Absaroka Ambush (first Mt Man)/Courage Of The Mt Man Page 3

  “You there!” a woman’s voice bellered out from the crowd. “Up there on that wild-eyed looking horse.”

  Preacher cut his eyes to a tall and full-figured female all decked out in a black dress. She was comin’ stridin’ through the crowd of women and they was partin’ the way like Moses done the Red Sea. The woman wasn’t no real looker—to Preacher’s eye—but she had her a commanding manner that he liked, and he knew he’d found one of the ramrods of the petticoat train.

  Hammer turned his head to stare at the woman and Preacher tightened up on the reins. If Hammer didn’t like somebody, he didn’t draw any distinctions about gender. He’d just as soon bite or kick a woman as he would a man.

  “Are you the famous mountain man everybody’s been bragging about?” the woman demanded, staring up at him, hands on her hips. “The one who is going to lead us across the wilderness?”

  “I don’t know about famous, lady,” Preacher matched her stare. “But I’ll get most of you across to the blue waters.”

  “My name is Eudora Hempstead. And what do you mean by ‘most of us’?”

  “I mean that not all of you ladies is gonna make it. And the whole kit and caboodle of you damn well better understand that now. Now gather around and hear what I got to say. But stay out of bitin’ and kickin’ distance from Hammer here. He’s like me; he ain’t the most cordial thing in the world. Now listen up: some of you will quit and try to find your way back. But you won’t make it back; Injuns will grab you and tote you back to their camp. That is, if you don’t give them too much trouble. You aggravate ’em and they’ll just rape you, kill you, and scalp you where you happen to be. If they make slaves of you, well, that ain’t such a terrible life. They’ll work you hard and only beat you occasional. Some of you are gonna die out yonder on the trail from stupid fool accidents, Injun attacks, snakebite, hydrophobic skunks, drownin’. One or two will go crazy in the head and wander off and get et up by a bear. And don’t think I’m funnin’ you, ’cause I ain’t. I’m just tellin’ you like it is.”

  A group of men had gathered around at the edge of the crowd of women. Preacher figured they were the ones the president’s man had hired. Preacher picked out two that he was going to unhire right off. One he knew slightly and the other had a shifty look to him. He pointed at the one he knew.

  “You, Jack Hayes. Get gone from here and take that ratty-eyed friend of yours with you.”

  “I wasn’t hired by you, Preacher,” Jack said.

  “No. But you’re gettin’ fired by me. Now hit the trail. If I see you in an hour, I’ll either shoot you or stomp you. Move.”

  Jack and his buddy left, but from the look in their eyes, Preacher sensed he’d not seen the last of them. “Jack Hayes is a murderer and a thief,” he told the large group of women. “He’s wanted back in Virginia.”

  “He told us his name was Wilbert Dunlap,” Eudora said.

  “That proves he’s a liar too.”

  “We only have your word for that, Mister Preacher whatever-your-name-is,” a voice sprang from Preacher’s other side.

  Preacher turned his head. “Preacher’ll do. Who you be?”

  “Faith Crump. I am a journalist.”

  And a damn pretty one, too, Preacher thought. Redheaded and green-eyed. A shape that’d cause young men to act silly and old men to weep in remembrance of better days. Them duds she had on was handsewn for her, and fine material they was, too. Preacher knew a little something about ladies and their clothes.

  Eudora stepped close and whacked Preacher on the leg, startling him. “Well, I like you, Mister Mountain Man,” she thundered. “You don’t priss around and honey-coat your words. I like that in a person. But don’t you get the wrong idea about me. My man’s waiting for me by the blue waters. You lead, and we’ll follow, right, ladies?” she roared.

  The women gave Preacher a loud hip, hip, and a hooray and Hammer just about came unhinged. Preacher had to fight to keep a hold on the reins. The president’s man came riding to his rescue.

  “There will be a meeting right after lunch tomorrow afternoon, ladies,” he said. “Any and all questions will be answered then. Shall we go, Preacher?”

  “With pleasure,” Preacher muttered.

