Absaroka Ambush

Book 3: Preacher/The First Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

Genres: Historical Fiction; Westerns; General Fiction

Synopsis

The Price of Gold

A wagon train winding through the remote reaches of the Rocky Mountain high country can attract plenty of scavengers - some of them human - like Vic Bedell and his gang of cutthroats. All he wants is the women, who can be traded for gold mine supplies...or used for whatever else he has in mind. But he didn't count on Preacher leading that train.

The Color of Blood

Bedell's first mistake is leaving the First Mountain Man for dead. His second mistake is underestimating Preacher's strength...and cunning. And Preacher needs all he can get to lead 150 helpless ladies out of captivity...through 1500 miles of unforgiving territory filled with hostile Indians - and the deadliest threat of all: Bedell and his wild avengers....

Release date: May 31, 2016

Publisher: Pinnacle Books

Print pages: 288

Sample

It was still winter in the high country when the man called Preacher packed up his few possessions and stood for a moment before pulling out.

“Horse,” he said, “I think you and me have done agreed to a bad deal.”

His horse, named Hammer, turned his head and rolled his eyes, as if saying that he didn’t have a damn thing to do with any deal Preacher might have made.

Preacher looked at Hammer. “All right, all right. Stop lookin’ at me that-away. I’ll make a deal with you. You don’t give me no trouble on this run, and with the money I was promised, when we get back I’ll put you out to pasture in a pretty little valley and you can live out the rest of your days with a whole herd of mares. How about that?”

Hammer stared at him for a moment, and then snorted.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Preacher said, then gathered up the lead rope of his pack horse and swung into the saddle. He pointed Hammer’s nose east.

It was not uncommon for solitary-riding men to talk to their horses, and Preacher was no exception. A mountain man’s life was a self-imposed lonely one, and he had not seen a white man all winter; spotting only the occasional Indian during the long winter months. The Indians had left him alone, and he’d returned the favor. Preacher was not a hunter of trouble, but he damn sure wouldn’t back away from it if trouble came calling. And the Indians knew that only too well.

Preacher topped a rise and stopped for a moment, knowing he was sky-lining himself, but not terribly worried about it. Hammer was relaxed, and Hammer was a better watchdog than any canine that Preacher had ever seen. If there had been any Injuns about, Hammer would have let him know.

Near as Preacher could figure it, he had near’abouts seven hundred and fifty miles to go to the jump-off place in Missouri. And while the government had agreed to pay him more money than he had ever seen in his whole life, Preacher damn sure had misgivings about this job.

If them men out yonder in the northwest had such a cravin’ for womenfolk to marry up with, seemed to Preacher like they could do their own fetchin’.

But they hadn’t, and the government man had handed the job to him.

Preacher figured he might just retire after this job was over and done. Providin’ he got it done, that is.

He walked Hammer on down the slope to the valley below. The government man had said there would be between a hundred and twenty-five and a hundred and fifty women ready to move west across the mountains.

Preacher shuddered at the thought.

He’d spent all winter trying to figure out a way to hand the job to someone else. But he hadn’t come up with anybody he’d felt was dumb enough to take it. Besides, he’d given his word, and Preacher had never broken his word to anybody in his life. The government man had also said there’d be fifty wagons. Preacher would make a bet it would be more like seventy-five or eighty wagons.

First thing he’d have to do is dress up about half of them women in men’s britches to fool the Injuns. If the Injuns ever found out there wasn’t no more than a handful of menfolks with the wagons, they’d attack. And before they pulled out, Preacher would have to find out how many of the women knew how to shoot, and how well.

“Boy,” he said to the lonesome beauty of the wilderness around him, “you can damn sure get yourself into some pickles. And this is about the sourest barrel you ever dropped into.”

As soon as the other mountain men within a two hundred mile radius had learned of the agreement Preacher had made with the government, they had immediately left the area, knowing that Preacher would be sure to ask them to help him out, and not wanting any part of it.

“Cowards,” Preacher muttered, for the thousandth time that winter. “A-leavin’ me to do this by myself.” But he knew there wasn’t none of them that were cowards. They was just showin’ a whole lot of uncommon good sense.

“Probably a lot more than I got,” Preacher muttered. “Come on, Hammer. Let’s make tracks.”

