Preacher's Fire Read online

  “He’s the wagon master,” Stallworth replied with a friendly grin. “It was Mr. Donnelly here who hired us, though, and him and the rest of those pilgrims who’re payin’ us.”

  “So there are five guides, countin’ Buckhalter?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Been to the mountains much?”

  “I trapped out there a couple of seasons,” Stallworth said. “Know my way around pretty good, I reckon.”

  Preacher turned to Moran. “How about you?”

  The big man just grunted. Evidently, he wasn’t overly fond of talking.

  Preacher let it go. They were approaching the wagons now, and he saw lots of curious looks directed his way. These folks had to wonder if there was some sort of problem. He saw fear on many of the faces. Fear of Indians, fear of the wilderness, just fear of the unknown in general . . .

  But the desire to make a new start in life had overcome those fears, or else these people wouldn’t be here, a long way west of where civilization came to an end.

  Donnelly raised his voice and called out, “We’ll go ahead and make camp! Pass the word! These gentlemen have some things to tell us!”

  Uncle Dan leaned closer to Preacher and asked quietly, “What gentlemen?”

  “He means us.”

  “Oh. Been a long time since anybody called me a gentleman. Ain’t sure I fit the description no more . . . if I ever did.”

  Donnelly rode along the line of wagons, instructing the drivers to pull the vehicles into a circle. Preacher wondered if they had been doing that all along. From the awkwardness with which the drivers handled the maneuver, he would have guessed that they hadn’t.

  He looked around for Buckhalter but didn’t see the man. He was beginning to think that Buckhalter was a fraud, that the man had taken the job as wagon master but didn’t really know what he was doing. These pilgrims should have been circling the wagons every night since they left St. Louis.

  The same thought must have occurred to Uncle Dan, because the old-timer said, “These folks need help, Preacher. Somethin’ ain’t right about that fella Buckhalter. That must be why he acted like he had a burr under his saddle right off. He didn’t want anybody comin’ around tellin’ these folks that he’s a damn fool.”

  “I expect you’re right . . . but we can’t take over and guide this wagon train all the way to Oregon Territory. We got business of our own waitin’ for us downriver.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Uncle Dan sighed. “Still, though, you can’t blame a fella for thinkin’ about it.” He gazed past Preacher. “Especially when he’s feastin’ his eyes on what I’m lookin’ at right now.”

  Preacher was curious enough at the comment that he had to glance around. When he did, he saw immediately what Uncle Dan meant.

  Because the woman coming toward them was pretty enough to make any man think about spending more time with her.

  Chapter 4

  The woman wore a long skirt and long-sleeved shirt, like most of the women from the wagon train, but unlike them, she wasn’t wearing a bonnet at the moment. The late afternoon sunlight shone brilliantly on the reddish-gold curls that fell around her lovely face. The drab attire wasn’t enough to completely conceal the womanly curves of her body.

  Preacher and Uncle Dan still sat on their horses. The woman came to a stop a few yards away, smiled up at them, and said, “Hello. Welcome to our little community on wheels. Ned tells me that you’re going to be staying with us tonight.”

  Preacher recovered his wits with a little start, hurriedly swung down from the saddle, and motioned for Uncle Dan to do likewise. He plucked the wide-brimmed brown felt hat from his head and gave the woman a polite nod.

  “Yes, ma’am, I reckon that’s right, although I don’t rightly know who this fella Ned is.”

  “My husband, Ned Donnelly,” she said.

  “Oh.” Preacher tried not to appear too crestfallen at the discovery that this fine beauty was married. “Yes, ma’am, we’re acquainted. Seems like a right nice fella.”

  “He is.” The woman extended her hand. “I’m Lorraine Donnelly.”

  Preacher gripped her hand. He could tell from the calluses on her palm that she must be handling the team attached to one of the wagons. Reins left marks like that on a person’s hands when you used them all day, day after day. Despite that, her touch had a womanliness to it that affected him, as it would any man who spent most of his time on the frontier, far from the presence of any female.

  “They call me Preacher. This is Uncle Dan Sanderson.”

  Lorraine Donnelly smiled again. “Oh, you’re uncle and nephew.”