  The president’s man tried to put Preacher and his friends up at an inn, but the mountain men would have no part of that. The feather ticks were always too soft and the rooms too small. The men preferred to sleep out under the skies and stars.

  Later that afternoon, Preacher went strolling amid the wagons and the women. There were some kids, but not many—something that Preacher was profoundly grateful for. He smiled and spoke to the women as he walked, but did not stop to talk. That would come in a day or two. He wanted to personally talk with every female there, to spot the strong as well as the weak.

  Quick as a sneaky snake, Faith Crump was by his side, tablet and pencils at hand. “So what do you think about this venture, Mister, ah, Preacher?”

  “I ain’t paid to think, lady. I’m paid to get you people through.”

  “Do you always carry that big gun wherever you go?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because if I run into Jack Hayes, I might take a notion to shoot him.”

  “Why don’t you leave Mister Hayes to the proper authorities?”

  “What proper authorities, Lady? He’s been loose and free for years after all the bad he done back east. Don’t seem to me like anybody’s doin’ anything to grab him and string him up. And this is the last chance for anybody to do something legal-like.” He stopped, turned, and pointed west. A dozen other women had stopped what they were doing and gathered around, listening. “A few miles yonder, Missy, the laws that you live under stop. For hundreds of miles the only law is that which a man carries in his heart and mind and what comes out of the barrel of a gun. Missy, you ain’t never seen nothing like what you’re a-fixin’ to see in a few days. None of you. You’re all a-thinkin’ this is some sort of grand adventure. But I’ll tell you what it is right now. It’s dirt and sweat and pain and grief. It’s bein’ so tired you can’t even think. It’s pushin’ and tuggin’ and heavin’ and jerkin’ ’til your hands bleed. You ever seen a person die, Missy? No? I thought so. You’re goin’ to. You’re goin’ to see painted up Injuns who, rightly or wrongly, don’t like people comin’ through lands they been callin’ their own for hundreds of years. You folks back east, now, you think the Injun is dumb and savage. He ain’t dumb. Far from it. He’s just got a way of life that suits him just fine and he’s prepared to fight and die to keep it that way. And who are we to say that he’s wrong and we’re right? Missy, you better stock up on writin’ tablets and quills and ink, ’cause you’re gonna have a lot to write about. And you all had better reach down deep inside you and find all the strength you can muster up. Because you’re damn sure goin’ to need it.” Preacher turned and walked away from the group.

  “He’s just trying to scare us off this journey.” Faith finally broke the silence after Preacher had gone.

  “No, he isn’t,” Eudora said. “I think we’ve finally found a person who is telling it straight. And I think we all had better remember every word.”

  “Nonsense!” Faith scoffed. “The man is no more than an uneducated lout and a bully.”

  Eudora looked at the fast-fading back of Preacher, striding through the camp. She was thoughtful for a moment. She came from a long line of seafaring stock, and was quite familiar with the type of man called adventurer. She knew that while they were among the best at spinning tall tales and great yarns, when they became serious, it behooved a body to listen and pay close attention. And she believed every word she’d heard from Preacher.

  “Gales are going to blow,” she muttered. “And the seas will be running high before we finally make port.”

  “Beg pardon?” a lady asked.

  “Nothing, Madeline,” Eudora said. “Nothing at all.”

  On the morning of the second day, Preacher eyeballe
d the ten men who’d volunteered to accompany the wagon train to the coast. There had been fourteen originally. Preacher had now kicked out Jack Hayes and three others. There would be eight soldier boys, including Sergeant Scott and Lieutenant Worthington.

  Bad thing about it, Preacher thought, is that none of these men have ever been more than a few miles past the Missouri line. There ain’t an Injun fighter in the lot.

  “Get ’em outfitted,” Preacher said to Blackjack. “Plenty of powder and shot and spare molds. I done looked over the spare mounts. They’ll do. You boys take a look at them, too. See what you think. I got to go see…what is that damn feller’s name from Washington?”

  “He never said,” Snake replied.

