F
OURTEEN
“Gotcha!” Preacher whispered, his eyes hardening and his smile becoming more like a wolfs snarl.
He had found a track. Just one. But that was enough. He pressed on, on foot, leading Hammer. He found where a branch had been broken. Another spot where a horse had dumped a load and the rider had been unaware of it. Preacher stopped and looked up. He had been on the trail for days before picking up the first hopeful sign.
The mountains loomed up majestic before him. The air was fresh and cool and scented. He was home. The mountains comforted him, and always pulled him back. And he knew them intimately. The Pardees had made a bad mistake if they were up there, and Preacher believed they were.
“Now, you child-killin', baby-rapin', torturin' no-count bastards. Now I'm gonna give you all some mountain justice and rid the world of you.”
He searched carefully until he found a tiny valley nestled behind an almost impenetrable wall of brush. He was delighted to find the valley was lush with grass, belly-high to Hammer, with a deep pool of spring-fed water. Preacher stripped the saddle from Hammer and the rig from his packhorse and let the animals roll while he inspected the mountain meadow. There was another way out, and he blocked that carefully with transplanted bushes, watering them so they would live. He worked slowly and carefully, for he had time. He now knew the trail the Pardees and their ilk used from their caves high up, when they went on their murderous raids. As long as the lush grass and the water was plentiful, and it was, his horses would not attempt to leave the peaceful little valley. So Preacher had plenty of time to hunt the Pardees.
When he was satisfied his horses would be safe when he left, Preacher chanced a small fire under an overhang and boiled coffee and chewed on jerky. He had not seen one sign of Indians, and neither had he found any signs that this particular valley had ever been entered by humans, red or white. In his prowlings, he had not found a single trace of the ashes of old fires. Preacher had him a feeling that he was the first white man â maybe the first human â to ever enter this tiny bit of pristine wilderness. And that left him with a good feeling.
And that feeling stirred emotions within him that he had not experienced in years. The feelings he had had years back, when he stood on a ridge overlooking a wild and roaring river, or a lovely undisturbed valley, or a stretch of grass that looked so large and so long it seemed to be one with the sky.
“A little piece of what it used to be like,” Preacher muttered, a little bit of sadness in his voice. He dumped the coffee into the boiling water, and then took the pot off the fire and tossed in some cold water to help the grounds settle.
Actually, it was still pretty much the way it was when Preacher and the other mountain men had arrived, years back. But they were feeling the first tentative push of pioneers westward. Only a ripple for now, but soon it would turn into a huge, roaring wave of humanity sweeping over the land. Preacher and the others hadn't seen a thing yet.
His fire out, Preacher slept soundly and dreamlessly that night, his horses picketed nearby. Anything alien or out of place with nature moved in the valley during the night, they would wake him in an instant. Hammer was as good as any trained dog.
Up before the skies turned silver, Preacher carefully packed a few things in his blanket and groundsheet and rolled it, securing it with rawhide strings and slinging it across his back. He checked his pistols. The bright sash was gone, replaced by a wide sturdy strip of deerskin that tied securely. The pistols went behind that. His horn was filled with powder and he had plenty of shot. His bow was good and his quiver filled with arrows. His big knife was honed to a fine edge. He was ready to go hunting.
He was going to do his best to put the Pardee brothers out of business.
“Don't you get too fat now, Hammer,” Preacher told his horse. “I'll see you in about a week, or less, the Good Lord willin'.” He picked up his rifle and headed out of the lovely little valley in the mountains.
He had enough pemmican and jerky in his parfleche to last him a good long time, and he planned to once and for all rid the wilderness of the Pardee trash and anyone stupid enough to ride with their wicked way. Also any renegade Injuns he might chance upon.
Which was what he spotted not an hour after leaving the valley. Preacher recognized him as a Comanche, and this Comanche was a long way from home. He had evidently broken some hard-and-fast tribal rule and gotten himself booted out. And here he was, big as life. Which was going to end, very quickly.
