Preacher's Assault Read online

  As they rode toward the wagons, which were coming to a stop about a quarter mile behind them, a hard gust of wind suddenly slapped them in the back. They grabbed their hats and kept riding.

  Preacher had fought many battles in his life, sometimes against overwhelming odds. Some of the battles he’d had no business winning, but through guile, determination, and sometimes sheer luck and stubbornness, he had prevailed.

  But against a fierce force of nature like the powerful storm rolling across the prairie toward them, there was no way to fight. All one could do was hunker down and hope.

  Casey rode out to meet Preacher and Lorenzo, and as usual, Roland Bartlett was tagging along after her. The wind continued to rise. Casey had to shout to be heard above it.

  “Preacher, what are we going to do?”

  “Find a place to crawl into one of those wagons, otherwise you’re gonna get wet,” he told her as he reined in. He looked over his shoulder. He could see the rain, sweeping like a gray curtain toward them. They had a few minutes before the storm hit, but not much more than that.

  “How bad is the storm going to be?” Roland called.

  Preacher shook his head. “No way of tellin’.” He glanced again at the black-fanged clouds. “Bad enough, that’s for dang sure!”

  “Come on,” Roland told Casey. “We’ll find a spot for you in one of the wagons!”

  They hurried off. Preacher and Lorenzo dismounted beside the lead wagon and tied their horses to one of the front wheels. The big gray stallion turned his rear end toward the storm and gave Preacher a baleful look, as if scolding him for bringing him out in weather like that in the first place.

  Preacher told Dog to get under the wagon. The big cur obeyed, crawling underneath the vehicle, lying down, and resting his muzzle on his paws.

  Leeman Bartlett hurried up. “Do we need to do anything else to prepare?”

  “No, these wagons are loaded down with enough freight so they weigh plenty. They shouldn’t go anywhere unless a damn cyclone comes along and picks them up.”

  Bartlett stared at Preacher. “Is such a thing even possible?”

  “I’ve seen the destruction those twisters can leave behind,” Preacher replied grimly. “It’s possible, all right. But maybe we’ll just get wet. Maybe the wind won’t blow that hard.”

  As if to punctuate his words, thunder suddenly boomed as skeletal fingers of lightning clawed brilliantly across the sky. Under the wagon, Dog whimpered a little. He was a ferocious creature, but like all of his species, he didn’t cotton to loud noises.

  Preacher pulled back the canvas cover over the wagon bed. Inside, the vehicle was stacked with crates and barrels and burlap bags.

  “Climb in,” he told Lorenzo. “I’ll give you a hand.”

  “How about you?” the old-timer asked.

  “Don’t worry about me. I’ll find me a hidey-hole.”

  Preacher helped Lorenzo clamber into the wagon, then pulled the canvas tight so it would shut out as much rain as possible. The drops hadn’t started to fall, but he knew it was only a matter of time—a minute, maybe two—before the deluge started.

  Leeman Bartlett trotted up to him. “All the men are in the wagons,” he said. “How long does a storm like this last?”

  “Usually not very long. Fifteen minutes, maybe half an hour. I’ve seen downpours that lasted for days, but with them you don’t get wind like this.”

  “We’d better get undercover,” Bartlett said. “I think there’s room for both of us in the third wagon.”

  Preacher followed Bartlett to that wagon. As Bartlett pulled back the canvas, Preacher saw Casey peering out at him through a narrow gap in the rear canvas flap on the second wagon. He smiled at her and tried to look reassuring.

  He and Bartlett climbed into the third wagon. Preacher tied the canvas shut behind them. Thick black clouds covered the entire sky and didn’t let much light through them, so it was almost pitch black inside the wagon. Preacher perched on a short keg of nails while Bartlett sat cross-legged on a wooden crate.

  “Do you know what’s in here?” Bartlett asked as he slapped a hand against the side of the crate.

  “No idea,” Preacher said.

  “China. Fine china. Do you think they’ll have a use for it in Santa Fe, assuming we can get it there unbroken, that is?”

