“Yeah, I seen it,” the elderly black man said. “Looks like we’re gonna have a storm blowin’ through.”
“It might miss us,” Preacher said. “Hard to tell just how far away anything is out here.”
“That’s the gospel truth! I never seen a flatter, emptier country than this here.”
Preacher kept an eye on the clouds all morning. They loomed closer and closer, filling up half the sky until everyone in the wagon caravan, even the rankest greenhorn, couldn’t help but notice them. Leeman Bartlett rode forward to talk to Preacher.
“Do you think we need to find shelter?” Bartlett asked as he cast nervous glances toward the billowing black clouds. Preacher knew that the sun shining on the clouds made them appear darker than they really were, but they were plenty dark enough to hold a lot of wind and rain, maybe even some hail.
In reply to Bartlett’s question, Preacher swept a hand at the vast emptiness surrounding them and said, “That’d be a mighty fine idea . . . if there was any place to hole up. But you can see for yourself there ain’t really any place like that out here.”
“Then what should we do? Just keep going right into the teeth of that storm?”
Preacher shook his head. “No, I reckon it’d be best to stop. Maybe the worst of it will skirt past us.” He didn’t think that was likely, but stopping was just about the only thing they could do.
“Should we circle the wagons and unhitch the teams, like we do when we make camp?”
“No, leave ’em harnessed. We may have to move, if the water starts risin’.”
Bartlett looked confused. “Are you talking about a flood? How would that be possible on flat ground like this?”
“You’d be surprised at the amount of rain that can fall in one of these cloudbursts.”
Bartlett turned his horse and rode back to the wagons to pass along the order to stop.
There hadn’t been much wind and soon it laid down and was dead still. Lorenzo scratched his jaw and said, “I don’t much like the way the air feels.”
“Me, neither,” Preacher said. Horse tossed his head, and beside them, Dog let out a little whine. “These two varmints agree, and I’ve learned over the years to always trust ’em.” Preacher turned his mount. “Let’s get back.”
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.”