A very uneventful week later, Preacher had put the High Lonesome of the Rockies behind him and was on the flats. He had not seen a living human soul and that suited him just fine. He angled south for a day and then once more cut east toward Missouri. As he rode, he tried to figure out what year it was. He thought it must be 1839. Someone had told him it was ’38 last year, so it stood to reason. Providin’ the person who told him it was 1838 knew what the hell he was talkin’ about, that is.

In his mind, Preacher was going over the trail that lay behind him; the trail that some folks had taken to calling the Oregon Trail. But that was not official yet.

Since there was no way to talk the women out of this fool’s mission, Preacher was working out in his head the best way to lead these female types with marryin’ on the mind to the coast. The Injuns were getting some worked up about all the people with a sudden urge to move west, and for sure there was going to be trouble with them.

All in all, Preacher thought glumly, I have got myself into a mess.

Then he saw the smoke and reined up short. He hopped off Hammer, ground reined him, and with Hawken rifle in hand, edged up closer for a look-see. Preacher grinned. It was Blackjack Perkins, live and in the flesh. If there was a surlier man anywheres to be found than Blackjack, Preacher didn’t know of him. But Blackjack was a man to ride the river with, and if he give his word, it was same as chiseled in stone.

Preacher knew Hammer and the packhorse would stay right where he left them, come hell or high winds, so he wasn’t worried about them. He began Injunin’ up on Blackjack, the devilment fairly popping out of his eyes.

Blackjack was hummin’ to himself, as he was boilin’ coffee and fryin’ bacon and stirrin’ up a pot of beans. Blackjack had himself a regular feast a-goin’.

Preacher had worked in close and Blackjack’s horses were beginning to get a little skittish. Blackjack cut his eyes toward them and without giving anything away, reached for his rifle with one hand and kept on stirrin’ the beans with the other. Preacher grinned and decided the game was up; Blackjack’s horses was near’bouts as good at watchin’ as his own.

“Steady now, Blackjack,” Preacher called, still on his belly in case Blackjack wanted to shoot first and feel sorry about it later. “It’s me, Preacher.”

The big buckskin-clad and bearded mountain man relaxed and said, “Show yourself, you damn reprobate. I’d recognize you anywhere. You be so ugly you frighten the flight right out of birds. I believe the last time I caught a glimpse of you was back in ’35 on Horse Crick.”

“You be right on one point, Blackjack,” Preacher said, rising to his feet in one fluid movement. “But if I was you, I wouldn’t be talkin’ none ’bout ugly. Even your dogs run away from home. I’ll fetch my horses and then partake of your grub.”

“You got any salt, Preacher?”

“I do for a fact.”

“I run out. I found me a lick a few days ago, but I didn’t feel like fightin’ no puma over it. He’d nailed him a deer and I never liked to disturb no man nor beast whilst they’s feastin.”

“That’s right considerate of you. But I’m fixin’ to disturb you.”

“You ain’t gonna get me to hep you lead them petticoats to the coast,” Blackjack called. “You can put that slap out of what good sense you got left.”

“It never entered my mind,” Preacher said, leading his horses into camp. “How’d you hear about that anyways?”

“Ever’body from the Missouri to the Pacific knows about that,” Blackjack said, pointing to the coffeepot. “That’s why you ain’t seen nobody for the past week—and you hasn’t seen nobody, has you?”

“For a fact it’s been sorta lonesome,” Preacher admitted.

Blackjack grunted. “It’s gonna get worser, too.” He shook his shaggy head. “A hundred and fifty or so wimmen headin’ into the big lonesome. I never heared of such a thing in all my borned days. Foolish, is what it is.”

“Yeah, it’s gonna be a real challenge,” Preacher said with a straight face. “That’s for a fact. It’s gonna take a real special kind of man to get this done. Most men I know just don’t have the sand to do it.”

Blackjack’s eyes cut to Preacher. “What the hell do you mean by that, Preacher?”

Preacher poured him a tin cup of coffee and shrugged his muscular shoulders. “Just what I said, Blackjack.”

“Are you suggestin’ that I ain’t got the wherewithal to see it done?”

Preacher looked hurt. “Now, Blackjack . . . did you hear me say that?”

“You better not say it, neither.” He tossed Preacher a plate. “Eat. Grub’s done.” While Preacher was filling his plate, Blackjack eyeballed the pistols strapped around Preacher’s waist. “What the hellfire is them things? I ain’t never seen nothin’ like that in my life.”

“They take some gettin’ used to, but once a body gets the hang of ’em, they give you eight times the firepower. And I been practicin’, too. I can shuck these outta leather faster than you can blink.”

