Preacher's Slaughter Page 5

  “The count’s not inviting you. I am.” Allingham lowered his voice. “Between you and me, Count Stahlmaske is a royal pain in the rear end. I didn’t ask for the job of escorting him on this tour of the frontier. The president prevailed upon me to do so.”

  “Ol’ Andy Jackson can be pretty persuasive, all right. I fought under him at the Battle of New Orleans, back when I was just a youngster.”

  “Is that right? You’ve had an interesting life, Preacher.”

  “It ain’t over yet,” the mountain man said dryly. “I aim on bein’ around for a spell yet. That is, if I don’t get myself killed by agreein’ to go along with somebody else’s damn fool ideas.”

  Allingham laughed and said, “Like coming along on this riverboat journey?”

  “You said it, Senator, not me.”

  “Well, I hope you’ll join us in the dining room anyway. Count Stahlmaske claims that he came over here to learn about America, and I don’t think he’s going to find anyone more American than you, my friend!”

  CHAPTER 8

  Russell had told Preacher that he would share his cabin with him, but the mountain man had said that wasn’t necessary. As long as the weather was good, Preacher intended to either stay out on deck at night or go ashore and spread his bedroll on the ground if there was a good place.

  After the Sentinel was tied up, he went ashore with Dog to have a look around. This close to St. Louis, the chances of encountering any hostile Indians were almost nonexistent, but thieves and cutthroats could turn up anywhere. Preacher’s long, perilous life had taught him that it never hurt to be familiar with your surroundings.

  Shallow, rolling hills dotted with trees stretched as far to the south as Preacher’s keen eyes could see. Here and there he spotted tendrils of smoke climbing into the pale blue sky. That smoke came from the chimneys of isolated farmhouses, he knew.

  Once, St. Louis had been nothing more than a primitive settlement known as Chouteau’s Landing that marked the far western boundary of civilization. There was nothing beyond it but a vast wilderness populated by wild animals, Indians, and the stubborn, hardy breed known as mountain men.

  Now the farmers were pushing farther and farther into the frontier. Wagon trains crossed what some called the Great American Desert, bound for new lands in the Pacific Northwest. Ships sailed around the Cape of Good Hope and on up to the Spanish and Russian settlements along the continent’s western coast. People everywhere, going here, going there, pushing in, crowding those who had come before them . . . It was enough to make a man light out for somewhere new.

  Problem was, there weren’t many of those places left, and fewer all the time.

  A step behind him made him look around. Dog hadn’t growled at whoever it was, so Preacher knew he wasn’t about to be attacked.

  Sarah Allingham stood there smiling. The wind that blew nearly constantly over the plains stirred several strands of blond hair that had escaped and hung around her face.

  “It’s beautiful out here, isn’t it?” she said. “So different from where we come from in Vermont.”

  “I ain’t been to Vermont, so I wouldn’t know about that,” Preacher said. “It’s probably pretty there, too, though.”

  “Oh, yes, it’s lovely. Lots of mountains and forests.”

  “Sounds like I’d like it there.”

  “You should come visit sometime,” Sarah said. “I’m sure my father would be happy to have you come. He’d love to show you off to all his friends and supporters. He says you’re a famous frontiers- man.”

  Preacher grunted.

  “Notorious is more like it. Some folks claim trouble just follows me around.”

  “That’s all right. I like trouble.”

  The smile she gave him was just bold enough to make him uneasy. He nodded toward the boat and said, “Might be a good idea for you to go back on board, miss.”

  “There’s no danger out here, is there?” she asked. “Surely not this close to civilization”

  Preacher had just been thinking the same thing, but he said, “You never know. Might be a war party of Indians happen by, or some thieves.”

  “Well, I’m sure I’ll be safe enough with you here.” She moved closer to him and looked out over the prairie. “Tell me about where we’re going. What’s it like out there? Will we see the Rocky Mountains?”

  Preacher shook his head.

  “We won’t get that far west. We’ll see some mountains, but nothin’ like what you’d find farther on up the Missouri. This riverboat can’t go that far, though.”

