Preacher's Assault Read online

  “Wait just a minute,” Roland’s father objected. “Is that a black man?”

  “It’s all right, Pa,” Roland said. “I’ll explain it all later. They didn’t do anything wrong. I give you my word. But in a minute some men are going to show up looking for them. I want you to say that you haven’t seen them.”

  “You mean you want me to lie?”

  “Please, Pa.”

  The older man looked like he was going to argue. But after a couple seconds, he jerked his head in an angry nod and said, “All right. But when this is over, I’ll be expecting a damned good explanation!”

  Preacher, Lorenzo, Dog, and Roland crawled into the shadows underneath a couple wagons. With Dog close beside him panting slightly, Preacher waited.

  But not for long. The mob arrived less than a minute later, shouting questions, demanding to know where Preacher and the others had gone.

  Roland’s father strode forward to meet the mob and planted himself squarely in its path. “Who are you men?” he demanded. “What the hell do you want?”

  A spokesman stepped out of the torch-wielding group. Preacher could see his face and recognized him as the sore loser from Lorenzo’s poker game. “We’re lookin’ for three men and a girl,” he said. “One of the men is an old nigger, and the girl looks like a whore.”

  “We don’t have any slaves here, or any harlots,” Roland’s father said, the words lashing out.

  “The darky claimed to be a freedman, and I just said the girl looked like a whore. I don’t know if she is one or not.”

  “That doesn’t make any difference. They’re not here. This is a respectable wagon train.”

  “I’m not sayin’ it ain’t, damn it. But those bastards came in this direction. You must’ve seen ’em or at least heard ’em.”

  “The only commotion I’ve seen or heard is the one you’re creating,” Roland’s father insisted. In the darkness under the wagon, Preacher grinned. The fella had struck him as the prickly sort, but he had to admit, Roland’s pa was doing a good job playing his part.

  The spokesman for the mob rubbed his angular, beard-stubbled jaw. “I don’t understand it,” he said. “I know good and well they came this way.”

  “They must have headed off in another direction without you realizing it.” Roland’s father paused. “Why are you looking for them, anyway?”

  “They started a ruckus in a tavern, attacked the folks there, and stole some money.”

  “Why don’t you report that to the law? I know Independence has a constable.”

  The spokesman made a disgusted face. “My friends and I handle our own troubles. When we catch those varmints, we’ll tar and feather ’em and teach ’em they can’t get away with things like that around here.”

  “Well, that’s none of my business,” Roland’s father said, “and since some of my men are trying to sleep, I’ll thank you to go on your way and stop disturbing us. We’re setting out on a long journey early in the morning.”

  The spokesman regarded him with a narrow-eyed glare. “I’m thinkin’ maybe it’d be a good idea if we took a look around this camp for ourselves.”

  Roland’s father made a curt gesture that brought the men from the fire to his side. They were all brawny, powerful-looking men, and several of them had bullwhips wrapped around their waists. Preacher recognized them as bullwhackers, the men who whipped, prodded, and cursed the ox teams across the long miles of the Santa Fe Trail. Such men were tough as nails, with a reputation for brawling.

  The spokesman for the mob seemed to know that, too. He looked a little nervous as he said, “There are more of us than there are of you.”

  “I have more than a dozen other men here in camp, and all I have to do is call them. That’s exactly what I’m going to do if you don’t get out of here.”

  “All right, all right,” the spokesman muttered. “No need to get proddy. We’re leaving.”

  “You’ll have to find the people you’re looking for somewhere else,” Roland’s father said.

  With plenty of frustrated curses, the mob took their torches and started drifting back toward town. Roland’s father and his men watched them go.

  When the mob was out of earshot and the torches had dwindled to sparks, Roland’s father turned and called softly, “All right, you can come out of there now.”

  Preacher and the others emerged from their hiding places. Running away from trouble rubbed Preacher the wrong way and always had. Hiding from it was even worse. Sometimes, though, it was the only prudent thing to do.

