til she reached the Canadian line. Never did come back.”

  “I think, Mr. Windy,” Coretine said, “I know how you got your nickname.”

  Windy grinned up at her and winked. “Mayhaps you do, missy. Mayhaps you do.”

  * * *

  Preacher went back down his trail and erased all the sign he had deliberately left for the Pardees. Then he found him a nice snug spot and waited. The Pardees and those with the gang, he felt, would not be good at the waiting game. Preacher could, and had in the past, gone without food for days. He did not believe any member of the Pardee gang had such patience. He had access to water and plenty of jerky and pemmican. He would do all right. He had strong doubts about the Pardee gang sitting still for very long.

  The spot Preacher had chosen was in timber, about a hundred yards from a spring, and protected by rocks. He had a clear view of all that might go on in front of him. To his rear was the face of a mountain, loose rocks on both sides would warn him if anyone tried that approach. Now all he had to do was wait. And Preacher was real good at that.

  Miles away, the Pardees made ready for the anticipated visit from Preacher. They fortified their camp and turned it into a minifortress. Then they all smiled at one another and waited. And waited.

  On the afternoon of the fourth day, Malachi said, “It ain’t workin’. Preacher ain’t gonna fall for this.”

  They were nearly out of everything. They had no coffee, no salt, no beans, and were living mostly on what they could slip out and hunt. And a body can only live so long on rabbit. Man needs fat. Fat’s scarce on a rabbit.

  “We got to do something almighty quick,” a gang member said. “We can’t go on like this.”

  All the gang sure agreed with that and all were very vocal about it.

  “I’ll think on it some,” Malachi told them.

  “Malachi,” Kenrick said when they were alone. “Let’s call it quits and get shut of here.”

  Malachi looked down at his filthy hands and ragged clothing. Everyone of them, including Malachi, stunk worse than buzzard puke. None of them were prone to taking many baths, but he couldn’t remember being this dirty and ragged. He sighed and nodded his head. “All right, brother,” he said softly. “But we got to ride far and fast to outrun the stories. We’ll head for Californy. Get a fresh start out there. Change our names and Pardee will be no more. Pickin’s ought to be good out there.”

  “I’ll tell the boys,” Kenrick said.

  It did not take the outlaws long to pack up their meager possessions and saddle up. Malachi looked all around him at what he could see of the Big Empty. “You won this time, Preacher,” he muttered. “But there will be another time. Bet on that.” He grabbed hold of the saddle horn and stuck his boot into the stirrup. The patched cinch strap broke and dumped Malachi on his butt on the hard and rocky ground.

  Flat on his back, Malachi said, “I hate you, Preacher. As God is my witness, I hate you!”

  TWO

  “Gone,” Preacher said, standing in the middle of the deserted outlaw camp. He had tired of waiting and had sensed something important was happening in the high country. He had left his hiding place after five days and cautiously made his way to where he had last seen the outlaws.

  “I never thought he’d do it,” Preacher said to the winds and the emptiness. And to the cold. It had really turned cold. Preacher squatted down by the long dead ashes of the old campfire and tried to figure out what month it was. September, he thought it was. Where had the summer gone? Seemed like only yesterday he’d come up on that little settlement of people, and that had been back in the late spring or early summer. He disremembered exactly.

  He began the long trek back to the little valley where he’d left his horses.

  Hammer was glad to see him and told him so by the way he acted. Horses get used to human company and miss that when they’re left alone. Even the Appaloosa he’d taken from that dead Indian seemed glad to see him. The ’paloosa was a big animal, weighing, Preacher figured, about a thousand pounds, near ’bouts as big as Hammer. He talked to them and petted them and got them calmed down and then saddled up. He wanted to get on the trail of the Pardees and see just where they were heading. Initially, they had headed west, the route they’d taken putting them well north of the new wagon-train trail. But with the Pardees, you just never knew.

  It startled Preacher when the first snowflakes began falling. It was just too damn soon for that – unless he’d missed his calendar date by a month or six weeks, and he didn’t think he had. No matter, he thought. By now Carl was probably nearing the last leg of the train’s journey and weary pilgrims would be getting their first glimpse of the promised land. And judging from the gray and leaden skies, none too soon, neither. Preacher figured this was going to be a bad winter in the high country.

