Preacher's Quest Page 5

  “How old were you?” Faith asked.

  “Thirteen.”

  They all stared at him, except for Rip. “Thirteen?” Carling repeated. “My goodness, you were still just a child!”

  “I felt like a man full-growed,” Preacher said with a shrug. “I reckon that’s all that counts in the end, how a man feels about himself.”

  “Yes, but how did you take care of yourself?”

  “Worked on keelboats and such for a while, and then I joined up with the Army.”

  “The Army?” Hodge asked in surprise. “But you were just a lad.”

  “Yeah, but we was fightin’ the British then, and the company I fell in with didn’t much care how old a fella was as long as he could shoot a rifle and hit what he was aimin’ at, which I did most of the time.”

  “So you took part in the War of 1812?” Carling asked avidly.

  “Just the Battle o’ New Orleans, mainly. And we found out later that the war was actually over before we fought that battle. Nobody told the British, though, and we sure as blazes didn’t know.”

  “Fascinating,” Carling said. “What about after that?”

  Preacher wasn’t the sort of man who enjoyed talking about himself, and the way the Easterners were staring at him and hanging on his every word didn’t help matters, either. On top of that, he was still filled with rage and sorrow over Mountain Mist’s murder. But he suppressed those feelings for the moment and said, “I met up with some fellas who were comin’ out here to trap beaver. Sounded like a good way to see some country I hadn’t seen before, so I decided to come with them.”

  Faith said, “And you’ve never been back to civilization since then?”

  “Well . . . I’ve been to Saint Looey. Does that count?”

  She laughed. “Barely.”

  “You should visit Boston,” Carling said. “That’s where we’re from. An absolutely wonderful city.”

  Preacher shook his head. “I don’t know. I reckon there’d be too many people there for me. I get a mite antsy when folks go to crowdin’ me.”

  “I can testify to that,” Rip said. “I recollect a time when Preacher got out of sorts with me ’cause I was trappin’ in a valley twenty miles from the one where he’d run his lines.”

  “Oh, come now,” Hodge said. “Surely you don’t mean that he knew you were there, when there were that many miles between you?”

  “Preacher knows things. I don’t ask how.”

  With a grunt, Preacher said, “Ain’t no trick to that. I saw the smoke from Rip’s campfire one day. I knew that fire didn’t light itself, and there hadn’t been any lightnin’ storms lately to start a blaze, so there had to be somebody over there. I didn’t know it was Rip until I went to visit.”

  “Well, if that bothered you,” Carling said, “you probably would be uncomfortable in Boston.”

  “I always was,” Chester Sinclair said.

  The other three looked around at him, as if they hadn’t expected him to speak. Preacher recalled that Sinclair had been pretty quiet every time he had been around the man. Sinclair looked a little embarrassed at the attention, but he went on. “I never liked having a bunch of people around me, either.”

  “Well, I can’t imagine living in such solitude all the time,” Faith said. “It’s fine for a while. An artist sometimes needs to be alone for a time to do his or her best work. But being alone in this wilderness would drive me mad.”

  “You haven’t been alone out here,” Preacher pointed out. “A Rendezvous like this, well, it’s plumb crowded compared to what life in the mountains is usually like.”

  A delicate shudder ran through Faith. “Spare me from that, please.”

  Carling shouldn’t have brought his sister with him, Preacher thought. If he’d been bound and determined to see the West and paint what he found there, he should have come alone—or at least left Faith back in Boston where she belonged.

  But it was too late for such considerations now, Preacher told himself. And anyway, it was Rip Giddens’s problem, wasn’t it?

  The Rendezvous went on for another day and a half, and during that time Preacher didn’t see Luther Snell or any of Snell’s cronies. Snell was still around—Preacher talked to several men who had seen the trapper—but obviously he was keeping an eye peeled for Preacher and ducking out of sight any time Preacher came around where he was.

