“What about Miss Casey?” Roland asked. “What’s her last name?”
Preacher ran a thumbnail down his jawline. “You know, I never asked her, and she never offered it,” he mused. “I reckon it just never seemed important enough to bother about.”
“I’ll ask her sometime.”
“You do that,” Preacher said dryly.
“Tell us more about the journey we’re facing,” Bartlett urged. “Have you traveled the Santa Fe Trail numerous times?”
“Half a dozen, maybe. Most of my time in the mountains has been spent farther north, up around the Grand Tetons. But I’ve done some trappin’ down in the Sangre de Cristos. Last time I was in Santa Fe was a couple years ago.”
He didn’t mention the trouble he had run into on that visit. Since trouble seemed to dog his trail just about everywhere he went, it didn’t really seem worth going into.
“They say that Santa Fe is quite some town.”
Preacher nodded. “It’s a nice enough place, I reckon, if you don’t mind the fact that the streets are a mite loco and run ever’ which way. Folks say it’s like they were laid out by a drunk man on a blind mule. Or was it a blind man on a drunk mule? Anyway, once you learn your way around, it ain’t bad.” He grinned. “Lots of pretty señoritas, that’s for sure.”
“Yes, well, I’m not interested in that, and my son doesn’t have time for such things,” Bartlett said.
Preacher thought the old man ought to let his son speak for himself, because from what he had seen so far, Roland had plenty of time to make calf eyes at Casey.
The wagons rolled on through the morning. The flat, grassy prairie was so featureless, it was hard to tell if they were making any progress. For all the difference in the landscape, they might have gone five miles or five hundred yards. It was all the same.
The sun was what marked time, rising higher in the sky until it reached its zenith. When it did, the wagons halted so the teams could rest and the men could eat lunch.
While the caravan was stopped, Bartlett asked Preacher, “Is there any need to send a man ahead to scout the trail?”
“This close to Independence, you’re not liable to run into any trouble,” Preacher said, “but it never hurts to have a look at where you’re goin’. Why don’t you let me and Dog do that?”
“You don’t mind?”
“Nope.” To tell the truth, Preacher was glad for the excuse to get away from the slow-moving wagon train for a while. It would also give Horse a chance to stretch his legs.
Bartlett said, “You know, we agreed to travel together, but we never did discuss the matter of wages.”
“You don’t have to pay me anything,” Preacher told him. “We’ll be usin’ some of your supplies. That’s enough.”
“But I’m taking advantage of your expertise.”
“And I’m takin’ advantage of the extra guns if we happen to run into trouble,” Preacher pointed out. “I reckon we’ll come out square enough.”
“Well, if that’s the way you feel, I won’t argue with you.”
“It is.”
Preacher went to mount up. Casey followed him. “I’ll come with you, Preacher.”
Preacher saw the frown that suddenly appeared on the face of Roland Bartlett. He shook his head and said, “Naw, you should just stay with the wagons. I’m not gonna be doin’ anything all that interestin’.”
She frowned, too, but her expression was a little offended. “Preacher . . .”
“Maybe next time,” he told her.
He didn’t want to hurt Casey’s feelings. She was a good-hearted gal, no doubt about it, and smart and brave, too. She had proven that during the trouble back in St. Louis. But he couldn’t have her getting ideas in her head about him. Roland seemed like a decent youngster, just wet behind the ears. Casey would be better off with him, or at least someone like him.
Or someone who wasn’t Preacher, anyway.
Leaving the wagons to get started when the rest period was over, Preacher mounted up and rode west along the trail. Dog trotted along beside him. He loosened the reins and gave Horse his head, and the big gray stallion responded by tossing his head and breaking into a run. Dog bounded ahead, and Preacher grinned. All three of the old friends were glad to be out on their own again.
A few minutes later Preacher saw riders ahead of him, angling to cut across his path and intercept him. He knew instantly that they were Indians.
CHAPTER 4
Preacher wasn’t going to ride right into the middle of that bunch. If they wanted him, they could come to him. He reined Horse to a halt and called, “Dog!” The big cur whirled around and raced back to Preacher’s side. He unslung the flintlock rifle and rested it across the saddle in front of him. The rifle was loaded and primed, as were the pistols behind his belt and the second set of pistols he carried in the saddlebags. His thumb was looped over the rifle’s hammer, ready to cock it.
The Indians reached the trail. Instead of crossing it and continuing on their way, as he had hoped but not expected, they turned and rode directly toward him. Preacher waited calmly. He knew the worst thing he could do was turn and try to get away from them. That would just encourage them to chase him and get their blood up.
As they came closer, he saw the Indians weren’t painted for war. More than likely a hunting party. From the way they wore their hair and the markings on their buckskins, he recognized them as Pawnee. They weren’t all that friendly toward white men, but as a rule they didn’t go out of their way to be hostile.
There were seven warriors in the group, most of them young along with a couple older, more weathered men. One of those veterans edged his pony ahead as the others came to a stop. The leader raised a hand in greeting.
Solemnly, Preacher returned the gesture. “My friends,” he said in the Pawnee tongue. After so many years on the frontier, there weren’t many Indian languages and dialects he didn’t speak.
“You use our words,” the Pawnee warrior said, sounding slightly surprised.
“When a man goes among those who are not his own people, he should learn to speak their tongue.”
The warrior nodded slowly. “This is wise. How are you called?”
“I am Preacher.”
Recognition flared in the Pawnee’s eyes. Preacher was pretty sure he had never met the man before, but clearly the warrior had heard of him.
“The one known to the Blackfeet as Ghost-killer?”
Preacher nodded. He had picked up that name because of the way he had slipped into camps of the Blackfeet and slit the throats of several warriors before crawling away without anyone knowing what had happened.
He and the Blackfeet were old enemies. As a young man, he had been the prisoner of a Blackfoot band. To save his life and make his captors believe he was touched by the spirits, he had begun to preach, like a street minister he had seen back in St. Louis. All night and all day the words had tumbled from his mouth, and when he could talk no more, the Blackfeet spared him. Once the story spread among his fellow mountain men, they dubbed him Preacher, and the name had stuck.
Luckily, the fact that the Blackfeet hated him wouldn’t mean much to those Pawnee. Most of the other tribes didn’t get along that well with the Blackfeet. The Pawnee wouldn’t try to kill him just because the Blackfeet wanted him dead.
However, the power the warriors might obtain by killing a famous fighting man such as Preacher might be too strong a temptation to withstand. He saw the eagerness in the eyes of the younger men and knew he was on the knife edge of deadly danger.
“Ghost-killer does not come often to the land of the Pawnee,” the spokesman said. “Do you travel alone?”
Preacher shook his head. “I have many friends with me.” It wouldn’t do any good to lie. The caravan would be in sight at any minute. “They take wagons full of goods to Santa Fe, to sell to the Mexicans.”
Preacher didn’t think there was any chance the small hunting party would attack a large, well-armed group such as the Bartlett wagon train. But they might come back with more warriors from their village, so Preacher knew he would have to be extra watchful until the wagons were through the area.