  Besides, they had Casey to look out for. Preacher didn’t want her to come to any harm, and there was no telling what some of those men might have done to her if they’d gotten their hands on her. She had suffered enough in her life.

  “Thanks, Pa,” Roland said as he used his hat to knock dust from the ground off his clothes.

  His father glared at him. “I’ll have that explanation now,” he said. “What sort of thieves and scoundrels have you fallen in with?”

  Preacher didn’t wait for Roland to reply. He said, “Mister, we’re obliged to you for your help, but that don’t give you leave to call us names. The fella doin’ the talkin’ for that mob didn’t exactly give you the whole story.”

  The man crossed his arms over his chest. He was a tall, thick-bodied man with graying hair, prominent side-whiskers, and a jaw that jutted out like the prow of a boat. He gave Preacher a cool stare and said, “That’s fair enough, I suppose. Why don’t you tell me the whole story?”

  “That fella accused my friend here of cheatin’ at cards,” Preacher replied with a nod of his head toward Lorenzo. “It’s true the table got knocked over durin’ the scuffle and Lorenzo grabbed up some cash, but I reckon he didn’t wind up with as much as he won fair and square.”

  “That’s right,” Lorenzo put in. “Fact is, I had to leave some of our money there.”

  “As for Casey here,” Preacher went on, “it appeared some of the gals who work in that tavern took a dislike to her on account of how she’s so much prettier’n they are. There was some scratchin’ and hair-pullin’ goin’ on when your boy gave her a hand and got her out of there.”

  As a matter of fact, Roland was still hovering rather attentively around Casey, enough so that if things had been different between her and Preacher, he might have been a little jealous. Neither of them had any claim on the other, though. They were just traveling together and enjoying each other’s company from time to time.

  “So that’s all there was to it? Just a sordid tavern brawl over a card game and a woman?”

  Preacher shrugged. “That’s one way of lookin’ at it, I reckon.”

  The man shook his head in apparent disgust. He looked at Roland and said, “I thought you had more sense than to get mixed up in something like that, son. You shouldn’t have been in one of those squalid dives in the first place, not with our trip to Santa Fe starting in the morning.”

  Roland returned the look with a defiant gaze of his own. “These people didn’t do anything wrong, Pa, and when they stuck up for themselves, the men in that tavern tried to gang up on them. I would think you’d be proud of me for helping them.”

  His father snorted and turned back to Preacher and his companions. “If anyone asks us, we’ll continue to say that we haven’t seen you, although it pains me to lie.”

  “I try to be an honest man, too,” Preacher drawled.

  “Well, it should be safe for you to go on your way now. That mob seems to be gone.”

  Roland said, “We can’t be sure they’re not lurking out there somewhere, waiting for them. Why don’t we let these folks stay the night with us, Pa?”

  “Absolutely not,” the man snapped. “I won’t have you associating any longer than you have to with such gutter trash—”

  Dog sensed the way Preacher stiffened, and a growl came from deep in the big cur’s throat.

  Preacher was about to point out to the man that they didn’t cotton to being called names,
when one of the bullwhackers stepped forward and said, “Beggin’ your pardon, Mr. Bartlett, but I think you got it wrong about these folks. I recognize that big fella. Saw him in St. Louis last year. He’s the one they call Preacher.”

  Bartlett, who had been about to snap at his employee for butting in, jerked his head toward Preacher and drew in a deep breath that caused his nostrils to flare. “Preacher,” he repeated. “That’s who you are?”

  “Wasn’t the name I was born with,” Preacher said, “but it’s the one I’ve answered to for a heap of years now.”

  “My God. I owe you an apology, sir. My son and I discussed trying to locate you and hire you to accompany us.” The man held out a hand. “My name is Leeman Bartlett.”

  His attitude had undergone a dramatic turnaround in a few seconds. Preacher still thought he was a stiff-necked, judgmental varmint, but Bartlett had offered his hand and an apology. A man couldn’t do more than that. Preacher gripped Bartlett’s hand and nodded.

  “This here’s Lorenzo,” he said with a nod toward the black man. “He ain’t a slave. He’s a freedman.”

