Preacher's Quest Read online

  She stuck out her hand like a man and asked, “Are you a minister, then? A man of God? A purveyor of the Gospel?”

  “No, ma’am,” he said as he took her hand. It was surprisingly strong, and her grip was firm. “I’m just a fur trapper like all these other fellas at the Rendezvous.”

  “Then why do they call you Preacher?”

  He didn’t much want to rehash the details, but the story would be new to her. “Some time back, a bunch of Blackfoot grabbed me, took me prisoner, and figured on liftin’ my hair. Funny thing about Indians, though, they generally won’t bother a man if they think he’s touched in the head. I’d seen a street preacher one time, back in Saint Looey, so I started doin’ like he would’ve if he’d been there, preachin’ at those heathen Blackfeet at the top o’ my lungs. Kept it up all night and the next day, too, until they didn’t have any choice but to believe that I was pure-dee crazy.” He shrugged. “They let me go, and once the story got around, folks started callin’ me Preacher. The name’s stuck all this time.”

  “But what’s your real name?” Faith persisted.

  “After all these years, I sort of disremember.”

  That wasn’t really true—his name was Arthur, and he knew that perfectly well. But he didn’t particularly feel like sharing it with this woman, who he had already sized up as being rather obnoxious, despite the fact that she was good-looking.

  Beauty and being a decent human being didn’t always go hand in hand.

  The short, sandy-haired man introduced himself. “I’m Willard Carling, Mr. Preacher. As my sister mentioned, I’m a painter.”

  “Pleased to meet you, but it’s just Preacher. No mister.” Preacher paused, then waved a hand at the magnificent scenery surrounding them. “I reckon you came out here to paint all this?”

  “Yes, and the savages, too. It’s becoming all the rage back East for artists to paint Western landscapes and portraits of the Indians. I like to see my subjects at first hand before I attempt to capture them on the canvas.”

  That made sense to Preacher. He was no artist, but he figured it would be a lot easier to paint a picture of something if you’d seen it for yourself, with your own eyes.

  “And this is Jasper Hodge,” Carling went on. “He’s a journalist, you know. Plans to write a book about this expedition, as well as the stories for his newspaper.”

  “That a fact?” said Preacher as he shook hands with Jasper Hodge.

  “Yes, indeed,” Hodge replied. He smiled jauntily. “If you’d like, I can put you in the book, Preacher. Wouldn’t it be something for your friends to read about you in such a volume?”

  “It sure would, considerin’ that most of ’em can’t read a lick,” Preacher said dryly.

  Hodge’s smile went away and was replaced by a frown. Preacher could tell that the Eastern journalist wasn’t sure if he was being made fun of or not—but if he was, he didn’t like it.

  That just left the bigger, bespectacled man, who wasn’t quite as well dressed as the others. “Chester Sinclair,” he introduced himself as he briefly shook hands with Preacher. “I’m Mr. Carling’s assistant.”

  “I have to have someone lug all my paints and canvases about, you know,” Carling said. “And for that I need a big strapping mule like this lad here.”

  “Chester may be big, but he’s obviously not any more courageous than you two,” Faith said. “Otherwise, he would have volunteered to help Preacher and Mr. Giddens when they confronted those ruffians.”

  “Sorry, Miss Faith,” Sinclair said with his eyes downcast. “I didn’t think it was my place to interfere.”

  “That’s a handy excuse, anyway,” Faith said caustically.

  Preacher frowned at her. There weren’t many things in this world more annoying than a bossy, tart-tongued woman, he thought. But he didn’t say anything. These Easterners were Rip’s problem, not his.

  At least, he supposed that was the case. He said, “These are the folks you’ve hired on with for the summer, Rip?”

  “That’s right,” Rip replied with a nod.

  “Yes, Mr. Giddens has agreed to be our chief scout and guide,” Willard Carling said. “We’re all quite pleased about that.”

  Faith gave out with a ladylike little snort. From what Preacher could tell, she wasn’t very pleased with much of anything about this trip to the Rocky Mountains.

  “I’ve got Sparrow to cook for us,” Rip told Preacher. “You remember her?”