  To Preacher that was just one more indication that Snell was guilty of the atrocity that had been carried out against Mountain Mist, but he figured most of the others at the Rendezvous wouldn’t see it that way. They knew about the bad blood between the two men, and would think that Snell was just being careful not to provoke Preacher into a fight.

  On the evening of the gathering’s third day, everyone began making preparations to pull out the next morning. It had been a more subdued Rendezvous than usual, probably because folks had been sobered a little by Mountain Mist’s death, and the trappers were anxious to get back to their work. The prime season for beaver wouldn’t come again until the fall, so the buckskinners would spend their summer hunting, repairing their equipment, and trapping a little. They would keep busy until the weather began to cool off and the pelts again grew thick and lush.

  Rip Giddens and his helpers packed up most of the party’s gear, including the canvases that Willard Carling had worked on during the Rendezvous. Carling had painted several rough scenes of the festivities. Preacher had given Carling his word that he would pose for him, so even though he didn’t feel much like it, he had stood still for several hours, his rifle cradled in his arms and his eyes lifted to the mountains, feeling a mite foolish, while Carling first sketched him in pencil and then did an actual painting of him. Carling seemed prissy and ineffectual most of the time, but put a pencil or a brush in his hand and he was somehow transformed, turning into a man who knew what he wanted to do and had the skills to accomplish it. His movements were assured and confident as he created images on paper and canvas.

  Carling worked in silence for the most part, only occasionally giving Preacher instructions such as “Turn your head a bit to the left, please,” and “Raise your chin just slightly.” Preacher had no idea why those little adjustments were important, but he tried to go along with what Carling wanted.

  Late in the afternoon, as the artist was finishing up, Faith emerged from the tent and watched for a while. Preacher felt her eyes on him, but didn’t return the look.

  When Carling was done and began putting his gear away, Faith came over to Preacher and said, “It was kind of you to pose for my brother.”

  “I told him I would,” Preacher said with a shrug. “I like to keep my word.”

  “Yes, you’re as much a noble savage as any of those redskins, aren’t you, Preacher?”

  He bristled a little. “I never claimed to be noble, and all the Indians ain’t savages, neither. In fact, some of them have been the best friends the white men out here could have. There’s been many a trapper who wouldn’t have survived if it hadn’t been for the kindness of some Indians . . . even though it might’ve been in their own best interests to let every white man west o’ the Mississippi die from his own foolishness and stupidity.”

  “You have such a low opinion of civilization that you’d rather have seen this whole part of the country remain a pristine wilderness, isn’t that true?”

  “If you mean am I worried that we’ll take all this territory that was fine the way it was and mess it up somehow . . . then, yeah, I reckon that’s true, all right. But there’s no stoppin’ folks from wantin’ to do better for themselves, and for some of ’em that means comin’ west.”

  “But the others should stay back East, right? Like my brother and I?”

  “You said it, Miss Carling, not me.”

  She smiled. “You know, Preacher, I get the feeling that you don’t like us very much.”

  “It ain’t up to me one way or the other.”

  “Come to supper tonight. Give us one last chance to win you over.”


  “It don’t really matter,” Preacher said. “After tomorrow, we’ll probably never see each other again.”

  “All the more reason to spend this last evening with us.”

  Preacher shrugged. “All right, if that’s the way you want it, ma’am.”

  “That’s the way I want it. And don’t call me ma’am. It makes me feel old.”

  “Sorry,” Preacher said. And he was already a little sorry, too, that he had agreed to share one last meal with the party of pilgrims from back East.

  But as he had told Faith, after tomorrow they would never see each other again, so Preacher thought he could stand them for a little while longer.

  Chapter Seven

  Sparrow outdid herself when it came to fixing that last meal of the Rendezvous. She made a tasty stew full of chunks of tender elk meat and wild onions. There was also fried trout caught fresh out of the river and some of the best biscuits Preacher had eaten in a long time, plus a chokecherry pudding that was good enough to make a man’s mouth water. If nothing else, the expedition would eat good as long as they had Sparrow as part of the company.