“So I heared. You might be on to something with them terrible-lookin’ pistols, Preacher. I heared ol’ Duckworth call you a gunfighter. He was at the fort when you plugged them three men last year. Gunfighter ...” he tasted the word. “Has a ring to it, don’t it?”

Preacher nodded his head and chewed for a time. “I best be headin’ out, Blackjack. I got to head past the Mississippi to find me some men with the backbone to help me take them women west.”

Blackjack threw his fork to the ground and glared at Preacher. “Easterners!” he shouted. “No damn easterner could find his butt with both hands and a trained dog.”

Preacher sopped out the juice in his plate with a hunk of panbread. Blackjack was a good cook and set out a mighty fine meal. “I ain’t got no choice in the matter, Blackjack. ’Pears to me like the men I been knowin’ all these years just ain’t got the stomach for it . . . the way they been runnin’ and hidin’.”

“Do you see me runnin’ and hidin’?” Blackjack roared, rattling the leaves of the trees along the little creek.

“No,” Preacher said carefully, ducking his head to hide his smile. “But you done said you wasn’t gonna help me.”

“Well . . . mayhaps I got more important things to do.”

“What? You ain’t totin’ no traps. You don’t ’ppear to be huntin’ gold. Maybe it’s true what I heard about you?”

“What?”

“That you was gonna take up farmin’.”

Blackjack dropped his plate to the ground and his mouth fell open. “Farmin’?”

“Yep. That’s what I heard,” Preacher said sorrowfully. “Man that told me said: ’Poor ol’ Blackjack. Done gone and lost his nerve.’ That’s what he said.”

Blackjack was approximately the size of a grizzly bear, but very agile for his bulk. He jumped to his feet. “I ain’t lost nothing’!” he shouted. “And, by God, you don’t have to look no further for a man to hep you with them wagons. I’ll show you, by God, a man who can get them wagons through.”

“Why, Blackjack, that’s plumb kindly of you. I knowed all them rumors wasn’t true. But Ned, now, I reckon what I heard ’bout him was true.”

“Ned Mason?”

“That’s him.”

“I ain’t heared nothin’ ’bout him.” Blackjack sat back down and filled his coffee cup. “Hell, his camp ain’t thirty miles from here. Over on the Badger. Are you tellin’ me that Ned has lost his nerve?”

“Yep. That’s what I heard.”

“We can be there this time tomorrow if we leave now.”

“You ready?”

“I will be in five minutes.”

After Ned Mason heard the rumor about his supposed loss of courage, he jumped up and down and roared and cussed. He uprooted a small tree and threw it into the creek. Then he picked up a boulder that would have herniated a lesser man and it followed the tree. He faced Preacher and Blackjack. “I just been a-waitin’ for you to ax me to hep you with them wagons, Preacher.” It was a lie and Preacher knew it. “I didn’t know how to get in touch with you.” Another lie. “And Charlie Burke is ’pposed to meet me here. He’s overdue now. He’ll come along.”

“Don’t you think Charlie’s a little long in the tooth?” Preacher asked innocently.

“Long in the tooth?” Ned bellered.

“Yeah. This is gonna be a right arduous journey.”

“What do arduous mean?”

“Difficult. This is gonna be a lot of work and Charlie ain’t no young man, you know?”

That started Ned off on another round of hollerin’ and cussin’ and jumpin’ around. He and Charlie had been friends for years. Ned finally settled down and glared at Preacher. “I double-dee-damn-darr you to say that to Charlie’s face.”

Preacher held up his hands and shook his head. “Don’t get mad at me, now, ol’ hoss. I’m just repeatin’ what I heard is all, Ned.”

“Well, there ain’t none of it true. It’s a damn lie. Come on.” He kicked dirt over the fire and began grabbing up a few possessions, tossing them into a pile. “Let’s go find Charlie. I know where he is.”

Standing by Hammer, out of earshot of the others, Preacher grinned, stroked Hammer’s nose, and whispered, “It’s working’ out better than I thought, Hammer. Time them boys figure out that I suckered them, it’ll be too late to turn back. And they ain’t even asked me how much the job pays.” He laughed softly and Hammer rolled his eyes.

“If you all through talkin’ to your horse,” Blackjack hollered, “let’s us go find Charlie. Time’s a-wastin’.”