  Preacher remembered the Indian woman called Sparrow quite well. She must have gotten the name back when she was a youngster, he had reflected more than once, because there was nothing birdlike about her now. She was short and broad, just about as wide as she was tall. But she was a fine cook, he recalled, and he nodded and said, “That’s good, Rip. You folks will be well fed.” A concern occurred to him. “What about other fellas to go along and help you watch out for trouble?”

  “I’ve got four gents lined up for that. Switchfoot, Hammerhead Jones, and the Ballinger brothers. But if you’re offerin’, Preacher, I reckon I could talk Mr. Carling into hirin’ you on, too.” Rip turned to Carling and added, “I don’t want to embarrass him, Boss, but when it comes to the frontier, Preacher’s worth more’n all them other boys put together.”

  “Why, that sounds excellent,” Carling said. “Join our little expedition, Preacher, do.”

  Preacher almost wished now that he hadn’t asked Rip who else was going along on the journey. He didn’t particularly like any of these four pilgrims, and he surely didn’t desire to spend a few months around Faith Carling and her shrewish ways.

  But it was true that he didn’t have nearly as big a load of pelts to sell this time as he usually did. Whatever Willard Carling would pay to hire him, the money would come in handy sooner or later. But would it be worth the aggravation?

  Preacher reached a decision and shook his head. “I appreciate the offer,” he said, “but I just come here to sell my plews and move on. I ain’t lookin’ for work.”

  “Oh, dear.” Carling looked disappointed. “Are you sure?”

  “Rip and the others you’ve hired are good men. They can handle just about any problem that comes up.”

  “Very well. But I wonder . . . would you be interested in posing for a portrait before we part company, Preacher?”

  Preacher’s eyebrows went up in surprise. “You want to paint a picture of me?”

  “Yes, indeed. You’re the quintessential woodsman, a perfect archetype.”

  Preacher wasn’t sure exactly what Carling was trying to say, but he figured it was better than being called an uncouth lout. He said, “What would I have to do?”

  “Simply stand still.”

  “I reckon I could do that.”

  “Excellent! We’ll get started this afternoon, if that’s all right with you.”

  Preacher nodded. “Fine. That’ll give me time to talk to some of the agents about my furs and get somethin’ to eat.”

  “Come back here whenever you’re ready. I’ll have Chester set up an easel and a fresh canvas.”

  Carling went back into the fancy tent, accompanied by Jasper Hodge. Faith and Sinclair remained outside. Faith sat down on a stool at a small folding table that held a pad of paper, a pen, and an inkwell. Now that she wasn’t paying any attention to him, Sinclair’s eyes followed her with almost doglike devotion, Preacher noted.

  He gathered up the reins of his horses and started back across the encampment toward the tents set up by the fur buyers. Rip trailed along with him.

  “Sure you won’t change your mind about comin’ along, Preacher?” Rip asked. He inclined his head toward the fancy tent where the Easterners were. “Havin’ you around might make it a heap easier for me to ride herd on that bunch.”

  Preacher laughed softly. “I’m afraid that’s your lookout, Rip. The lady ain’t what you’d call shy and retirin’, is she?”

  Rip sighed and didn’t answer the question. “It’s a good job. Mr. Carling’s payin’ me
a mighty good wage.”

  “You tryin’ to convince me . . . or you?”

  “I said I’d take ’em on into the mountains, and I figure on doin’ what I said I’d do.” A stubborn edge had come into Rip’s voice.

  “I wouldn’t expect any less of you. Still, if that gal lets out a scream just because Luther Snell comes up and talks to her, I don’t know what she’ll do if you run into any real trouble.”

  “He didn’t just talk to her,” Rip said. “When she told him to go away, he grabbed her arm and wanted to know what made her think she was so much better’n him.”

  Preacher stopped and looked over at his old friend. His eyes narrowed. “Is that so? I didn’t know he’d laid hands on her.” He might not like Faith Carling, but he’d been raised to believe that a man didn’t lay hands on a woman in anger.