  Rip Giddens had given up asking Preacher to go along with them, and Preacher was glad of that. He didn’t like having to refuse an old friend.

  Willard Carling wasn’t so easily dissuaded. Over dinner he said, “You’re an excellent subject, Preacher. Are you sure I can’t convince you to accompany us? I think I’d like to do an entire series of portraits of you, capturing you in a wide variety of moods.”

  Rip chuckled from the other side of the table. “Preacher ain’t got but one mood,” he said. “Touchy.”

  “That ain’t true,” Preacher said. “Sometimes I’m downright surly, like an ol’ possum.”

  “Regardless, I wish you’d reconsider your decision,” Carling said.

  Preacher shook his head. “Nope. Sorry.”

  Carling shrugged and said, “Well, you can’t blame a man for trying.”

  Preacher never had quite understood that sentiment. It seemed to him that depending on what a man was trying to do, you sure as hell could blame him if it was something bad.

  When the meal was over, Carling told Chester Sinclair to go in the tent and fetch a bottle of brandy. Carling turned to Preacher and went on. “You’ll stay and have a drink with us?”

  Preacher didn’t see what harm it would do. He nodded and said, “Sure.”

  Sinclair brought the bottle and tin cups. He poured the brandy and passed the cups around the table. When Faith took hers, she made a face and sighed. “It’s come to this,” she said, “drinking brandy from a tin cup rather than from a snifter of fine crystal.”

  “I reckon the stuff’s got the same kick, no matter what you drink it from,” Preacher said.

  “I suppose.” She lifted her cup and smiled at him over it. “Cheers.”

  Preacher nodded to her and raised his own cup.

  He was used to drinking cheap trade whiskey, the sort of panther piss that was brewed in a washtub. The brandy was a lot smoother but still pretty potent. It went down easy and kindled a nice warm fire in his belly. After a couple of cups, he felt relaxed enough to ask Willard Carling, “What made you want to come out here in the first place? Weren’t there enough things to paint back in Boston?”

  “Of course, but not the things I wanted to paint.” Carling leaned forward on his stool, warming to the subject. “You see, I’m interested in man’s struggles with himself, with other men, and with nature. What else personifies those struggles better than this magnificent wilderness that’s all around us?” He smiled. “Besides, I’ve never seen anything more colorful than these savages. My God, their clothing, their headdresses, their decorations . . . they’re a veritable riot of hues! An artist with a good eye, such as myself, is in heaven trying to match all the delicates shades and blends of colors.”

  Preacher grunted. “If you say so. I never thought of it that way.”

  “Of course you didn’t. You’re too close to the subject. Why, you might as well be one of them yourself.”

  Preacher glanced at Faith, remembering the way she had called him a noble savage that afternoon. He hoped her brother wouldn’t start down that same road.

  Carling didn’t. He went on. “Often, it takes a fresh eye to see the truth and capture it. That’s what I bring to the West, Preacher . . . a fresh eye. And I want to capture everything I see and take it back East with me, so that everyone else can see it, too.”

  “Well . . . that ain’t a bad goal, I reckon,” Preacher had to admit.

  The conversation went on a while longer before everyone was ready to turn in and get a good night’s sleep. Rip intended for the party to make an early start in the morning.

  Preacher shook hands with his old friend and said, “If I don’t see you in the mornin’ before you leave, good luck with this expedition, Rip. I got a feelin’ you may need it, mother-hennin’ a bunch o’ chicks like these.”

  Rip grinned ruefully. “Aw, they ain’t bad folks. They’re just ignorant in a lot o’ ways.”

  “Reckon we all are, in some ways,” Preacher said.

  He sketched a casual salute, then turned to walk off into the night. Dog padded along beside him as Preacher headed for his tent at the edge of the encampment. The big cur had lain at his feet during the meal and enjoyed the occasional bit of food that Preacher tossed to him.

  Almost in spite of himself, Preacher had enjoyed the time he had spent with Rip and the group of pilgrims from back East. They were . . . interesting. Not really Preacher’s sort of folks at all, but he supposed they had their good qualities.

