Buckhalter sniffed and then jerked his head in a nod, as if to reinforce what Preacher had just said.
“That means the blood of all them folks in the wagons will be on his head if somethin’ goes wrong,” Preacher continued. “It ain’t none of our business.”
He started to turn Horse away, but before he could do so, Donnelly prodded his mount ahead of the others and said, “Wait a minute.”
When Preacher looked back at him, Donnelly went on, “I don’t know if you’re right about the Pawnee or not. Mr. Buckhalter hasn’t given us any reason to doubt his experience. But I’d like for you to make camp with us tonight so that everybody can hear what you have to say.”
Wearing an angry expression on his bearded face, Buckhalter moved his horse alongside Donnelly’s and said, “I’m the chief guide and wagon master of this train, Mr. Donnelly, and I don’t appreciate you casting doubt on me by listening to these tramps. We all agreed that I’m in charge here.”
“I mean no offense,” Donnelly said, “and it’s true you’re the wagon master, Mr. Buckhalter. But those folks elected me their captain before we left St. Louis, and I feel a great deal of responsibility for them. I don’t think it’ll hurt any of us to listen to these men.”
“We’ve heard them already,” Buckhalter said. “And I say they’re mistaken.”
“Hard to be mistaken about six dead warriors,” Preacher drawled. “And one of ’em, a fella called Bent Stick, talked before he died. He told us about a chief named Standin’ Elk leadin’ a war party through these parts. Uncle Dan and I crossed their trail earlier today, back yonder a ways. They number at least twenty men, and they were headin’ for the river. Like I said, you’ve got ’em outnumbered . . . but chances are, most, if not all, of those fellas are seasoned killers. That means they’re more dangerous than a bunch of immigrants.”
“Ride with us, and make camp with us tonight,” Donnelly urged. “You’ll have a chance to speak your piece, Mister . . . Preacher, was it?”
“Just Preacher. No mister.”
“You can speak your piece,” Donnelly said again, “and I promise that we’ll all listen.”
Buckhalter snorted and shook his head, but he didn’t say anything else.
Uncle Dan ran his fingers through his beard. “I was just tellin’ Preacher earlier that it’d be mighty nice to eat a woman-cooked meal again. And the strings on my fiddle are just achin’ to have a bow scraped across them.”
“We have some pretty good fiddle players among us,” Donnelly said with a smile. “We have music almost every evening, and I’m sure they wouldn’t mind if you joined in.”
“All right,” Preacher said. He agreed almost as much to annoy Buckhalter as anything else. He felt an instinctive dislike for the hombre.
Donnelly turned to Buckhalter. “It’s fairly late in the afternoon. Should we go ahead and start looking for a place to make camp?”
Buckhalter jutted his beard toward Preacher and said, “Why don’t you ask him?”
Then he turned his horse and rode toward the wagons.
“Didn’t mean to cause trouble betwixt you and your wagon boss,” Uncle Dan said. “We just wanted to let you know about them Injuns.”
Donnelly shook his head. He was a middle-aged, solemn-faced man with graying hair who looked like he might have been a storekeeper or a lawyer back east.
“He’s been touchy the entire trip,” Donnelly said. “He’ll get over it. I think he’s just a very proud man who doesn’t like having his judgment questioned.”
Preacher said, “It’s a good thing for a man to take pride in himself . . . just not so much that he can’t listen to what other folks have to say.”
The men turned their horses and rode toward the wagons. Donnelly gestured toward his two companions and said, “This is Mike Moran and Pete Stallworth, two more of our scouts and guides.”
“How many scouts are out now?” Preacher asked.
“Two. Fred Jennings and Liam MacKenzie. Don’t worry, they’re good men.”
Preacher figured he’d reserve judgment on that. Not that it was his place to be passing judgment on any of these folks, he reminded himself. He didn’t like it when people did that to him.
Moran was a tall, burly gent with a face that looked like it had been hacked out of the side of a granite mountain. Stallworth was short and stocky, with thick blond hair sticking out from under a hat pushed back on his head. Preacher said to them, “You fellas work for Buckhalter?”
“He’s the wagon master,” Stallworth replied with a friendly grin. “It was Mr. Donnelly here who hired us, though, and him and the rest of those pilgrims who’re payin’ us.”
“So there are five guides, countin’ Buckhalter?”
“That’s right.”
“Been to the mountains much?”
“I trapped out there a couple of seasons,” Stallworth said. “Know my way around pretty good, I reckon.”
Preacher turned to Moran. “How about you?”
The big man just grunted. Evidently, he wasn’t overly fond of talking.
Preacher let it go. They were approaching the wagons now, and he saw lots of curious looks directed his way. These folks had to wonder if there was some sort of problem. He saw fear on many of the faces. Fear of Indians, fear of the wilderness, just fear of the unknown in general . . .
But the desire to make a new start in life had overcome those fears, or else these people wouldn’t be here, a long way west of where civilization came to an end.
Donnelly raised his voice and called out, “We’ll go ahead and make camp! Pass the word! These gentlemen have some things to tell us!”
Uncle Dan leaned closer to Preacher and asked quietly, “What gentlemen?”
“He means us.”
“Oh. Been a long time since anybody called me a gentleman. Ain’t sure I fit the description no more . . . if I ever did.”
Donnelly rode along the line of wagons, instructing the drivers to pull the vehicles into a circle. Preacher wondered if they had been doing that all along. From the awkwardness with which the drivers handled the maneuver, he would have guessed that they hadn’t.
He looked around for Buckhalter but didn’t see the man. He was beginning to think that Buckhalter was a fraud, that the man had taken the job as wagon master but didn’t really know what he was doing. These pilgrims should have been circling the wagons every night since they left St. Louis.
The same thought must have occurred to Uncle Dan, because the old-timer said, “These folks need help, Preacher. Somethin’ ain’t right about that fella Buckhalter. That must be why he acted like he had a burr under his saddle right off. He didn’t want anybody comin’ around tellin’ these folks that he’s a damn fool.”
“I expect you’re right . . . but we can’t take over and guide this wagon train all the way to Oregon Territory. We got business of our own waitin’ for us downriver.”
“Yeah, I know.” Uncle Dan sighed. “Still, though, you can’t blame a fella for thinkin’ about it.” He gazed past Preacher. “Especially when he’s feastin’ his eyes on what I’m lookin’ at right now.”
Preacher was curious enough at the comment that he had to glance around. When he did, he saw immediately what Uncle Dan meant.
Because the woman coming toward them was pretty enough to make any man think about spending more time with her.
Chapter 4
The woman wore a long skirt and long-sleeved shirt, like most of the women from the wagon train, but unlike them, she wasn’t wearing a bonnet at the moment. The late afternoon sunlight shone brilliantly on the reddish-gold curls that fell around her lovely face. The drab attire wasn’t enough to completely conceal the womanly curves of her body.