  “What if we took smaller boats? Canoes? Or horses and pack animals?”

  “That’s what you need to get to the high country, all right,” Preacher agreed. “That’s where I’ll be goin’, but you and your folks will head back downriver when the Sentinel does, though.”

  “You could take me with you,” Sarah said, and now the look she gave him wasn’t just bold, it was downright brazen. “I think I’d like that, and I can promise you won’t be disappointed by having me around, Preacher.”

  From the passenger deck, Margaret Allingham called, “Sarah, get back up here right now, please.”

  Preacher had seldom been so glad to see a gal’s mama as he was at that moment. Sarah let out a disappointed sigh and said, “I have to go. But I’m sure there’ll be plenty of other chances for us to be together before we get to the mouth of the Yellowstone.”

  She probably meant that as a promise, but to Preacher it sounded more like a threat.

  Sarah sashayed across the gangplank and went up the stairs to the passenger deck. Preacher stayed where he was, but he couldn’t get back into the meditative mood he’d been in before the young woman interrupted him.

  A few minutes later, the count’s younger brother came ashore and approached him. Preacher had to think for a moment before he recalled the fellow’s name: Roderick.

  “Hello,” the young man said with a pleasant nod. “We haven’t been introduced, but I know who you are, of course.”

  “And I know who you are,” Preacher replied. He stuck out his hand. “Howdy, Roderick. You won’t get in trouble for shakin’ hands with a commoner, will you?”

  “I hope not.” Roderick took Preacher’s hand. His grip wasn’t very strong, but it seemed sincere. “Anyway, we’re in America now, and there’s no class of nobles here, is there?”

  “Some folks seem to think they are, but the way it’s supposed to work, we’re all the same in this country.”

  “A wonderful ideal. One that I’m afraid it will prove very hard to live up to.”

  Preacher nodded and said, “I’ve got a hunch you’re right about that.”

  “I’m sorry about the trouble with my brother earlier—”

  Preacher waved off the apology.

  “Don’t worry about that. It wasn’t any of your doin’.”

  “Albert is very much accustomed to getting his own way, I’m afraid. When he doesn’t, he becomes angry and blusters around a great deal. I hope he didn’t frighten you too much when he pointed that pistol at you.”

  “I reckon I’ll get over it,” Preacher said dryly. “You speak mighty good English. Sound a little like a Britisher.”

  “I attended the university at Oxford.”

  “Heard of it,” Preacher nodded. “I can read and write and cipher some, but most of what I’ve learned has been out here.” He nodded toward the plains stretching away into the west.

  “I’m sure it’s been quite an education,” Roderick said. “You’ll be joining us for dinner tonight, won’t you?”

  “That’s what I’m told.”

  Roderick sighed and said, “I hope it goes well. Just remember that Albert doesn’t always mean what he says.”

  “Where I come from, a man stands behind his word.”

  “There was a time my brother did, too, before he became enmeshed in politics. He’s very close to King Friedrich Wilhelm the Third, you know.”

  “Hadn’t heard,” Preacher d
rawled.

  Roderick laughed.

  “Yes, I don’t suppose the politics of the North German Confederation get talked about much out here on the American frontier, do they?”

  “You might be surprised. Good friend of mine who’s a trapper used to be a professor before he gave it up, and every time he goes to St. Louis, he reads up on everything that’s goin’ on in the world. When he comes back to the mountains he talks about it to anybody who’ll listen. When he’s not quotin’ Shakespeare, that is. Audie’s the quotin’est fella you ever saw. He can spout that Shakespeare all day long, as well as things wrote by gents named Marlowe and Bacon and Spenser.”

  “Really?” Roderick said. “How astounding! I wouldn’t have dreamed that such things would happen out here. And I mean no offense by that. I’m sure that you . . . mountain men, is that the proper term? . . . I’m sure that on average you’re just as intelligent as anyone else.”

  “Smarter, I’d say. We ain’t stuck in towns all the time. We get to breathe clean air that ain’t full of smoke and cinders from a bunch of chimneys.”