  Rip nodded and said, “That’s what she told me when I first come runnin’ up, and Snell didn’t deny it. I was almost hopin’ he’d take a swing at me, so’s I’d have an excuse to wallop him some.” His broad shoulders rose and fell. “But Miss Faith was prob’ly right. Snell’s bunch would’ve jumped me, too.”

  They might have discussed the matter further, but at that moment several of the fur company agents noticed Preacher and advanced toward him holding out their hands, ready to shake and make offers on the pelts Preacher had on the packhorse. Rip added, “See you later,” and moved on.

  Preacher spent the next hour negotiating with the various representatives of the fur companies and finally settled on a price with one of them. He was always glad to get that transaction concluded. He didn’t like haggling over money.

  The agent counted out the agreed-upon amount in gold coins. Preacher put them away in a small leather pouch that he stowed under his buckskin shirt. Then the fur company man’s hired helpers unloaded the packhorse and carried the pelts into the tent that was serving as a temporary warehouse. Later, when the Rendezvous was over, they and all the other pelts the agent had bought would be loaded on pack animals and started on the long trip back to St. Louis.

  Preacher shook hands with the man, who said, “Pleasure doing business with you.” As Preacher turned away, he wondered briefly what he was going to do next.

  That question was answered unexpectedly as he found his arms suddenly full of woman and a pair of warm, demanding lips pressed themselves eagerly against his mouth.

  Chapter Three

  Preacher pulled back and said, “What in blazes?”

  It wasn’t that he minded being kissed so much as that he liked to have a say in such things.

  The woman looked hurt and said, “Preacher, do you not remember me?”

  “Of course I remember you. You’re Mountain Mist.”

  She was Shoshone, around twenty summers old and mighty good to look at with her long, straight, black hair and dark eyes and features that were strong but attractive. The buckskin dress she wore was tight enough to reveal a sturdy, well-curved body.

  “Are you not glad to see me?” she demanded.

  “Sure I am. I’m just, uh, surprised, that’s all. I figured for sure you’d be hitched up to some lucky Shoshone brave by now.”

  “None of the men of my people can compare to you, Preacher.”

  He muttered a curse under his breath. Years earlier, a beautiful young woman named Jennie had helped him across the threshold of manhood, and Preacher—who had still been Arthur then—had fallen in love with her. Over the years he had known her, he had always loved her.

  But they hadn’t always been together during that time, and occasionally he had shared the blankets of some other woman—including Mountain Mist. He hadn’t seen her for quite a while, and he had been telling the truth when he said he would have thought that she’d be married by now. He sure as blazes hoped she hadn’t been waiting for him.

  “What are you doin’ here?” he asked her.

  She pointed toward one of the tents. “Working.”

  Preacher’s jaw tightened. He knew what she meant by that. She was whoring. There were always plenty of Indian women at the Rendezvous who sold themselves to the trappers.

  Preacher wasn’t hypocritical about such things. Jennie herself had been a whore when Preacher first met her, forced into a life of prostitution at a young age by the cruel man who had taken her in after her folks died. And she had remained in that line of work for most of her life, eventually becoming a madam in a house in St. Louis. That was just business and didn’t have anything to do with what was between her and Preacher.

  He hated to see Mountain Mist going down that road, though. Jennie had been strong enough so that the life she’d led had never broken her spirit. Preacher wasn’t sure the young Shoshone woman was that strong.

  She caught hold of his hand and tugged eagerly on it. “Come with me,” she said. “We will go in the tent and—”

  Preacher shook his head as he gently worked his hand out of her grip. “I don’t reckon that’d be a good idea.”

  “But we have lain together in the past,” she pointed out with a puzzled frown.

  “That was a while back. You shouldn’t be doing such things, Mountain Mist.”

  Her frown deepened. “But why not?”

  Preacher muttered and mumbled some more. He couldn’t tell her a good reason why not. He just knew it was so.

  Suddenly, Mountain Mist’s frown went away and her face lit up with a smile. “I know now,” she said. “You think I should not work in the tent, Preacher. You think I should lay only with you.” Her head bobbed up and down in a nod. “That is what I will do. I will stay with you and be your woman from now on.”