  “I suspect they will. There are a lot of old, rich families in Santa Fe, and those grandees like to show off a mite for each other. They’ll buy your china, and likely everything else you’ve got. Folks in Nuevo Mexico can get most things from Mexico City, but it’s easier to bring freight in from the States. More caravans from St. Louis visit Santa Fe than ones from Mexico City.”

  “I hope you’re right. I’ve sunk a great deal of money into this venture.” Bartlett rubbed his face wearily. “It’s not exaggerating to say that if it fails . . . I’ll be ruined.”

  “We’ll try to see to it that don’t happen,” Preacher said, but before he could go on, the rain hit. It slammed against the canvas with a loud sluicing sound. The wind howled louder.

  Bartlett’s eyes were big with awe at the sound of nature’s fury. Preacher could see how wide they were, even in the dim interior of the wagon. With each gust of wind, the vehicle shook. The canvas cover billowed and popped against the steel hoops that gave it shape. If the storm lasted too long, it might rip the canvas right off the wagons. People and cargo would be in for a drenching if that happened.

  “My word,” Bartlett said quietly between booming peals of thunder. “I thought I had seen storms back in Pennsylvania. I’m not sure I’ve ever experienced anything to compare to this.”

  “These plains thunderstorms are the biggest I’ve ever seen.” Water dripped through a tiny gap in the canvas and plunked down on Preacher’s hat. “If it keeps up for very long, you’re gonna be stuck here for the rest of today and probably most of tomorrow.”

  “Why can’t we move on once the storm is over?”

  “Because the trail will be too muddy,” Preacher explained. “The wheels would bog down in a hurry. You’d have to use two or three teams on each wagon just to pull them loose, and even if you did that, you’d probably be stuck again before you went twenty yards. It’ll be better just to wait and let the sun dry the ground some tomorrow before you try to move.”

  “I’ll bow to your superior wisdom, sir. I’m not fond of the delay, but I suppose in a journey of this magnitude, a difference of a day or two doesn’t have much significance.”

  “That’s the truth,” Preacher agreed. “The trip to Santa Fe is a long haul. You got to be patient.”

  The rain continued pounding down. The rumble of thunder was so loud the ground shook with each peal, and the lightning was so frequent that the flickering illumination cast by the bolts was almost as constant as firelight.

  Preacher suddenly frowned as he heard a rumbling noise that didn’t seem to be caused by the thunder. He had heard something like it before and didn’t like the sound. He leaned over to the canvas flaps at the front of the wagon and pulled them apart slightly, creating a narrow gap. He couldn’t see anything except the wagon ahead of them in line, so he widened it a little more.

  He put his eye to it and peered out.

  What he saw brought a heartfelt exclamation from his lips. “Son of a bitch!”

  “What is it?” Leeman Bartlett asked nervously.

  For a moment, Preacher didn’t answer. All he could do was stare at the broad funnel of madly whirling air that danced across the prairie toward the wagons. Ball lightning spiraled around it, marking its course over the plains. Preacher estimated that the giant tornado was at least a mile away, but it wouldn’t take any time at all to cover that distance.

  He found his voice again. “Cyclone,” he told Bartlett. “A big one.”

  “My God. Is it headed toward us?”

  “Appears to be. Hard to say, though, the way those things skip around.”

  “What can we do?” Bartlett asked, his voice crackin
g a little with barely suppressed fear.

  “If you’re a prayin’ man, I’d get busy at it. If you ain’t . . . this might be a good time to start.”

  Bartlett began muttering under his breath, but between the pounding rain, the howling wind, and the rumble of the approaching twister, Preacher couldn’t tell if the man was praying or cursing. As for him, he sent up a brief plea to El Señor Dios, as the Mexicans called him.

  Something else caught his eye, something that made him press his face closer to the gap in the canvas flaps. He saw a huge shape moving through the rain. It was nothing but a formless blob, but it was big. Something about the sight of it lumbering slowly along made a shiver go down Preacher’s spine. Then the gray curtains of the downpour thickened, and whatever it was vanished from Preacher’s sight.

  He thought about Dog and Horse. He couldn’t do anything about Horse, but there was room in the wagon for Dog and Preacher wanted his old friend with him. He told Bartlett, “Stay put.”