  “No, ma’am,” Uncle Dan said as he shook hands with her, too. “I ain’t related to this here tall drink o’ water. Folks just call me Uncle Dan ’cause I was trap-pin’ partners with my nephew Pete. He got hisself kilt a while back, though.”

  Lorraine’s smile went away. “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  “So am I.”

  Looking slightly uncomfortable now, Lorraine changed the subject by saying, “Ned tells me there may be hostile Indians close by.”

  Preacher nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Do you know what Mr. Buckhalter intends to do about it?”

  Preacher and Uncle Dan exchanged a glance, then Preacher said, “I ain’t sure Mr. Buckhalter believed us. He seems to think this ain’t Pawnee territory.”

  “But you believe it is.”

  “We kilt half a dozen of the varmints yesterday,” Uncle Dan said.

  Lorraine’s eyes widened, and although her face had a healthy tan from being outside most of the time, Preacher thought she paled a little. “Killed . . . half a dozen of them?” she repeated.

  “They ambushed us,” Preacher said shortly. “We’ll be tellin’ the whole bunch about it directly. I think your husband wants everybody to hear about it.”

  “Yes, that sounds like Ned. He thinks everyone should have a voice in any decision.”

  That was an admirable goal, thought Preacher, but sometimes it wasn’t practical. Too many people didn’t know enough about a particular situation and didn’t have enough experience to make a wise decision. And some were just damned fools to begin with. When it came down to life and death, it was usually better to let somebody who knew what he was doing make the decisions for everybody, and save the dithering for later.

  Lorraine recovered her smile and said, “You’ll have dinner with us tonight. No arguments.”

  Uncle Dan gave her a gap-toothed grin. “I wasn’t plannin’ on arguin’, ma’am. Was you figurin’ on givin’ the lady an argument, Preacher?”

  “Nope,” Preacher said.

  “Fine. We’ll eat about sundown.”

  “Yes’m,” Uncle Dan said.

  Lorraine nodded and turned to go back to the wagons. When she was out of earshot, Uncle Dan said quietly, “That there is a mighty handsome woman.”

  “Yeah . . . and a mighty married woman, too,” Preacher reminded him. “I reckon you can forget any ideas of courtin’ her, Uncle Dan.”

  “Me? Hell, boy, I thought you might try to find out how she’d feel about doin’ a little sparkin’. I’m too old for such foolishness.”

  “See this gray in my hair? I ain’t no spring chicken, neither.”

  “No, but it’s still summer for you. I’m closin’ in on winter in my life!”

  “Let’s just go tend to the horses,” Preacher said.

  While they did that, the pilgrims finally succeeded in maneuvering their wagons into a reasonably tight circle, which was then tightened up even more as each team was unhitched in turn and the wagons backed closer to each other, leaving only one fairly wide gap where the first team could be hooked up the next morning. Preacher and Uncle Dan brought their saddle horses and pack animals into the circle and picketed them where they would be out of the way.

  The guides led their mounts into the circle, too, and Preacher spotted Buckhalter again for the first time in a while as the bearded man unsaddled his horse
and rubbed the animal down. Buckhalter might be a prickly son of a bitch, Preacher thought, but at least he was taking good care of his horse. That had to count for something in Preacher’s book.

  Preacher could tell which wagon belonged to Ned and Lorraine Donnelly, because he saw Donnelly tending to the team and Lorraine taking supplies from the wagon to start preparing the evening meal. She set up a cook pot while two boys about eight and ten years old took wood from the wood box and began building a fire under the pot. The youngsters had the same reddish-gold hair as Lorraine, so it was obvious they were her sons.

  Preacher nodded toward the wagon and told Uncle Dan, “I’m gonna go talk to Donnelly.”

  “You wouldn’t be goin’ over there to be around Miz Donnelly, now would you?”

  “No, I wouldn’t,” Preacher said. “I got an eye for a pretty gal, same as the next man, but I don’t mess with married women, Uncle Dan.”

  “Never said you did. Nice just bein’ close to one, though, ain’t it? A pretty gal, I mean.”