  Bartlett shook hands with him as well.

  “And the lady’s name is Cassandra,” Preacher went on.

  “But my friends call me Casey,” she added.

  Bartlett nodded to her. “Miss,” he said. “That fellow making a fuss over you is my son Roland, as you’ve no doubt figured out by now.”

  “Pa!” Roland said, looking embarrassed. “I’m not making a fuss over anybody.”

  Bartlett grunted. “Yes, well . . .” He swung back toward Preacher. “Fate has led you to us, sir. Is there any chance you’d consider accepting my proposition?”

  “You mean about comin’ along with your wagon train to Santa Fe?”

  “Indeed. I’ve heard it said that you probably know more about the country west of the Mississippi than any man alive.”

  “I ain’t so sure about that,” Preacher said, “but it’s true I’ve been to see the elephant. You don’t really need a guide, though. The trail ain’t that hard to follow.”

  “Call it an advisor, then,” Bartlett said. “There are bound to be pitfalls along the way, and circumstances where I could use the counsel of a canny frontiersman.”

  “Have you made this trip before?” Preacher asked.

  “No, this will be the first time, although some of my men have worked on other wagon trains that made the journey.”

  In that case, it was probably true there would be times when Bartlett could use some advice from a man who knew what he was talking about. It was also true that Preacher, Lorenzo, and Casey had discussed trying to hook up with one of the freight wagon caravans headed west. There was a lot of dangerous country between Independence and Santa Fe, and they would be safer with the wagons than trying to go it alone.

  Preacher looked at Lorenzo and Casey.

  The old-timer said, “Whatever you want to do is fine with me, Preacher. You know a lot more about this sort of thing than I do.”

  “That goes for me, too,” Casey said.

  Preacher saw that Roland was watching and waiting for his decision with barely concealed eagerness. The young man was obviously looking forward to the possibility of spending the next several weeks traveling with Casey.

  Since Preacher didn’t have a jealous bone in his body, that was all right with him. He turned to Bartlett and nodded. “Sounds like a pretty good idea. You’re pullin’ out in the mornin’, you said?”

  Bartlett smiled and replied, “At first light.”

  “I’ll have to go back to the stable and get our horses. But when your wagons are ready to roll, we’ll be ready to ride.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Preacher was up before dawn the next morning, intending to return to the stable and collect their horses and gear. He and Lorenzo and Casey had planned to sleep there, but the three of them had actually spent the night under one of the wagons in the freight caravan. Lorenzo and Casey had still been rolled up in their blankets sleeping when Preacher crawled out to fetch the horses.

  Leeman Bartlett was already up, stirring the embers of the cook fire back to life. Preacher told him where he was bound, and Bartlett said, “The coffee will be ready by the time you get back. I trust you slept well?”

  “Well enough,” Preacher said. “I sorta kept one eye open, in case that bunch came back.” He shrugged. “I never sleep as well in a town as I do out in the open.”

  “We’ll be in the open soon enough,” Bartlett commented. “There’s not much between here and Santa Fe except open ground, is there?”

  “Not much,” Preacher agreed. “Other than scorchin’ sun, rattlesnakes, cyclones that come outta nowhere, gangs of highwaymen, and bands of hostile Injuns. But that’s all,” he added dryly.

  Bartlett chuckled. “You make it sound like the wise thing to do would be to turn around and go back to St. Louis.”

  “There’s no profit in turnin’ back. And if you are lucky enough to make it through, you’ll be able to sell those goods for plenty once you get to Santa Fe.”

  “That’s the plan,” Bartlett said with a nod as the flames began to crackle. “I’ve invested a great deal in this venture. I believe the odds of it being successful went up a great deal when you came into our camp last night.”

  “Reckon we’ll see about that,” Preacher said.

  When Preacher got to the stable the hostler who worked nights was still on duty and didn’t question their absence. They had already paid, so that was all that mattered to the man.