  Roderick drew in a deep breath and thumped a fist lightly against his chest.

  “I see what you mean,” he said. “The atmosphere out here is wonderfully invigorating.” He looked down at Dog, who was keeping a wary eye on him. “Is it all right if I pet your friend there?”

  “I’d advise against it,” Preacher said.

  “Oh.” Roderick’s expression fell a little. “All right. I’ll see you at dinner?”

  “I’ll be there,” Preacher promised.

  “I enjoyed our talk.”

  “Likewise,” Preacher said, and he wasn’t just being polite. Roderick Stahlmaske seemed to be a likable enough cuss, and Preacher figured his life probably wasn’t very easy, having a stiff-necked varmint like the count for his brother.

  Preacher located a good place under some trees to spread his bedroll later, then went to check on Horse. Satisfied that the stallion and the other horses were all right, he boarded the riverboat again as dusk settled down over the river.

  Lamps had been lit on the boat, in the cabins and around the deck. When they got farther upstream, the travelers wouldn’t advertise their presence like that, Preacher hoped. Showing a lot of light at night was just asking for Indians to attack you.

  “There you are,” Simon Russell said as he came out of the dining room/salon and motioned Preacher up the stairs to the passenger deck. “Come on in, Preacher. Dinner’s almost ready.”

  Preacher pointed to a spot on the cargo deck and told Dog, “Stay.”

  The big cur sat. Preacher knew Dog would be there when he came back.

  When he reached the passenger deck, he asked Russell, “Anybody told the count I’ll be eatin’ supper with him?”

  “It hasn’t been mentioned that I know of,” Russell replied. “Senator Allingham may have told him. The senator was the one who issued the invitation, after all.”

  “I heard the count’s some big he-wolf in politics back where he comes from.”

  Russell nodded.

  “Yes, I don’t know the details, but from some of the things Senator Allingham has said, I think one reason Count Stahlmaske is over here in this country is to carry on some sort of negotiations between his government and ours.”

  “That makes him pretty important, I reckon.”

  “It does. That’s why I can’t let anything happen to him.” Russell smiled. “But thanks to you, Preacher, I don’t have to worry about that. I’ve got you looking out for all of us.”

  That was true, thought Preacher. And it was looking more and more like he’d been a damned fool to go along with it.

  CHAPTER 9

  When Preacher and Russell went into the salon, the mountain man saw that all the passengers were there, seated around a long, polished table with Count Albert Stahlmaske at the head of it.

  The count’s betrothed, the beautiful, redheaded Gretchen Ritter, sat at his right. Her brothers Heinrich and Hobart—Preacher had no idea which one was which—were to her right.

  Roderick sat across from Gretchen, and his and Albert’s uncle Gerhard was next to him, across from one of the twins. Senator Allingham and his wife and daughter filled up the remaining seats on that side.

  Sarah Allingham gave Preacher an expectant look as if trying to tell him to sit at the other end of the table, next to her, but he and Russell took the empty chairs on the opposite side, next to the Ritter twins, with Russell at the end.

  That put Preacher beside either Heinrich or Hobart and across from Margaret Allingham. He figured the empty chair at the end of the table was for Captain Warner.

  Stahlmaske gave Preacher a cold stare. Obviously the nobleman had not forgotten what had happened earlier.

  Allingham said, “I asked Preacher to join us, Count. Since he’s been on this journey many times, I thought he could tell us about the places we’ll be going and perhaps even entertain us with some stories of his adventures.”

  “I’m not much for speechifyin’,” Preacher said. He looked at the white linen cloth on the table, the fine china, the silverware, the glasses of wine, the fancy lamp in the center of the table, and wished he was sitting beside a campfire in the high country, roasting an elk steak over the flames.

  “Come, come, no false modesty, my frontiersman friend,” Stahlmaske said with a trace of arrogance that put Preacher’s teeth on edge. “I’m told that you’re the living, breathing embodiment of the protagonist in Fenimore Cooper’s recent novels. Natty Bumppo, I believe his name is.”