  Preacher didn’t answer that. He walked over to the wagon where Donnelly was putting out buckets of grain for his oxen.

  “Preacher,” the man said with a friendly nod. “I figure I’ll gather everybody after supper, and then you can tell them what you told us about the Pawnee.”

  Preacher hooked his thumbs in his belt and leaned a hip against the wagon. “And what good’s that gonna do?” he asked.

  Donnelly turned to him with a frown. “What do you mean?”

  “I been thinkin’ about it. Buckhalter’s got his mind made up. He’s not gonna believe me and Uncle Dan now. To him, that’d look like backin’ down. Anyway, what can you do except push on? Buckhalter’s right about one thing. You’ve come too far to turn around and go back to St. Louis. The rest of the folks would never go along with it.”

  “So what do you suggest?”

  “I already told you, and you’re doin’ it already. You need to be ready for trouble all the time, day and night. Just because things seem quiet and peaceful, don’t never take that for granted.”

  “But what if Mr. Buckhalter says that everything is all right and there’s no reason to worry?”

  Preacher started to say that Buckhalter would be a blasted idiot if he thought that. He bit back the harsh words and said instead, “You hired Buckhalter and those other fellas to get you to Oregon. I reckon you either have to have some faith in him . . . or not. Maybe he knows what he’s doing and where he’s going.”

  “Maybe?” Donnelly laughed humorlessly. “That doesn’t sound very comforting.”

  “There’s nothin’ comfortin’ about takin’ a wagon train clean across this wild country, mister. Sooner you get that notion out of your head, the better.”

  Donnelly thought about it for a moment, then sighed. “So you’re saying that you don’t think we should have a camp meeting tonight?”

  “Wouldn’t serve any purpose. Do you believe me about that war party?”

  Donnelly looked steadily at him. “Yes, I think I do.”

  “Then talk to the other men you can trust. Spread the word that you’ve all got to be more careful and more responsible for your own safety, instead of just leavin’ it all to Buckhalter. Keep scouts out durin’ the day, and fort up like this at night. Keep your guns clean and loaded and your powder dry. If there’s trouble, circle the wagons and fight. Fight like the very devil was tryin’ to get his hands on you.” Preacher paused. “Because with the hostiles out here, that’s just about what it amounts to.”

  After another moment, Donnelly nodded. “All right. I see your point. There’s no reason to panic all the women and children.”

  “That’s right. Your wife knows about us runnin’ into them Pawnee yesterday, so you might want to tell her to keep it to herself. Are those guides, Moran and Stallworth, married?”

  “No, they’re single men. They don’t have wagons in the train.”

  “Tell them not to be flappin’ their jaws around camp, too.” Preacher paused. “You said there are two scouts up ahead now?”

  “That’s right. MacKenzie and Jennings.”

  “What time do they usually come in?”

  Donnelly frowned again. “About this time. They’re always back before nightfall, and it’s almost sundown.”

  Preacher rubbed his jaw and didn’t say anything. There was a chance those two fellas had run into Stalking Elk and the rest of the war party. If their horses weren’t faster than the Pawnee ponies . . .

  No use in borrowing trouble, though, he told himself. They could wait a while longer before they started worrying about the scouts.

  Sure enough, the two men rode in less than ten minutes later. They looked a little surprised at seeing the wagons drawn up in such a defensive posture. Preacher made it a point to be close by when they dismounted and Buckhalter strode over to talk to them.

  “Any signs of trouble up ahead?” the wagon master asked.

  One of the men shook his head. From his lantern jaw and rusty hair, Preacher figured him for MacKenzie, the Scotsman. “The way is clear,” the man reported.

  “No hostiles?”

  “No people at all.”

  Buckhalter shot a sneering glance at Preacher, who paid no attention to it. He didn’t put a whole lot of stock in what Jennings and MacKenzie said, either. If the Pawnee were out there and didn’t want to be seen, chances are the scouts wouldn’t have seen them.

  Preacher felt a tug on the sleeve of his buckskin shirt and looked down to see one of the boys who’d been helping Lorraine Donnelly earlier. The youngster said, “My ma told me to tell you that supper’s ready, Preacher.”