  “Smart. This thing goes bad, nobody can blame him. I’ll see you boys this afternoon at the meetin’.” Preacher went in search of the mysterious man from Washington and found him at a pub, having him a drink of whiskey. He was sitting alone at a corner table. Just him and the jug. Preacher fetched a cup from the bar and joined him.

  “You lay in them britches and shirts like I told you?” Preacher asked quietly, filling his cup.

  “That I did. And I approve of your plan. But whether the ladies will, remains to be seen.”

  “They ain’t gonna have nothin’ to say about it. After we pull out, am I gonna see you again?”

  “Doubtful.” He pushed a wax-sealed envelope toward Preacher. “Your money will be waiting on the coast. This venture is backed by the government of the United States and there are payment on demand vouchers in there. Open it and look for yourself if you doubt my word.”

  “I don’t have to do that. ’Cause if I get out there and find that you’ve cheated me, I’ll track you through the gates of Hell and kill you personal.”

  The man nodded his head. “I am fully aware of that, Arthur.”

  Preacher cut his eyes to the man. First time he’d heard his Christian name spoke aloud in years. “Done some checkin’ on me, did you?”

  “As much as we could. We had to be sure you were the right man for this assignment. You are. Your parents are alive and very well and living comfortably in retirement. They have moved up into southern Ohio. Near your mother’s relatives. You have several brothers and sisters still living. They didn’t seem to be particularly interested in your whereabouts or well-being.”

  “I left home when I was about the size of a tadpole, Mister. I wouldn’t know none of them if they was to walk through that door right now. They went their ways, I went mine.”

  “You haven’t communicated with them at all over the long years?”

  “No. Well, that ain’t rightly true. I posted a letter to ma and pa some years back. I never knowed if it got through to them. Then I heard they had died. I sorta lost interest in going back.”

  “They know you are alive and doing well and they’ve been reading about you. They are both very proud of you.”

  “Mayhaps I’ll go back east after this is over and visit with them some. Might be the last chance I’ll ever get. They sure as hell ain’t gettin’ no younger. You gonna be here when we pull out?”

  “Oh, yes. I shall leave for the east as soon as I see you off.”

  “I’m probably off, all right, for taking this job. Off in the head.”

  The man from Washington smiled. “Oh, I think not.” He splashed some more whiskey into Preacher’s cup. He lifted his own cup. “Shall we drink to the success of this journey?”

  The mountain man and the bureaucrat—circa 1839—smiled at one another and clinked their cups.

  “You gonna be at the meetin’ this afternoon?”

  “Oh, yes. I’ll be there. You might get some questions thrown at you that you can’t answer. That’ll be my job.”

  Snake stuck his head inside the tavern. “They’s some yahoo in town lookin’ for you, Preach. Says you kilt a friend of hisn last year and he’s gonna pin your ears back.”

  “He got a name?”

  “Didn’t say. But he’s a shore ’nuff big ’un.”

  Preacher pushed back his chair and stood up, hitching at his pistols. “You want to come along, Mystery Man?”

  The man from Washington smiled. “I hate violence.”

  Preacher laughed. “Somehow I doubt that, friend. I surely do.”

  4

  Preacher stepped out of the tavern and almost knocked Faith Crump off the steps. He grabbed her just in time or she would have landed on her bustle in the muddy street.

  “Missy, what the hell are you doin’ hangin’ around a place like this?”

  She struggled free of his grasp and said, “I wanted a sip of whiskey. That’s why!”

  “Woman, you can’t go in no tavern! That ain’t no fittin’ place for a lady.”

  “Who says I can’t?”

  “Well…it’s the law, I think.”

  “And who makes the laws?”

  “Men does!”

  “Men have no right to tell a woman what she can or cannot do.”

  “The hell you say! And a woman ain’t supposed to partake of strong drink, neither.”

  “Who says so?”

  “I don’t know who says so! It just ain’t right.”

  “Well, I think it would be perfectly all right if I want to do it!”