  The man clutched at his arm. “Good Lord! You’re not going out in that, are you? What about the cyclone?”

  “It’ll get us or it won’t,” Preacher replied fatalistically. He pulled free from Bartlett’s hand, pushed the canvas aside, and climbed out over the front of the wagon, dropping to the already muddy ground next to the stolid oxen.

  Instantly, he was soaked to the skin. The rain lashed at him like something alive. He held on to his hat to keep it from blowing away. The storm was worse than he had thought. If he had known things were going to get that bad, he would have taken Dog into the wagon with him to start with.

  “Dog!” he yelled over the racket. “Dog!”

  He couldn’t see much of anything. It was like he was in the middle of a waterfall. But after a moment he felt the big cur pressing against his leg. Preacher reached down and put his arms around Dog’s thick, heavily muscled body. Lifting the animal wasn’t easy, but he heaved Dog up until the big cur was able to scramble into the wagon. Preacher pulled himself in after him.

  “That animal is soaked!” Bartlett protested.

  “So am I,” Preacher pointed out. The terrible, earth-shaking roar of the cyclone grew louder. “Get down and hang on!”

  The wagon shook madly as Preacher pressed himself to the floorboards, holding Dog tightly beside him with an arm around the animal. Dog whimpered and licked his face. Preacher expected that at any second the tornado was going to lift the wagon from the ground and suck it high into the air, spinning it madly at the same time.

  He had looked death in the face many times, but he had probably never been closer to it until that very moment.

  Although the wagon shook like it was about to fall apart, it remained on the ground. After a few seconds that seemed more like an hour, the shaking and the noise subsided slightly. Leeman Bartlett lifted his pale, fear-gaunted face and asked hollowly, “Is . . . is it over?”

  “Maybe the worst of it,” Preacher said. He let go of Dog and crawled over to the flaps at the rear of the wagon. When he pushed one of them back, rain slashed through the opening. He blinked water out of his eyes and looked for the tornado. A second later he spotted it, off the ground and pulling back up into the clouds. He thought it must have started lifting up just before it reached the caravan. If a monster like that had struck the wagons directly, it would have scattered them like a child’s toys. They had definitely dodged one of nature’s deadliest bullets.

  But they weren’t out of danger yet. As Preacher watched, a lightning bolt slammed into the prairie about a hundred yards away.

  “The twister’s gone!” he shouted over the roaring wind. “The storm’s still a long way from played out, though. And there’s nothin’ sayin’ another cyclone won’t show up.”

  “Then we should all just stay put?” Bartlett asked.

  “That’s right. It’ll blow itself out sooner or later.”

  And when it did, Preacher thought, there would be even more problems facing them.

  CHAPTER 7

  For more than an hour after the heavens opened up, the rain continued to pour down. At last the deluge began to slow, and when it did, it tapered off quickly and then came to an abrupt end. Mere minutes later, the sun started peeking through tiny rifts in the thick gray clouds.

  That was the way of prairie thunderstorms, Preacher thought as he pulled the canvas back and got ready to climb out of the wagon. Once they were over, they were over.

  But Lord, that one had left a mess behind.

  The trail was a broad swath of thick muck and standing water. Preacher’s boots splashed when they hit the ground. He sunk almost ankle-deep in the mud. When he turned back to the wagon to lift Dog down, the big cur looked at the mess and whined a little, as if to say he’d rather just stay right where he was, thank you very much.

  Preacher grinned and said, “All right, if you want to be particular about it.”

  Bartlett looked down from the wagon as well. “Good Lord,” he said. “It’s a swamp out there.”

  “Yep,” Preacher said. “Just like I told you. You couldn’t go very far without boggin’ down again. Better to wait until things dry out a mite.”

  The air was hot and steamy. Preacher took off his hat and sleeved sweat off his forehead as he slogged along the line of wagons, checking on the vehicles and telling the occupants that it was all right to come out again, if they wanted to.

  Casey was a little flushed as she looked down from the wagon where she had taken shelter with Roland Bartlett. “What a terrible storm,” she said. “I thought we were all about to blow away.”