  “Hold on there just a minute!” Preacher lifted his hands to stop her excited babbling. “I didn’t say—”

  Her face fell.

  He spat out a heartfelt, “Oh, hell!” He had gone and hurt her feelings. It was her fault for jumping to a conclusion that wasn’t anywhere near what he’d had in mind, but he felt guilty about it, anyway. He thought about the money in the pouch under his shirt and then caught hold of her hand again. “Listen, stay with me during the Rendezvous. You can be my woman until it’s over, and I’ll pay you what you would have made in the tent. But after that we go our separate ways, understand? I ride on, and you go back to your people and find yourself some sturdy young fella to marry.”

  “None of them will be like you, Preacher.” Mountain Mist sighed. “But as your people say, I will take what I can get.”

  The trapper called Stump was sitting by himself later that day, with his back pressed against the trunk of a tree, his hat tilted down over his eyes, and a jug in his lap. He wasn’t drunk, just . . . relaxed. Mighty relaxed.

  But not so much so that he didn’t notice the shadow that fell over him.

  Stump looked up and saw a burly man in buckskins looming over him. He recognized the rugged, bearded countenance and asked, “What do you want, Snell? This is my jug, if you had in mind askin’ for a nip, and I ain’t in much of a mood to share.”

  Snell said, “I don’t want your whiskey . . . Horace.”

  Stump’s face lit up in surprise. “You know my real name?”

  “Horace Pendergast, originally from Cairo, Illinois.”

  “Yeah, that’s me,” Stump said, warming up to Snell. They had never been friends, only casual acquaintances. Snell didn’t have a very good reputation among the buckskinners. But if Snell had gone to the trouble of learning his real name and where he was from, thought Stump, maybe the fella wasn’t so bad after all. “Sit down. Have a drink.”

  “Maybe later. Right now I want to ask you something.”

  Stump waved a hand. “Ask away.”

  “I hear you had a run-in with Preacher this mornin’.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t go so far as to call it a run-in,” Stump said with a frown. “It’s just that he called me St . . . He called me that name I don’t like.”

  “How’d you like to get even with him?”

  “With Preacher?” Stump sounded like th
e idea had never occurred to him. “I don’t know about that. Preacher’s one ol’ boy who’s rough as a cob. . . .”

  “He’s human, just like you and me,” Snell said, “and I’m gettin’ mighty damn tired of him lordin’ it over ever’body and actin’ like he’s better’n any o’ the rest of us. Somebody needs to take that son of a bitch down a peg . . . and I’m just the ring-tailed roarer to do it.”

  Stump didn’t disagree with anything that Snell was saying—but he noticed that Snell wasn’t saying it within earshot of Preacher, either. Still, he was intrigued enough to ask, “What did you have in mind?”

  “You’ve got some friends you can call on to help you, haven’t you?”

  “Sure, I’ve got friends,” Stump declared. He didn’t know how many of them would be willing to risk getting on Preacher’s bad side, but for now he was going to play along with Snell and tell the man what he wanted to hear.

  “All right, then. The word around camp is that he’s taken up with one o’ them Injun whores, the Shoshone squaw called Mountain Mist. Now, here’s what we’re gonna do. . . .”

  The prime spots along the river were already taken, so Preacher went the opposite way in setting up his campsite. He got off to the edge of the encampment, sort of off away from everybody, and pitched his tent there. Mountain Mist moved in like a new wife in a just-built cabin, lugging Preacher’s gear into the tent and unpacking it and setting up housekeeping. She spread his blankets and buffalo robe, then patted them and smiled up at him.

  “We will warm these very well tonight, Preacher. Are you as ready as I am?”

  To tell the truth, he was getting a mite worked up just watching Mountain Mist as she moved around the tent. If he had been the sort of man to settle down with one woman and start a family, he could have done worse than her, he told himself.

  But he just said, “We’ll let tonight take care of itself. In the meantime, I thought I’d sort of circulate around the camp and say hello to everybody I ain’t seen since last fall.”

  “I will wait here and prepare a meal for you.”