His father glared at him. “I’ll have that explanation now,” he said. “What sort of thieves and scoundrels have you fallen in with?”
Preacher didn’t wait for Roland to reply. He said, “Mister, we’re obliged to you for your help, but that don’t give you leave to call us names. The fella doin’ the talkin’ for that mob didn’t exactly give you the whole story.”
The man crossed his arms over his chest. He was a tall, thick-bodied man with graying hair, prominent side-whiskers, and a jaw that jutted out like the prow of a boat. He gave Preacher a cool stare and said, “That’s fair enough, I suppose. Why don’t you tell me the whole story?”
“That fella accused my friend here of cheatin’ at cards,” Preacher replied with a nod of his head toward Lorenzo. “It’s true the table got knocked over durin’ the scuffle and Lorenzo grabbed up some cash, but I reckon he didn’t wind up with as much as he won fair and square.”
“That’s right,” Lorenzo put in. “Fact is, I had to leave some of our money there.”
“As for Casey here,” Preacher went on, “it appeared some of the gals who work in that tavern took a dislike to her on account of how she’s so much prettier’n they are. There was some scratchin’ and hair-pullin’ goin’ on when your boy gave her a hand and got her out of there.”
As a matter of fact, Roland was still hovering rather attentively around Casey, enough so that if things had been different between her and Preacher, he might have been a little jealous. Neither of them had any claim on the other, though. They were just traveling together and enjoying each other’s company from time to time.
“So that’s all there was to it? Just a sordid tavern brawl over a card game and a woman?”
Preacher shrugged. “That’s one way of lookin’ at it, I reckon.”
The man shook his head in apparent disgust. He looked at Roland and said, “I thought you had more sense than to get mixed up in something like that, son. You shouldn’t have been in one of those squalid dives in the first place, not with our trip to Santa Fe starting in the morning.”
Roland returned the look with a defiant gaze of his own. “These people didn’t do anything wrong, Pa, and when they stuck up for themselves, the men in that tavern tried to gang up on them. I would think you’d be proud of me for helping them.”
His father snorted and turned back to Preacher and his companions. “If anyone asks us, we’ll continue to say that we haven’t seen you, although it pains me to lie.”
“I try to be an honest man, too,” Preacher drawled.
“Well, it should be safe for you to go on your way now. That mob seems to be gone.”
Roland said, “We can’t be sure they’re not lurking out there somewhere, waiting for them. Why don’t we let these folks stay the night with us, Pa?”
“Absolutely not,” the man snapped. “I won’t have you associating any longer than you have to with such gutter trash—”
Dog sensed the way Preacher stiffened, and a growl came from deep in the big cur’s throat.
Preacher was about to point out to the man that they didn’t cotton to being called names, when one of the bullwhackers stepped forward and said, “Beggin’ your pardon, Mr. Bartlett, but I think you got it wrong about these folks. I recognize that big fella. Saw him in St. Louis last year. He’s the one they call Preacher.”
Bartlett, who had been about to snap at his employee for butting in, jerked his head toward Preacher and drew in a deep breath that caused his nostrils to flare. “Preacher,” he repeated. “That’s who you are?”
“Wasn’t the name I was born with,” Preacher said, “but it’s the one I’ve answered to for a heap of years now.”
“My God. I owe you an apology, sir. My son and I discussed trying to locate you and hire you to accompany us.” The man held out a hand. “My name is Leeman Bartlett.”
His attitude had undergone a dramatic turnaround in a few seconds. Preacher still thought he was a stiff-necked, judgmental varmint, but Bartlett had offered his hand and an apology. A man couldn’t do more than that. Preacher gripped Bartlett’s hand and nodded.
“This here’s Lorenzo,” he said with a nod toward the black man. “He ain’t a slave. He’s a freedman.”
Bartlett shook hands with him as well.
“And the lady’s name is Cassandra,” Preacher went on.
“But my friends call me Casey,” she added.
Bartlett nodded to her. “Miss,” he said. “That fellow making a fuss over you is my son Roland, as you’ve no doubt figured out by now.”
“Pa!” Roland said, looking embarrassed. “I’m not making a fuss over anybody.”
Bartlett grunted. “Yes, well . . .” He swung back toward Preacher. “Fate has led you to us, sir. Is there any chance you’d consider accepting my proposition?”
“You mean about comin’ along with your wagon train to Santa Fe?”
“Indeed. I’ve heard it said that you probably know more about the country west of the Mississippi than any man alive.”
“I ain’t so sure about that,” Preacher said, “but it’s true I’ve been to see the elephant. You don’t really need a guide, though. The trail ain’t that hard to follow.”
“Call it an advisor, then,” Bartlett said. “There are bound to be pitfalls along the way, and circumstances where I could use the counsel of a canny frontiersman.”
“Have you made this trip before?” Preacher asked.
“No, this will be the first time, although some of my men have worked on other wagon trains that made the journey.”
In that case, it was probably true there would be times when Bartlett could use some advice from a man who knew what he was talking about. It was also true that Preacher, Lorenzo, and Casey had discussed trying to hook up with one of the freight wagon caravans headed west. There was a lot of dangerous country between Independence and Santa Fe, and they would be safer with the wagons than trying to go it alone.
Preacher looked at Lorenzo and Casey.
The old-timer said, “Whatever you want to do is fine with me, Preacher. You know a lot more about this sort of thing than I do.”
“That goes for me, too,” Casey said.
Preacher saw that Roland was watching and waiting for his decision with barely concealed eagerness. The young man was obviously looking forward to the possibility of spending the next several weeks traveling with Casey.
Since Preacher didn’t have a jealous bone in his body, that was all right with him. He turned to Bartlett and nodded. “Sounds like a pretty good idea. You’re pullin’ out in the mornin’, you said?”
Bartlett smiled and replied, “At first light.”
“I’ll have to go back to the stable and get our horses. But when your wagons are ready to roll, we’ll be ready to ride.”
CHAPTER 3
Preacher was up before dawn the next morning, intending to return to the stable and collect their horses and gear. He and Lorenzo and Casey had planned to sleep there, but the three of them had actually spent the night under one of the wagons in the freight caravan. Lorenzo and Casey had still been rolled up in their blankets sleeping when Preacher crawled out to fetch the horses.
Leeman Bartlett was already up, stirring the embers of the cook fire back to life. Preacher told him where he was bound, and Bartlett said, “The coffee will be ready by the time you get back. I trust you slept well?”
“Well enough,” Preacher said. “I sorta kept one eye open, in case that bunch came back.” He shrugged. “I never sleep as well in a town as I do out in the open.”
“We’ll be in the open soon enough,” Bartlett commented. “There’s not much between here and Santa Fe except open ground, is there?”
“Not much,” Preacher agreed. “Other than scorchin’ sun, rattlesnakes, cyclones that come outta nowhere, gangs of highwaymen, and bands of hostile Injuns. But that’s all,” he added dryly.