  “Don’t know the fella,” Preacher said. He tried not to sound curt. “And most of the yarns that have been spun about me are just lies made up by varmints who sit around taverns all day and don’t have nothin’ better to do.”

  “Be that as it may,” the count persisted, “you are familiar with our destination.”

  “That’s true,” Preacher admitted with a shrug.

  It seemed like they were waiting for Captain Warner before they ate, so he decided he might as well fill some of the time by talking about the country through which the Missouri River passed on its way to the mouth of the Yellowstone. Most of it was rolling grassland, as he had told Sarah, but they would see some good-sized hills and even a few small mountains in the distance.

  “What about der savages?” the twin sitting beside him asked. “Will we have to fight them?”

  “Hard to say. We’ll be passin’ through the huntin’ grounds of some tribes who don’t care much for white men. It all depends on what they take it in their heads to do.” Preacher smiled. “Problem is, the only thing harder than predictin’ what an Indian will do is predictin’ what a woman will do.”

  That brought a laugh from several of the men, as well as from Gretchen Ritter—but not from Stahlmaske. The statuesque redhead spoke to the mountain man for the first time, saying, “You are a philosopher, Herr Preacher.”

  “If herr is like mister, you can drop that part of it, ma’am,” Preacher told her. “As for philosophizin’, that’s right up there with speechifyin’ as far as I’m concerned. I don’t much cotton to either of ’em.”

  Preacher was saved from having to go on by the arrival of Captain Benjamin Warner, who said as he came into the dining room, “Sorry you had to wait for me, folks. Just dealing with a little problem in the engine room.”

  “Nothing that will make us turn back, I hope,” Senator Allingham said.

  Warner shook his head.

  “Oh, no, nothing that serious. It’s all taken care of now, anyway. We’ll be able to move on in the morning just as planned.”

  Several women Preacher hadn’t noticed before came into the dining room from the kitchen, bringing bowls of food with them. Stahlmaske spoke to them in German, and two of the women responded with quick nods.

  The third woman was thick-bodied and florid-faced, with graying red hair, and Preacher didn’t have to hear her speak to know she was Irish. He pegged the two German women as servants with
the count’s party, while the Irishwoman was probably the maid for Mrs. Allingham and Sarah. He hadn’t seen any of them come on board that morning. It was possible they had already been on the Sentinel before Preacher arrived at the docks, getting ready for the arrival of their charges.

  The food was a mixture of Irish and German, stew made with dried beef, carrots, and potatoes, along with black bread, and the combination went together surprisingly well. Preacher always had a good appetite, so he ate heartily and washed the meal down with a couple of glasses of the wine that Count Stahlmaske seemed rather proud of. He would have rather had beer, but a fella couldn’t have everything.

  As they ate, the conversation around the table continued, and after a while Sarah Allingham spoke up, saying, “Preacher, I think you should tell us some more of your opinions about women.”

  “Hush, dear,” her mother said with an air of it being a habitual reaction when Sara said something.

  “No, I’m really interested,” Sarah insisted. “Do you think women should be traveling to the frontier like we are, Preacher?”

  “I reckon most of the time it ain’t a very good idea,” Preacher answered honestly.

  “But surely there are Indian women where we are going,” Gretchen said. “Squaws, I believe they’re called?”

  “That’s right. They’ve spent their whole lives out here, though. They know what’s expected of ’em, what they have to do to survive.”

  “Yes, but could they survive in Berlin?” Gretchen asked.

  “Or Washington City?” Sarah added.

  “You might be surprised,” Preacher said. “All the squaws I’ve known have been pretty resourceful.”

  “Nonsense,” the count said. “They are savages, so primitive that they are little better than animals. They could never function in a civilized society.”

  “The Indians don’t consider our society very civilized,” Preacher pointed out. “In fact, most tribes think of themselves as the only true human bein’s. The rest of us are somethin’ less than that.”

  Stahlmaske snorted disgustedly.

  “Ridiculous.”

  “If you get to spend some time with any of ’em, you might start to feel different about it.”