Preacher swung into the saddle. “Lead on, Blackjack,” he called, again hiding a smile. “I want to get there ’fore Charlie falls over from old age.”

Charlie Burke was no spring chicken, but neither was he likely to fall over from old age anytime soon. Preacher just wanted to play the game as long as possible. He might be able to come up with several more if he kept this sham up long enough.

“Old age!” Charlie fumed at him. “If I didn’t like you so much I’d flatten your snoot, you damn whippersnapper. Let’s go lead these poor pilgrims ’crost the plains and the mountains.”

Preacher grinned at him. “Don’t get all worked up, Charlie. You liable to have a seizure, or something.”

Charlie glared at the younger man, and then a slow grin creased his lips. “These others,” he said, jerking a thumb toward Blackjack and Ned, “they don’t know what you’re up to. But I do, you connivin’ horse thief.”

“What’s he up to?” Ned demanded. “What’s he talkin’ ’bout, Preacher?”

“I ain’t got no idee,” Preacher said innocently.

“Say!” Blackjack said. “How about ’ol Snake?”

“I thought he was dead!” Preacher blurted.

“Naw. He just looks dead. He’s ’bout as old as dirt.”

“You know where he is?”

“Shore. He’s got him a cabin ’bout two days south of here.”

“What’s Preacher up to, Charlie.”

“You boys try to figure it out,” Charlie told the pair. “While we ride.”

The old mountain man known as Snake was ancient. He could have been anywhere between seventy and ninety. Not even he knew. But what Snake did know was every trail between the Missouri River and the Pacific Ocean, and for his age, he was almighty spry and as tough as a boot. He still had enough of his teeth to gnaw with, and was no man to try to push around. Snake would either cut you or shoot you faster than a striking rattler. Hence, his name.

“I ain’t never in my life been around a hundred and fifty females,” Snake said. “And I ain’t right sure I wanna be now. But you boys is friends, and a friend is a valuable thing. So count me in.”

They were gone within the hour, heading east toward what would someday be called Kansas. Days later, they rode into a sea of waving grass and rolling hills and hostile Indians. And the men knew they were very likely to run into any number of tribes: Kiowa, Comanche, Pawnee, Osage, Shawnee, Arapaho, Wichita, and Kansa. None of whom would be terribly thrilled to see a hundred wagons come lumbering across their land. But a war party would be delighted to spot five men alone with no place to run.

“Been years since I been this far east,” Charlie said, waiting for the coffee to boil over a hat-sized fire. “Ten years, at least.”

“Longer than that for me,” Snake said, gnawing on a piece of jerky. “I had me a runnin’ battle with a war party of young bucks not too far from right where we’s sittin’. That must have been, oh, 1820 or so. I think they was a raidin’ party from down south that had just got whupped and they decided to take it out on me. They fought me pretty good and I still got a piece of arrowhead in my back from that skirmish. They chased me for miles, but my good horse carried me safe. I finally lost ’em up past the Little Beaver.”

“What tribe?” Preacher asked.

“I never knowed. I gleamed right off that they didn’t appear to be in no mood for genteel conversation. As a matter of fact, they was right unfriendly.”

Blackjack said, “Preacher, there ain’t no way the five of us is gonna be near enough. Have you give that any thought?”

“Practically ever hour on the hour,” Preacher replied, dumping cold water into the coffeepot to settle the grounds. “I’m hopin’ they’ll be some ol’ boys we know around the stagin’ area that’ll be willin’ to throw in with us.”

“And if they ain’t?” Ned asked.

“We hire some pilgrims, I reckon.”

Snake shook his head. “We’re gonna need at least twelve to fifteen more men to see to the needs of all these heifers. And that ain’t takin’ into consideration them that might feel the need for some servicin’.” He lifted wise old eyes to Preacher. “And that’s gonna create problems, Preacher.”

“I been givin’ that some thought, too. I’m just gonna have to lay the law down to the men and the ladies. I can’t keep men and women from doin’ what comes natural, but I can damn sure warn them that something like that could tear this wagon train apart. Well, we got about three hundred miles to go ’fore we have to do much worryin’. I think it’s the first week in March. We’re’pposed to be there in three weeks. Give or take a day or two. I figure a week or ten days to sort things out and hire men. Then, boys, our troubles really begin.” His eyes cut around as Hammer’s ears pricked up. “Look sharp. We got company.”

The men had picked up rifles and taken up positions before Preacher’s words had stopped echoing in the cool air.

