Blood on the Divide (18 page)

“Gone,” Preacher said, standing in the middle of the deserted outlaw camp. He had tired of waiting and had sensed something important was happening in the high country. He had left his hiding place after five days and cautiously made his way to where he had last seen the outlaws.

“I never thought he'd do it,” Preacher said to the winds and the emptiness. And to the cold. It had really turned cold. Preacher squatted down by the long dead ashes of the old campfire and tried to figure out what month it was. September, he thought it was. Where had the summer gone? Seemed like only yesterday he'd come up on that little settlement of people, and that had been back in the late spring or early summer. He disremembered exactly.

He began the long trek back to the little valley where he'd left his horses.

Hammer was glad to see him and told him so by the way he acted. Horses get used to human company and miss that when they're left alone. Even the Appaloosa he'd taken from that dead Indian seemed glad to see him. The 'paloosa was a big animal, weighing, Preacher figured, about a thousand pounds, near 'bouts as big as Hammer. He talked to them and petted them and got them calmed down and then saddled up. He wanted to get on the trail of the Pardees and see just where they were heading. Initially, they had headed west, the route they'd taken putting them well north of the new wagon-train trail. But with the Pardees, you just never knew.

It startled Preacher when the first snowflakes began falling. It was just too damn soon for that – unless he'd missed his calendar date by a month or six weeks, and he didn't think he had. No matter, he thought. By now Carl was probably nearing the last leg of the train's journey and weary pilgrims would be getting their first glimpse of the promised land. And judging from the gray and leaden skies, none too soon, neither. Preacher figured this was going to be a bad winter in the high country.

Several days later, Preacher reined up in some timber and watched as half a dozen riders cut in front of him, heading across a little meadow. He knew one of the men: that no-count Son. Now he'd picked him up three, four men and was headin' out to do some mischief. Preacher waited until they were long gone and then fell in behind them. Whatever Son and his friends were up to, it was no good. Preacher had never known Son to do anything for the general good of anything or anybody.

Several days later, Preacher ran into a hunting party from Weasel Tail's village and the men fixed venison and sat around the fire and talked.

“Much sickness among the wagon train,” a brave named Bear Killer finally told him. “They have spent weeks without moving. Even those like you were sick.”

“You have seen this with your own eyes?” Preacher asked.

Bear Killer shook his head. “Talked to some who have. They speak the truth. Too many saw it for it to be wrong. The wagons are moving now, but the snows have come to the high places. They will not be able to cross the mountains until spring.”

Long after the Indians had left, Preacher sat before the fire and thought about what he'd been told. According to Bear Killer, the train had not even made fifty miles before the sickness struck them and stopped everybody cold.

Preacher did a little figuring. As soon as they were able to travel, Carl would head them straight for the mission on the divide and hope to winter there. That would be the only logical thing to do, for the winter was coming early this year, and from all indications, it was going to be a hard one. The movers would be low on food, some of them probably out of food by now.

All in all, everybody was going to be in for a damn rough time of it 'fore spring poked her head up again. Preacher saddled up and pulled out.

Twice on his way toward the mission, he cut the trail of Son and his no-counts. Then, on the northwest side of the Little Popo Agie, he stopped and swung down at a deserted camp for a look-see. After carefully reading the sign, he concluded that Son and his bunch had linked up with the Pardees. And that damn sure meant trouble for someone – or a whole bunch of someones, for the tracks leading away from the camp were heading straight for the mission.

Preacher built a small fire in the old fire pit and broiled him a venison steak. He longed for a cup of coffee, but he was slap out of that. While he ate, he made up his mind. There was no way the movers would survive the winter without more supplies. So somebody was going to have to take mules over the mountains to a Hudson's Bay Company outpost and bring back supplies. Any of the mountain men with the train knew the horse trail and had been over it many times. It wasn't that far away from the mission. Getting there would be no problem without the wagons, if one discounted hostile Injuns, blizzards, outlaws, and such, but with winter looming so close, getting
back
might be somewhat difficult. But it had to be done if those in the train stood a chance of surviving. Dawn found Preacher on the trail and a day later he rode into the mission and there was the train.

The missionaries there had not hesitated in taking in the members of the wagon train, but existing supplies were not nearly ample enough to carry everybody through the winter.

Over a cup of coffee and a bowl of stew, Preacher laid his plan out for his friends.

“You're right about not enough supplies, Preacher,” Windy said. “I'm game for the mules. How about you, Rim?”

The big man nodded his head. “Suits me. But them at the post sure ain't gonna give them supplies to us. What are we gonna use for money, our good looks?”

“Wagh!” Caleb said. “We're all dead from starvation if that's the case.”

Rimrock looked at the rail-thin mountain man. “I shore better not tarry with them supplies. Strong breeze would carry you off now.”