The Comanche must have thought himself safe in these mountains, for he was not exercising much caution as he rode the country. Had him a fine lookin' horse, too. Preacher immediately coveted that animal.
“Might as well take him,” Preacher muttered low, and climbed a tree to the lower limb that dangled over the nearly invisible trail.
When the renegade drew near, Preacher dropped and kicked the buck in the head on the way down. Addled, the renegade staggered to his moccasins just in time to receive Preacher's big blade in his belly, the cutting edge up. Preacher finished the Comanche and let him fall.
Looking around, he noted with disgust the scalps tied to the horse's mane. One of them was from a woman's head. Blond hair. He calmed the spooky horse and untied the scalps, throwing them into the brush. Then he stuffed the body of the Indian up into a hollow log. He'd let a bear work for his supper.
Preacher led the big horse off the trail and back to his little valley. Hammer snorted a few times and let the new addition know who was boss real quick. When they got all that settled, all three of them went to grazing.
The horse the Comanche rode to his death was an Appaloosa, and a big one for that breed. The renegade had either made or stolen, probably the latter, a buckskin pad saddle, stuffed with buffalo hair and grass. Preacher had read some accounts of the wilderness â written by eastern writers â which stated that Indians never used saddles. That was pure bunk. It all depended on the Indian. Many Injun women used a high-backed Spanish-style saddle made of wood, and they rode astride like a man. Lots of Injun men used saddles of all types and styles and descriptions for long journeys and for ceremonies.
Preacher again took his Hawken in hand and moved out of the valley, exiting this time using a different route. He walked for several miles, and just as he reached a point a few hundred yards below the timberline, he smelled smoke.
He squatted down and inhaled deeply. Somebody was broilin' venison steaks and boilin' coffee. Made Preacher's mouth start salivatin', and it made him mad. Here he was trying to do the right thing and just get along with them that would let him, and these murderin', thievin' bums was eatin' high off the hog. Or the deer, as it were. Well, by God, he'd put a stop to that, and do it right now.
Preacher followed the scent trail with his nose and almost stumbled right into the camp. It was very well concealed. If he had taken two more steps, he would have gone over the edge of a ravine, and before he'd stopped rolling, he'd have been shot to pieces by them below.
“Hurry up with that there meat,” a bearded, burly lout of a man said, irritation in his voice. “I got myself a bad case of the hongries.”
“Peacify yourself, Reed,” the man at the fire said. “I can't git this far no hotter and I shore can't cook the meat no faster than I is.”
Reed stood for a moment with a frown on his face. He licked his thick lips. “I just don't like you a-tall, Franklin,” he said. “I never have. You're a smart-aleck son of a bitch. If you couldn't cook, I'd have shot you a long time ago.”
Franklin cut his eyes. “You want this here steak rolled in dirt, Reed? 'Cause you say one more word to me and that's how you gonna get it.”
Reed said something that Preacher couldn't catch and Franklin stood up from the fire.
“That's enough!” the third man said sharply. “We got enough troubles without fightin' amongst ourselves. Reed, you said something about takin' a crap. Go do it and then go tell Asa to come in and eat. You relieve him at guard. Now move!”
Preacher noted the direction that Reed was taking and Injuned his way over. He had already spotted Asa the guard.
Just as Reed was dropping his trousers and preparing to hang his butt over a log, Preacher sliced his throat wide open and held him by the hair, lowering silently to the ground. He stuffed the man's pistols behind his belt and then quickly scalped the man, cutting around the hair and jerking it loose. Preacher left the man and moved around to the guard. He notched an arrow and put one straight into Asa's spine. The man dropped as soundlessly as a child's rag doll and Preacher very quickly dragged him into the bushes and scalped him. He was getting loaded down with pistols, but no Indian would leave such fine weapons, so he took them.
“Goddamnit, Reed!” the shouted words came to him. “Will you hurry up with your crappin'? What's the matter with you?”
No reply. Naturally. If there had of been one, Preacher just might have decided it was time to take flight and get shut of these mountains.
“Asa!” the man called to the guard. There was a note of worry in his voice. “Where is you, boy?”