  “Good Lord, lady, I ain’t got the time to stand here and argue this silly stuff with you. I got to go hunt up a man and whup up on his head some.”

  “What?”

  “You there, Preacher!” The harsh shout came from across the muddy and rutted street.

  Preacher turned and faced the man across the muddy expanse. He didn’t think he’d ever seen the fellow before. But Snake had sure been right: the guy was big, for a fact.

  “You know him, Preach?” Snake asked.

  “I don’t think so. What the hell do you want?” Preacher shouted.

  “To put some knots on your head, Preacher!”

  “Why?”

  “’Cause you kilt a friend of mine up the mountains last year. He was ridin’ with the Pardees.”

  “He deserved killin’, then,” Preacher replied.

  The man cussed Preacher loud and long, while a crowd began gathering on both sides of the street. A man with a large badge pinned to his shirt came running up.

  “Here now!” the badge-toter shouted. “I won’t have any of this in my town.”

  “Shut your mouth and get out of the way ’fore you get yourself hurt accidental,” Preacher told him. “This ain’t none of your affair.” And while the town marshal stood with his mouth hanging open at such an affront to his authority, Preacher yelled to the oaf across the mud: “Do you have a name or are you all mouth?”

  “Tom Cushing, you mangy bastard.”

  “Somebody call the police!” Faith yelled.

  “I am the police!” the marshal told her.

  “Well…stop them!”

  Preacher looked at the marshal. “You go in the tavern there and have yourself a drink on me. Just stay the hell out of this. I stomp on my own rats.”

  Preacher handed Snake his Hawken rifle, then he and Tom Cushing started across the street.

  “Guns or fists, Preacher,” Tom said. “It don’t make a damn to me.”

  Preacher answered that with a crashing right fist to Tom’s jaw that sent the taller and heavier man slopping into the mud, flat on his back.

  “Stop them, stop them!” Faith yelled, jumping up and down.

  “Tear his mainsail down, Preacher!” Eudora Hempstead hollered, having just walked up to see what the shouting was all about. “But watch that port fist. He’s a lefty.”

  Other ladies from the wagon train had gathered, most of them standing silently, some smiling, ready to enjoy a good fight.

  Preacher let Tom get to his feet and with a curse, the big man charged him. Preacher sidestepped him and stuck out a foot, tripping the man. Tom once more landed in the mud, wallowing around like a big hog.

  “Oink, oink,” Preacher said, a smile on his tanned face.<
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  “Stand still and fight like a man!” Tom roared, climbing to his feet. He was covered head to toe with mud.

  “All right,” Preacher said, and drove a right fist to the man’s mouth, pulping his lips and loosening his front teeth. Tom’s boots flew out from under him and he hit the ground, stirring up another parcel of Missouri mud.

  “Stop this barbaric behavior immediately!” Faith shouted.

  “Tear his meathouse down, Preacher!” a lady yelled from the crowd.

  “I command you both to stop in the name of the law!” the town marshal hollered, pulling out a huge pistol and waving it in the air.

  “Ah, hell, Matthew!” a local said. “Put that damn thing away and let them fight. We ain’t had a good fight in a month or more.”

  “Oh, the devil take them,” Matthew said, and stowed his pistol. He walked into the tavern, took a seat by the window, and ordered a drink.

  Tom Cushing again got to his feet and stood swaying, glaring at Preacher. The man had lost his pistols while wallowing around in the mud. He suddenly spread wide both arms like a bear and roared, charging Preacher. Preacher knew better than to let the man get him inside those huge and powerful arms. Tom could easily break his back. Preacher jumped to one side and slammed a fist against the side of Tom’s head. Tom grunted with pain and turned. Preacher hit him with a test combination of blows to the belly and face. Tom’s face went white with pain and he went down to his knees. Preacher stepped forward, grabbed Tom’s head with both hands, and put a knee into the man’s face. Tom’s nose was suddenly flattened all over the center of his face and the blood flew. He fell backward onto the street and lay still for a moment, his chest heaving.

  “It’s over,” Preacher told him. “You called me out and I came. It’s over.”