  Preacher nodded. “We came mighty close. That cyclone almost got us.”

  “I hope I never have to go through anything like that again.”

  “It wasn’t that bad,” Roland put in. “At least we weren’t alone.”

  Casey flushed a deeper shade of pink. Preacher managed not to chuckle. He figured there had been some clinging to each other going on in that wagon during the height of the storm.

  He moved on and helped Lorenzo climb down from the lead wagon, then the two of them checked on the horses. The big gray stallion was wet and annoyed but seemed fine otherwise, as did the other horses. The same was true of the oxen hitched to the wagons. Considering the ferocity of the storm, they had all come through it pretty well.

  They had been lucky, Preacher thought. Mighty lucky.

  Lorenzo made a face as the mud tried to suck his boots off with every step. “We ain’t goin’ anywhere any time soon, are we?” he asked.

  “Not until tomorrow at the earliest,” Preacher replied.

  Word spread quickly among the bullwhackers that the wagons weren’t budging. Several of the men who had been over the trail before came up to Preacher and told him they agreed with the decision.

  “Gonna be a cold camp tonight,” one of those veteran frontiersman said. “There’s nothin’ out here dry enough to burn right now.”

  Preacher knew that was true. Without a fire, they would have to make do with leftover biscuits for their supper, and no coffee. But that was still a lot better than going hungry, which he had done many times in the past.

  Since the wagons weren’t in their usual circle, Preacher rigged a makeshift corral with poles and a couple ropes. Then the bullwhackers unhitched the teams and drove them into the enclosure. The massive, stolid beasts of burden weren’t easily spooked, so it was easy to keep them penned up. Preacher told a couple men to keep an eye on them, anyway.

  The last of the clouds moved on, leaving the late afternoon sky clear and hot. It was sticky, miserable weather, and it wasn’t long before everyone was on edge. Preacher was going to be glad when night fell. At least it would cool off a little then.

  Remembering the thing he had caught a glimpse of during the storm, he told Lorenzo, “I’m gonna scout around a mite.” The likelihood of finding tracks in the mud was slim, but it wouldn’t hurt anything to take a look.

  “You want me to come with you?” the old-timer asked.
/>   “No, I’d rather you stay here and keep an eye on this bunch. Don’t let them do anything stupid.”

  Lorenzo snorted. “You reckon they’re gonna pay any attention to a black man?”

  “Well, you try to talk sense to them, anyway,” Preacher said.

  He lifted Dog down from the wagon and swung up on Horse’s back. Riding north, he kept an eye on the muddy ground as he searched for signs. Dog splashed along through the puddles.

  Preacher cast back and forth for quite a while but didn’t find anything, and Dog didn’t react to any unusual scents. Just as Preacher had suspected, the downpour had washed away any tracks or smells. As the sun lowered toward the horizon, he called Dog to his side and said, “We might as well ride on back to the wagons.”

  He was about a mile from the caravan, he judged. As he headed south again, movement to the east caught his eye. He reined in and his eyes narrowed as he peered into the distance. After a moment, he was able to focus on the moving objects well enough to recognize them as several men on horseback.

  The riders were headed west along the trail, toward the stalled wagons. Not knowing who they were but being naturally cautious, Preacher muttered, “We’d better get back there,” and heeled Horse into a ground-eating lope.

  As he rode up to the wagons, Lorenzo came out to meet him. “Find anything?” the black man asked.

  Preacher hadn’t explained what he was looking for, since to tell the truth, he didn’t really know. He shook his head and said, “Nothin’ unusual, except for some fellas comin’ in from the east on horseback.”

  Lorenzo’s hands tightened on the flintlock rifle he carried. Even though he lacked Preacher’s experience on the frontier, he was smart enough to know that strangers could mean trouble.

  “You know who they are?”

  “Not a clue,” Preacher said as he dismounted. He looped Horse’s reins around one of the wagon wheels. “Where’s Bartlett?”

  “Last I seen of him, he was goin’ through the wagons, checkin’ to see if the rain damaged any of the freight.”