Preacher waited, another arrow notched and ready to fly.
“Something's wrong,” the man said.
“Naw,” Franklin said, not looking up from his broiling meat. “Reed's just a troublemaker and Asa's probably asleep, that's all. Nothin' to worry about, Simpson.”
But Simpson wasn't buying that and Preacher could both see it and sense it. Simpson had a deep streak of suspicion in him. The man stood for a moment, listening, then picked up his rifle and stepped away from the fire.
“I'm goin' out to take a look for myself,” Simpson said. “You 'member that Malachi said Preacher would probably be comin' after us.”
“Oh, hell, Simpson!” Franklin said. “Preacher ain't nowheres nearer than five hundred miles. Y'all gettin' mighty spooky over nothin', say I.”
“Just cook the damn meat,” Simpson said. He began walking toward Preacher's location.
I'm gonna have to be quick and true if I pull this off, Preacher thought. It was far too early in the game to risk a shot, and he wanted this camp's attack to be blamed on the Indians. He hauled back the bow string and let the arrow fly. He was notching another arrow before the man called Simpson took the first arrow in the center of his chest. He grunted and dropped to his knees just as Preacher stepped out of the thin brush and let another arrow fly toward Franklin.
It was a clean miss.
“What the hell!” Franklin yelled, jumping to his feet and leaping for his rifle, which was leaning up against a boulder across the clearing.
Preacher won the wild race by a second, leaping on the man's back just as his hand closed around his rifle.
Preacher rode the man down to the ground, pounding at his face with big hard fists. Franklin twisted and threw Preacher off his back. Preacher rolled and came up, his knife in his hand.
“Bastard!” Franklin panted, blood from a busted nose streaming down his chin. He reached for his own blade.
Preacher jumped at the man and kicked out, his foot catching the man on the knee and putting him down with a yelp of pain into a dusty heap. Franklin rolled and came to his boots, slashing out with his knife. Preacher sidestepped and cut the man's arm to the bone. Franklin screamed in pain and dropped the knife. He turned to run for the sparse timber and Preacher reversed the knife and let it fly, the big blade sinking into the man's back. The blade had centered Franklin's back, severing the spinal cord. Franklin went to the ground in an uncoordinated heap, falling almost soundlessly.
Preacher pulled out his knife and knelt down, quickly scalping the outlaw. He went back to where Simpson lay, the ground all around him wet with blood, and took his hair. It was not something Preacher enjoyed doing, but to pull this off, laying the blame on the Injuns, it had to be.
It didn't damper his appetite, however.
After he had finished his gruesome work, Preacher carefully hid the spare weapons and then returned to the fire, leaving the bodies where they lay. He washed out a cup and drank the coffee, then slowly ate the meat, savoring each bite and ignoring the dead men.
After he had eaten his fill and polished off the pot of strong coffee, Preacher turned the men's horses loose and then set about disguising his tracks to make it look like several Indians had attacked the camp. What he was doing would not fool anyone who had enough sense to sit down, think it out, and then carefully examine the signs. But Preacher was hoping no one among the Pardee gang would do that.
He left a piece of venison broiling over the fire so it would be burned to a crisp, only adding to the scene he hoped would convince the others of the suddenness of the attack. He knew he should mutilate the bodies and he tried to steel himself to do that, but he just couldn't bring himself to do it. It had been bad enough scalping the men.
When he was satisfied he had done all he could, Preacher stood for a moment, inspecting the surroundings. He had played hell here for a fact. Finally, he nodded his head and slipped away from the camp of the dead. It would not take the carrion birds long to find the bodies and it would not be long before the Pardee brothers or some of their followers took notice of the slowly circling flesh eaters and come to investigate.
He stopped at the edge of the camp and looked back. “Oh, to hell with it,” he said. “That ain't gonna fool no one.” He returned to the camp, found a piece of paper and the stub of a pencil, and wrote out a short note, smiling as he did so. It took him awhile 'cause it had been a long time since he had written any words.