After another moment, Donnelly nodded. “All right. I see your point. There’s no reason to panic all the women and children.”
“That’s right. Your wife knows about us runnin’ into them Pawnee yesterday, so you might want to tell her to keep it to herself. Are those guides, Moran and Stallworth, married?”
“No, they’re single men. They don’t have wagons in the train.”
“Tell them not to be flappin’ their jaws around camp, too.” Preacher paused. “You said there are two scouts up ahead now?”
“That’s right. MacKenzie and Jennings.”
“What time do they usually come in?”
Donnelly frowned again. “About this time. They’re always back before nightfall, and it’s almost sundown.”
Preacher rubbed his jaw and didn’t say anything. There was a chance those two fellas had run into Stalking Elk and the rest of the war party. If their horses weren’t faster than the Pawnee ponies . . .
No use in borrowing trouble, though, he told himself. They could wait a while longer before they started worrying about the scouts.
Sure enough, the two men rode in less than ten minutes later. They looked a little surprised at seeing the wagons drawn up in such a defensive posture. Preacher made it a point to be close by when they dismounted and Buckhalter strode over to talk to them.
“Any signs of trouble up ahead?” the wagon master asked.
One of the men shook his head. From his lantern jaw and rusty hair, Preacher figured him for MacKenzie, the Scotsman. “The way is clear,” the man reported.
“No hostiles?”
“No people at all.”
Buckhalter shot a sneering glance at Preacher, who paid no attention to it. He didn’t put a whole lot of stock in what Jennings and MacKenzie said, either. If the Pawnee were out there and didn’t want to be seen, chances are the scouts wouldn’t have seen them.
Preacher felt a tug on the sleeve of his buckskin shirt and looked down to see one of the boys who’d been helping Lorraine Donnelly earlier. The youngster said, “My ma told me to tell you that supper’s ready, Preacher.”
“Much obliged, son. You see the fella who was with me around anywhere? Old-timer with long white hair and a white beard?”
“You mean Uncle Dan?” The boy grinned. “He’s already over at the wagon talkin’ to Ma.”
Preacher chuckled. Uncle Dan might be old, but he wasn’t dead. And being around a pretty woman would make him feel a mite younger for a while.
Preacher followed the boy over to the wagon. Lorraine smiled at him and said, “Ned will be back in a few minutes, and then we can eat.”
“Where is he?” Preacher asked.
“Going around the wagons talking to some of the other men.”
Preacher nodded. Donnelly was proceeding as he had suggested and discreetly spreading the word among the other men. That would improve the chances of these pilgrims making it all the way to Oregon.
The two boys went over to Uncle Dan. One of them asked the old-timer, “Will you show us your fiddle?”
“Why, I’d be plumb happy to. I put it back here on the tailgate. Figure on scrapin’ out a tune or two after we’ve et.”
The three of them wandered off to the back of the wagon. Lorraine turned to Preacher and said, “Would you mind helping me with something for a minute?”
“Nope. What do you need?”
She led him over to the front of the prairie schooner, where she said, “Do you know anything about wagons like this?”
“A little. I ain’t never traveled much in one, though. I’m more of a horsebacker.”
“This brake lever keeps sticking . . .” She tugged on the lever as if to demonstrate. “And I can’t seem to figure out what’s wrong with it.”
“Has your husband taken a look at it?”
Lorraine laughed softly. “Ned was an attorney before we came west, Preacher. He doesn’t know any more about such things than I do.”
Preacher stepped closer to the vehicle and reached out to grasp the brake lever. Lorraine was still holding it, too, but he was careful not to touch her hand.
“I’ll take a look at it, but I ain’t promisin’ I can—”
He didn’t get to finish, because at that moment, a hand came down hard on his shoulder and jerked him around roughly, and then a fist smashed into his face.
Chapter 5
The impact of the unexpected blow knocked Preacher against the driver’s box on the front of the wagon. The back of his head banged painfully against the boards. A loud, angry voice bellowed, “Get the hell away from Miz Donnelly, you no-good polecat!”
The punch was so hard it blurred Preacher’s vision for a second. As his eyesight cleared, he saw Mike Moran standing in front of him, both hamlike hands clenched into fists now. The tall, burly guide sounded mad, but his face still looked like it was carved out of stone.
“Mr. Moran, what in the world are you doing?” Lorraine cried. “There was no reason for you to hit Preacher.”
“I seen him grab your hand and try to kiss you, ma’am,” Moran said. His voice was loud enough to carry to everyone who had heard his first shout and started to gather around the Donnelly wagon to see what the ruckus was all about. “I seen him makin’ advances to you, plain as day.”
Lorraine gasped. “That’s not true.”
“I seen it with my own eyes,” Moran grated, then without warning he lunged forward, clapped his massive hands on Preacher’s shoulders, and flung him away from the wagon. Preacher’s feet left the ground for a second before he came crashing back to earth in a rolling impact that sent a twinge of pain jabbing through his left arm.
“Don’t! This isn’t necessary—”
Preacher looked up and saw Lorraine tugging at Moran’s arm as the man stalked forward, obviously intent on continuing the fight. Although it hadn’t been much of a fight so far, Preacher thought. Moran had taken him by surprise, something that didn’t happen very often, and Preacher couldn’t help but wonder if it was because he’d been distracted by being so close to Lorraine Donnelly. Then that pile driver punch had addled him for a minute.
But his brain was clearing now. Anger blew away the fog that had clogged his thinking.
Moran jerked free of Lorraine as Preacher started to get up. “I’m gonna stomp you into the ground, mister,” the guide said. “Anybody who’d molest a married woman deserves it.”
Even though Preacher was mad, he was thinking clearly enough to realize something. Ever since this started, Moran had been bellowing like a bull about how Preacher had acted improperly toward Lorraine. The guide was trying to turn the rest of the immigrants against him, Preacher thought.
He suddenly wondered if Buckhalter had something to do with this.
He could ponder on that later. Right now, Moran still loomed over him. Preacher had only made it up on one knee, and Moran had a big foot drawn back, ready to kick him in the face.
Preacher was ready when that booted clodhopper came at him, though. His hands shot up. He grabbed Moran’s ankle, stopping the kick before it could cave in his jaw. Then he heaved upward and put the strength of his legs into it as he surged to his feet.
Moran yelped in surprise and alarm as he felt himself going over backward. Unable to stop himself, he crashed down on his back like a falling tree.
Out of the gathering crowd, Pete Stallworth rushed with an enraged expression on his broad face. “You can’t do that to a friend of mine!” he yelled as he swung a punch at Preacher’s head.
Preacher didn’t want to fight Stallworth, or Moran, for that matter. He jerked his head aside so that Stallworth’s fist whipped harmlessly past his face and grabbed the man’s arm. Using Stallworth’s own momentum against him, Preacher swung him around and rammed him into the side of the Donnelly wagon. Stallworth bounced off, and when Preacher let go of him, he stumbled and fell.