  And they had kept his mind off what had happened to Mountain Mist. But his outrage was always there in the back of his mind, and so was the vow he had made to her to see to it that the men responsible paid for their crime. It might take a while, but he intended to keep that promise.

  As Preacher mulled that over, Dog suddenly stopped, looked behind them, and growled. Preacher stopped, too, trusting Dog’s senses and instincts. His hand went to the butt of one of the pistols as a dark shape came toward him.

  Before he could pull the gun, a woman’s voice said softly, “Preacher? Is that you?”

  He recognized Faith Carling’s husky tones and relaxed. “Blast it, ma’am,” he said, “you shouldn’t be wanderin’ around camp in the dark like this.”

  “Why not?” she asked as she came up to him. “Am I in danger? I had the impression that most of these men would never harm a woman.”

  “Think about what happened to Mountain Mist,” he said, his voice deliberately harsh. “Most men on the frontier won’t bother a decent woman . . . but that don’t hold true for all of them.”

  “No, I don’t suppose it does,” she admitted. “But I wanted to talk to you while I still have the chance.”

  “We just talked durin’ supper.”

  “What I have to say is more personal.”

  Preacher frowned, feeling a stirring of unease inside him.

  “You see,” Faith went on, “I’ve written a poem about you.”

  He had to make an effort not to laugh. “A poem?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I don’t reckon anybody’s ever written a poem about me before. It don’t hardly seem like I’m worthy of anybody doin’ such a thing.”

  “Oh, I beg to differ. Will you let me recite it for you?”

  Preacher had to admit that he was curious. “Sure, go ahead,” he said, reaching down to scratch Dog’s head between the ears.

  Faith straightened her back and lifted her chin, as if she were standing on a stage about to perform for an audience. “I call it ‘Ode to a Forest Denizen.’” She took a deep breath. “‘He stands like a statue, bedecked in the hides of the creatures he has slain, as sunlight and shadow play through the boughs of the trees and a fragrant breeze wafts up from the plain. Stripped of civilization, as wild and as free as any russet-skinned savage, this frontier godling . . .’” Her voice trailed off. S
he tried to pick up where she had left off, saying, “‘This frontier godling, strong as Hercules, swift as Mercury, bestrides his wilderness Olympus much as Zeus bestrode the Olympus of yore. . . .’ Oh, the hell with it!”

  And as that frustrated exclamation burst from her, she stepped forward, threw her arms around the neck of a startled Preacher, and pressed her lips to his in a kiss.

  Preacher didn’t think much of Faith’s poem. He had heard the little trapper called Audie recite line after line of Shakespeare’s plays and sonnets, and Faith didn’t have near the way with words that old Bill Shakespeare did. But all thoughts of such things went out of Preacher’s head in that moment, driven out by the surprise he felt at the idea of Faith Carling kissing him.

  No matter what he thought of Eastern gals, Faith was attractive, no doubt about that. Her slender body felt good as she molded it to his. But it was too soon after what he had shared with Mountain Mist, too soon after what had happened to the Shoshone woman, and Faith must have been able to tell that from the way he stood there stiffly, not returning the kiss or even putting his arms around her. After a moment, she pulled back and said quietly but angrily, “I know the poem was terrible, Preacher, but don’t you like me, even a little bit?”

  Preacher wasn’t much good at lying. That was why he was in the habit of telling the truth, as he did now when he said, “No offense, ma’am, but not particularly.”

  “Oh! Well, we’ll just see about that!”

  Then, instead of letting go of him the way Preacher had figured she would do, she grabbed on to him tighter and kissed him again.

  This one was interrupted by Chester Sinclair, who bounded up and yelled, “Let go of her!”

  If Preacher could have gotten his mouth free, he would have pointed out that Faith was the one hanging on to him, not the other way around. But he didn’t get a chance to say anything before Sinclair took hold of her, pulled her away from Preacher, and then swung his right fist at the mountain man’s jaw.