  Several days later, Preacher reined up in some timber and watched as half a dozen riders cut in front of him, heading across a little meadow. He knew one of the men: that no-count Son. Now he’d picked him up three, four men and was headin’ out to do some mischief. Preacher waited until they were long gone and then fell in behind them. Whatever Son and his friends were up to, it was no good. Preacher had never known Son to do anything for the general good of anything or anybody.

  Several days later, Preacher ran into a hunting party from Weasel Tail’s village and the men fixed venison and sat around the fire and talked.

  “Much sickness among the wagon train,” a brave named Bear Killer finally told him. “They have spent weeks without moving. Even those like you were sick.”

  “You have seen this with your own eyes?” Preacher asked.

  Bear Killer shook his head. “Talked to some who have. They speak the truth. Too many saw it for it to be wrong. The wagons are moving now, but the snows have come to the high places. They will not be able to cross the mountains until spring.”

  Long after the Indians had left, Preacher sat before the fire and thought about what he’d been told. According to Bear Killer, the train had not even made fifty miles before the sickness struck them and stopped everybody cold.

  Preacher did a little figuring. As soon as they were able to travel, Carl would head them straight for the mission on the divide and hope to winter there. That would be the only logical thing to do, for the winter was coming early this year, and from all indications, it was going to be a hard one. The movers would be low on food, some of them probably out of food by now.

  All in all, everybody was going to be in for a damn rough time of it ’fore spring poked her head up again. Preacher saddled up and pulled out.

  Twice on his way toward the mission, he cut the trail of Son and his no-counts. Then, on the northwest side of the Little Popo Agie, he stopped and swung down at a deserted camp for a look-see. After carefully reading the sign, he concluded that Son and his bunch had linked up with the Pardees. And that damn sure meant trouble for someone – or a whole bunch of someones, for the tracks leading away from the camp were heading straight for the mission.

  Preacher built a small fire in the old fire pit and broiled him a venison steak. He longed for a cup of coffee, but he was slap out of that. While he ate, he made up his mind. There was no way the movers would survive the winter without more supplies. So somebody was going to have to take mules over the mountains to a Hudson’s Bay Company outpost and bri
ng back supplies. Any of the mountain men with the train knew the horse trail and had been over it many times. It wasn’t that far away from the mission. Getting there would be no problem without the wagons, if one discounted hostile Injuns, blizzards, outlaws, and such, but with winter looming so close, getting back might be somewhat difficult. But it had to be done if those in the train stood a chance of surviving. Dawn found Preacher on the trail and a day later he rode into the mission and there was the train.

  The missionaries there had not hesitated in taking in the members of the wagon train, but existing supplies were not nearly ample enough to carry everybody through the winter.

  Over a cup of coffee and a bowl of stew, Preacher laid his plan out for his friends.

  “You’re right about not enough supplies, Preacher,” Windy said. “I’m game for the mules. How about you, Rim?”

  The big man nodded his head. “Suits me. But them at the post sure ain’t gonna give them supplies to us. What are we gonna use for money, our good looks?”

  “Wagh!” Caleb said. “We’re all dead from starvation if that’s the case.”

  Rimrock looked at the rail-thin mountain man. “I shore better not tarry with them supplies. Strong breeze would carry you off now.”

  “I’ll go talk to Betina and Coretine,” Preacher said. “They’ll know how these movers are fixed for money.”

  Preacher laid it out for the two women, not downplaying their plight one bit. “I can see the signs, ladies, and the winter is gonna be a bad one.”

  “The people have some money, Preacher,” Betina said. “Enough, I believe, to purchase supplies.”

  Preacher nodded his head. “Place of the Rye Grass,” he said.

  “I beg your pardon?” Coretine asked.

  “Actual the Cayuse call it The People of the Place of the Rye Grass. Waiilaptu. Why the hell Whitman ever chose this spot is beyond understandin’ far as I’m concerned.” 2