  “Much obliged, son. You see the fella who was with me around anywhere? Old-timer with long white hair and a white beard?”

  “You mean Uncle Dan?” The boy grinned. “He’s already over at the wagon talkin’ to Ma.”

  Preacher chuckled. Uncle Dan might be old, but he wasn’t dead. And being around a pretty woman would make him feel a mite younger for a while.

  Preacher followed the boy over to the wagon. Lorraine smiled at him and said, “Ned will be back in a few minutes, and then we can eat.”

  “Where is he?” Preacher asked.

  “Going around the wagons talking to some of the other men.”

  Preacher nodded. Donnelly was proceeding as he had suggested and discreetly spreading the word among the other men. That would improve the chances of these pilgrims making it all the way to Oregon.

  The two boys went over to Uncle Dan. One of them asked the old-timer, “Will you show us your fiddle?”

  “Why, I’d be plumb happy to. I put it back here on the tailgate. Figure on scrapin’ out a tune or two after we’ve et.”

  The three of them wandered off to the back of the wagon. Lorraine turned to Preacher and said, “Would you mind helping me with something for a minute?”

  “Nope. What do you need?”

  She led him over to the front of the prairie schooner, where she said, “Do you know anything about wagons like this?”

  “A little. I ain’t never traveled much in one, though. I’m more of a horsebacker.”

  “This brake lever keeps sticking . . .” She tugged on the lever as if to demonstrate. “And I can’t seem to figure out what’s wrong with it.”

  “Has your husband taken a look at it?”

  Lorraine laughed softly. “Ned was an attorney before we came west, Preacher. He doesn’t know any more about such things than I do.”

  Preacher stepped closer to the vehicle and reached out to grasp the brake lever. Lorraine was still holding it, too, but he was careful not to touch her hand.

  “I’ll take a look at it, but I ain’t promisin’ I can—”

  He didn’t get to finish, because at that moment, a hand came down hard on his shoulder and jerked him around roughly, and then a fist smashed into his face.

  Chapter 5

  The impact of the unexpected blow knocked Preacher against the driver’s box on
the front of the wagon. The back of his head banged painfully against the boards. A loud, angry voice bellowed, “Get the hell away from Miz Donnelly, you no-good polecat!”

  The punch was so hard it blurred Preacher’s vision for a second. As his eyesight cleared, he saw Mike Moran standing in front of him, both hamlike hands clenched into fists now. The tall, burly guide sounded mad, but his face still looked like it was carved out of stone.

  “Mr. Moran, what in the world are you doing?” Lorraine cried. “There was no reason for you to hit Preacher.”

  “I seen him grab your hand and try to kiss you, ma’am,” Moran said. His voice was loud enough to carry to everyone who had heard his first shout and started to gather around the Donnelly wagon to see what the ruckus was all about. “I seen him makin’ advances to you, plain as day.”

  Lorraine gasped. “That’s not true.”

  “I seen it with my own eyes,” Moran grated, then without warning he lunged forward, clapped his massive hands on Preacher’s shoulders, and flung him away from the wagon. Preacher’s feet left the ground for a second before he came crashing back to earth in a rolling impact that sent a twinge of pain jabbing through his left arm.

  “Don’t! This isn’t necessary—”

  Preacher looked up and saw Lorraine tugging at Moran’s arm as the man stalked forward, obviously intent on continuing the fight. Although it hadn’t been much of a fight so far, Preacher thought. Moran had taken him by surprise, something that didn’t happen very often, and Preacher couldn’t help but wonder if it was because he’d been distracted by being so close to Lorraine Donnelly. Then that pile driver punch had addled him for a minute.

  But his brain was clearing now. Anger blew away the fog that had clogged his thinking.

  Moran jerked free of Lorraine as Preacher started to get up. “I’m gonna stomp you into the ground, mister,” the guide said. “Anybody who’d molest a married woman deserves it.”

  Even though Preacher was mad, he was thinking clearly enough to realize something. Ever since this started, Moran had been bellowing like a bull about how Preacher had acted improperly toward Lorraine. The guide was trying to turn the rest of the immigrants against him, Preacher thought.