“Smells water,” Preacher told him. He pointed to a small water hole. “But that’s bad water. Pisen. Horse sometimes ain’t got no sense when it comes to water. Injuns call that water wau-nee-chee. Means no good.”
Kirby rolled that word around his tongue, memorizing it. “How can you tell if water is no good?”
“Look for bones of small animals and birds close by. Can’t always go by smell or taste.” He swung his spotted pony. “You’ll learn, Smoke. I’ll teach you.”
Emmett finally asked the question that had been on his mind for days. “Why, Preacher?”
“Gettin’ old,” the mountain man said simply and softly. “Like to leave something of what I know behind when I go see the elephant. Got no one else to leave it with.”
“You were never married?”
Preacher laughed. “Hell’s fire, yes! Five — no, six times. Injun ceremonies. I got twelve-fifteen younguns runnin’ ’round out here. Half-breeds. But most of ’em don’t know me for what I am, and I don’t know them. That weren’t the way I planned it; it just worked out that way. Wouldn’t know most of ’em ifn I saw ’em. I’m just ’nother white man. They’d soon shoot me and take my hair as look at me. Probably rather shoot me than look at me, ifn the truth be told.”
“Why?” Emmett asked.
“They breeds, that’s why. Some tribes don’t look with much favor on breeds. Then they’s them that being a breed don’t make no difference. Injuns ain’t all alike, Smoke. They just as different in thinkin’ as white men, and just as quarrelsome, too — with other tribes. Ifn the Injun would ever try to git along and unite agin us, the white man would have never got past Kansas. I think Injuns is the greatest fighters the world’ll ever know. But they just can’t get together agin us. Something I’m right thankful for,” he added.
They took their time getting to Pueblo, with Kirby learning more from the old mountain man each day. And he was eager to learn, retaining all the old man told him. The weeks on the trail had begun the transformation of the boy into the edge of manhood.
Sixteen, Emmett mused as they rode, and already killed half a dozen men. His son’s quickness and ease with the Navy Colts had stuck in the man’s mind. The father had handled guns all his life. Before taking up farming, he had been marshal of a small town in Missouri, on the Kansas border, and had killed two men during his tenure in office. God alone knew how many men he had killed in the war. But Kirby handled the Colts like they were an extension of his arms. And fast — God, the boy was fast.
Kirby practiced an hour each day drawing and dry-firing the Colts. In only a matter of weeks, his draw had become a blur — too fast for the eye to follow. And he was deadly accurate.
Well, Emmett mused, making up his mind, he was glad they had run into Preacher, and he was glad the mountain man had taken such an interest in Kirby. Smoke, he amended that. He was also glad the boy could take care of himself in a bad situation. For, although the father had not told the son, the move westward had not been pure impulse. Even had his wife not been dead, Emmett would have moved westward … he had given his word to Mosby.
If it took him forever, Emmett had sworn to Mosby, he would find and kill three men: Stratton, Potter, and Richards.
And he was sure Preacher had guessed there was a mission to fulfill in the back of the elder Jensen’s mind.
Preacher was no fool — he was sharp. Emmett would have to confide in the old man — soon. For the three traitors and murderers, Potter, Stratton, and Richards, had said many times they were going to the place called Idaho when the war ended. And with the stolen Confederate gold, they would have ample funds to start a business. Ranches, more than likely, although one of them had expressed a desire to open a trading post.
Emmett knew, if he found the men at all, it might take months, even years. But he also knew he didn’t have years. But he had to find them. Had to kill them.
Or be killed, he reflected morosely.
While Kirby rode on ahead, his bay prancing, the boy taking to the new land like a colt to a field of clover, Preacher hung back to speak with Emmett, both of them keeping one eye on the boy.
“You got a burr under your saddle, Emmett,” Preacher said. “Wanna talk about it?”
“I got things to do. And it might take me some time to do them.”
“I figured as much.”
“Thought you would have. I took no allegiance to the federal government after Lee surrendered. But I did swear to kill three men and get back as much of the Confederate gold they stole as possible. I’ll do it, too.”
“War’s over,” the old man observed. “Who you gonna give the gold to?”
“I might give it to Kirby. Maybe I’ll just toss it in the river. Don’t know. It’s tainted.” He looked at Preacher. “You’ll take care of my boy?”
“You know that without askin’.”
“Teach him what you know?”
“That’s my plan. But they’s more to this than you’re sayin’. You had that cough long?”
“You’re pretty sharp, Preacher.”
“Don’t know about that. Just keep my eyes and ears open, that’s all.”
“I caught a ball through the lung. Laid me flat on my back for weeks. Got infected. Then lung fever hit the other lung. Maybe — just maybe — if I stayed in a dry climate, I might make it, according to the doctors. But they didn’t sound hopeful. I can’t do that. I swore I’d find those men.”
“Who are they?”
“Wiley Potter, Josh Richards, and a man named Stratton. They turned traitor and robbed some gold meant to keep the Confederacy going a while longer. That was bad enough, but they killed several men while stealing the gold. One of the men killed was my son, Luke.”
Preacher grunted. “Smoke know about that?”
“No. He thinks his brother was killed fighting with Lee, in the wilderness. If I don’t come back from this, you tell him the truth, all right?”
“Done.”
“I’ll be pulling out after I stock up with some supplies in Pueblo. I’ll tell Kirby all I think he needs to know.”
Kirby stood in front of the trading post at dawn, watching his father ride out, pack horse trailing. Emmett had taken only a few of the gold coins, leaving the rest with Kirby. The young man was conscious of the weight of the coins in the leather bag around his neck. His father stopped, spun his horse, and waved at his son. Kirby returned the wave, then his Pa was gone, dipping out of sight, over the rise of a small hill.
Preacher sat on the porch of the trading post, watching, saying nothing. Kirby turned, looking at the man who was to become his mentor.
“Will he be back?” The boy’s voice was shaky.
“Ifn he can.” Preacher spat on the dusty ground. “Some things, Smoke, a man’s just gotta do ’fore his time on earth slips away. Your Pa has things to do. Smoke, ifn you wanna cry — and they ain’t no shame in a man cryin’ — best go ’round back and do it. Get it over with.”
Kirby squared his shoulders. “I’m a man,” he said, his voice firming. “I lived alone and worked the land and paid the taxes — all by myself. I haven’t cried since Ma died.”
Lot of weight on a boy’s shoulders, Preacher thought. “Well, then, we’d best buy some salt and flour and beans and sich. Get you outfitted. Then we’ll ride on outta here.”
“Where will we meet up with Pa?”
“Brown’s Hole — ifn he’s lucky. Next year. Year after. He’ll get word to us.”
Kirby put a foot on the steps. “Let’s get outfitted.”
The man behind the counter at the trading post had given the boy ten dollars for the scalps in his war bag, winking at Preacher as he did so. Kirby had not seen the wink.
Kirby pointed to a shiny new Henry repeating rifle on the rack. “I want one of those,” he told the man. “And a hundred rounds of .44s.” He took a few coins from the leather bag. “For the Henry, I’ll trade you this Spencer and pay the difference. Whatever is fair.”