  True to Bartlett’s word, the coffee was ready when Preacher got back with the horses. So were flapjacks and bacon. Lorenzo and Casey were up and already eating. Casey looked mighty cute as she sat on a keg near the fire with a blanket draped around her shoulders. Roland Bartlett hunkered on his heels beside her, obviously ready to fetch her anything she might need.

  Preacher picketed the horses, including the pack animal they had brought with them from St. Louis. As he had his breakfast the orange glow in the eastern sky grew brighter. The camp bustled with activity as Bartlett’s men hitched up their teams and moved the wagons into a long line.

  “Are all your water barrels filled up?” Preacher asked Leeman Bartlett.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “You should fill them every chance you get,” Preacher advised. “There’ll be some long dry stretches once you get to the Cimarron Cutoff.”

  “Is that the best way to go? I wasn’t sure.”

  Preacher nodded. “You could take the northern route and go by Bent’s Fort, but you’d have a hell of a time gettin’ heavy wagons like these through Raton Pass. It’s more suited for mule trains. You might lose several wagons if you tried it.”

  “We certainly don’t want that,” Bartlett said. “The Cimarron Cutoff it is.”

  “Don’t go thinkin’ that route’s safe, though. Like I said, there’s some stretches where you won’t find any water and damn little graze for the oxen. Plus that’s where you’re most likely to run into trouble from the Comanch’.”

  “Indians, you mean?”

  “Yeah. Durin’ the first part of the trip, you’ll have to worry about Pawnee and Kiowa, but they’re less likely to cause trouble . . . dependin’, of course, on what sort of mood their war chiefs are in. The Comanche, though . . . Well, nine times outta ten, they’re gonna be a mite proddy.”

  “Will we have to fight them?” Bartlett asked with a worried look on his lined face.

  “We might. Sometimes you can trade with ’em and get through that way. And it could be we won’t even run into any of the varmints. Their regular huntin’ ground is farther south than we’ll be goin’, but they wander up into the Cimarron country quite a bit.”

  “We’ll hope for good luck, then,” Bartlett said.

  “You can always hope,” Preacher said, leaving unspoken the fact that hoping often did no good at all.

  Roland leaned over to Casey and said, “We can find a place for you to ride in one of t
he wagons, if you’d like.”

  She smiled and shook her head. “Thanks, but that’s not necessary. I rode horseback from St. Louis, and I can continue to do so. I was raised on a farm, you know.”

  “No, I didn’t know that. I’d like to learn more about you.”

  “We’ll see,” she said. Preacher thought Roland’s doglike devotion was starting to get on Casey’s nerves, but that was her problem, he told himself.

  Bartlett had several outriders armed with rifles, and he and his son each had a couple saddle horses, so they could switch back and forth and rest the animals. The big freight wagons weren’t equipped with seats for the drivers, so the bullwhackers walked alongside their teams, working their magic with whips and shouted curses. As the sun began to peek over the eastern horizon, Bartlett rode to the front of the wagon train and waved an arm over his head as he shouted the well-known order.

  “Wagons . . . ho!”

  The bullwhackers popped their whips and turned the air around their heads blue with profanity. The oxen, in their stolid way, surged against the singletrees yoked to them, and under that immense power, the heavily loaded wagons rolled slowly forward.

  Casey pulled up her dress revealing a pair of doeskin trousers underneath. She swung up onto her horse and rode astride like a man. From the way she handled the reins, it was clear she was telling the truth about being an experienced rider.

  Roland rode up and joined her. Preacher and Lorenzo fell in on horseback on her other side.

  Leeman Bartlett turned from leading the caravan and rode past them, calling to his son, “Roland, I want you up front with me!”

  Roland looked at Casey, obviously reluctant to leave her. But she smiled at him and said, “Go ahead, Mr. Bartlett, I’ll be fine.”

  “Roland,” he said. “I told you to call me Roland.”

  “All right. I’ll see you later, Roland.”

  With a sigh, the young man heeled his horse into a trot and rode after his father. When he was out of earshot, Lorenzo chuckled and said, “That boy has sure got it bad for you, Miss Casey.”