“Relax,” Charlie said, standing up. “It’s Ring and Steals Pony.”

No one knew if Ring was the man’s first or last name, and he never volunteered any explanation. Ring had come west about the same time as Preacher and was a man with no backup in him. Steals Pony was a Delaware Indian who had been taken in as a child by a white family and educated back east until he was about thirteen. He’d then said to hell with it and took off for the far western mountains. He had never been back. He was the finest horse thief Preacher had ever seen and he had a wicked sense of humor.

“What the hell are you two doin’ comin’ in from the north?” Charlie asked, as the men rode in and dismounted.

“Runnin’ from the goddamn Pawnee,” Steals Pony said, walking to the coffeepot.

“I think we lost ’em,” Ring added.

“You think?” Preacher said.

“They might show up,” Steals Pony replied, pouring a cup of the hot, black brew. “I told Ring not to mess around with that girl. She was a chief’s favorite daughter.”

Ring grinned. “I can’t help it if I’m so handsome women just naturally throw themselves at me.”

“The girl’s name was Stands Like Dog,” Steals Pony told them. “That ought to tell you something about how attractive she was.”

“How many Pawnee is there?” Snake asked.

“Oh, ’bout fifty or so,” Ring said casually.

“Fifty!”

“How far behind you and how long have they been chasin’ you?” Ned asked.

“They’ve been chasin’ us for a week,” Steals Pony said. “And I think they’re about two hours behind us.”

Ten minutes later, the mountain men had packed up and were moving east. Rapidly.

The days passed as the men left the rolling sea of grass, the endlessly blowing wind, and entered the flint hills section of what would someday be called Kansas; that gave way to the rolling hills and forested eastern one-third of the region. A half a day’s ride from the Missouri border, the men stopped at a clear-running little creek and took turns bathing while the others watched for trouble. They then shook out their best duds—mostly buckskins—and let them air some.

“This town we’re’pposed to meet the wagons at,” Snake said. “How big you reckon it is?”

“I was told about five hundred or so people live there,” Preacher replied.

“Why?” Charlie asked.

Preacher shook his head. “I sure can’t give you no answer to that, Snake. Takes all kinds to make up this old world, I reckon.”

“Fools,” Steals Pony said. “I lived like that for years in my youth. All jammed up like pickles in a barrel. No good way to live.”

The same man who had approached Preacher with the envelope from President Van Buren last fall was waiting for them on the trail, accompanied by a half dozen other men, who, while dressed in civilian clothing, all bore the stamp of cavalrymen. Those men stared openmouthed at the seven mountain men.

Even though they had bathed and either shaved clean or trimmed their beards and moustaches, they were still a wild-looking bunch. Faces burned dark by years of sun and wind, hats that had lost their shape months back. All carried at least two pistols at their waists and four or five more hung on their saddles in addition to at least one rifle, which they carried across the saddle horn, and another rifle in a boot. Each man carried at least one war-axe and a long-bladed knife, either in a sheath or jammed behind a waist sash. They all had bows and quivers of arrows on their pack animals.

“Howdy, Mister Government Man,” Preacher said, swinging down from the saddle. “I’m here like I said I’d be. Where’s all the females?”

“Ah ... in Missouri. Just a few miles away. I take it these are to be your assistants?” He waved at the others.

“No, they ain’t my assistants,” Preacher told him. “I brung ’em along ’cause they’s first class fightin’ men, hunters, scouts, trailblazers, liars, drunkards, card-cheats, and for the moment, clean. Although I can’t guarantee they’ll stay that way for very long. I also trust ’em with my life, and a man can’t say that about very many other folks. I told ’em what this here job would pay, and they agreed to that. If you don’t, we all just get back in the saddle and head west and you can push this gaggle of hens to the coast yourself.”

“Oh, I’m sure the sum is agreeable, Preacher. As I told you last fall, I would leave that entirely up to you. I have taken the liberty of hiring on a dozen or so other men—subject to your approval, of course.”

“Let’s go look this mess over,” Preacher said, and turned toward his horse.

A hand fell on his shoulder and spun him around. Preacher faced a young man who carried himself like some army officers Preacher had known over the years. Very arrogant ones.

“Git your goddamn hand off me, pup,” Preacher told the young man.

“I take exception to your surly attitude and your very cavalier approach to this important historical undertaking, sir,” the stuffed shirt said.

Preacher smiled while his . . .