“I'll go talk to Betina and Coretine,” Preacher said. “They'll know how these movers are fixed for money.”

Preacher laid it out for the two women, not downplaying their plight one bit. “I can see the signs, ladies, and the winter is gonna be a bad one.”

“The people have some money, Preacher,” Betina said. “Enough, I believe, to purchase supplies.”

Preacher nodded his head. “Place of the Rye Grass,” he said.

“I beg your pardon?” Coretine asked.

“Actual the Cayuse call it The People of the Place of the Rye Grass. Waiilaptu. Why the hell Whitman ever chose this spot is beyond understandin' far as I'm concerned.”
²

“To Christianize the savages, of course,” Coretine said.

“Well, they ain't takin' hold of it much, girl. Injuns got their ways and we got ours. Bes' leave other folks' beliefs alone, I say.”

“But they have to be baptized,” a mover woman who was nearby said. “Or they'll not enter the Kingdom of Heaven.”

Preacher smiled gently. “How 'bout them folks over to the Dark Continent of Afreeca? Or them heathens in India or all them yeller people? They don't believe like you do. Are you sayin' all them untold millions is a-goin' to burn in the hellfires?”

“Yes.” The woman's reply was firm. “That is why we must carry the Word to all the savages of the world.”

“Amen,” Marcus Whitman said, strolling by.

Preacher shook his head. Marcus was a good man, and a fine doctor, but he didn't always get along with the mountain men. Marcus didn't like the language used by the mountain men or their penchant for strong drink. And some of the Cayuses didn't like him either.

Preacher looked up as snow began to fall. It was early for that. Too early. It was going to be one hell of a winter for sure. Within hours, the land was blanketed with white.

“She's gonna be a bad one, Preacher,” Caleb said.

“Yeah,” Preacher agreed. “I got to get these pilgrims settled ... some way. Ain't no time for buildin' cabins, and not enough know-how. Goddamnest place I ever seen for folks to settle. They're gonna have to winter in their wagons and we're gonna lose some to sickness brought on by the elements.” Preacher shook his head and sighed. “And to make things worser, Son and his scummy bunch has linked up with the Pardees, and I don't know where they are.”

“You think they'll attack us here?”

“No. Too many Injuns close by. But they may try to take the supplies. I think we'll all cross over. Be safer that way.”

The mountain men began their journey across the Cascades the next morning. The men at the Hudson's Bay post were startled to see the five men and even more incredulous when Preacher told them why they had crossed the mountains.

“They'll never last the winter without proper shelter,” one man bluntly stated. “This winter is shapin' up to the worst anyone can remember.”

“Way I see it,” Preacher said, handing the clerk the list of supplies, “they ain't got no hell of a lot of choice in the matter. You wanna try gettin' all them wagons 'crost the mountains axle-deep in snow? Them people is best right where they's at until spring comes. Then them that survive can cross the mountains to the valley of the promised land,” he added grimly.

The man stared at Preacher for a moment, then shook his head and walked off muttering, “Fools. All of them. Wagons acrost the mountains. Can't be done.”

Preacher just smiled at the man's remark. He knew it could be done. He'd done it.

Preacher's friends caught the smile and winked. Caleb said, “Let's be findin' us a jug, boys. That ride made me thirsty. And we'll get a couple of jugs to take back.”

“Don't let them gospel-shouters back yonder discover no strong drink,” Windy cautioned. “They do and they'll pour it all out on the ground.”

“Now I love the Lord,” Rimrock said. “But that would be pushin' my faith just a tad.”

* * *

Back at the mission, Preacher knew damn well he wasn't going to stick around there the whole winter. First thing you know, Betina would be snuggled up with him in his buffalo robe and Preacher would have a permanent ring in his nose.

Caleb and Carl, Rimrock and Windy watched him pack up his gear and load up his animals. “You take care of this spotted pony of mine, now, Caleb. Preacher said. “I'll be back for him 'fore you know it, and I want to find him in good shape.”

“Will do, Preacher.”

“I'll be checkin' back in time to time. I want to find them damn Pardees and Son and his bunch. Makes me uneasy knowin' they're out there close and plannin' no tellin' what kind of mischief.”

“You just want a good fight, Preacher,” Rimrock said. “I know you too well.”

“Mayhaps you be right, Rim. This thing between me and Malachi is personal; been growin' toward a showdown for years. It's bad enough when one of our own kind turns outlaw, but to have trash like the Pardees a-ridin' the high country don't set well with me worth a damn.”

“You know where they are, don't you, Preacher?” Carl asked.

“I got me a good idea. 'Sides, I got to get back to Weasel Tail's winter camp and see what his braves come up with. I'm long overdue. Then I'll come back here. During my absence, you get Weller and the others to take pen to hand and write out all they know about Sutherlin.” He mounted up and Hammer pranced a bit, wanting to hit the trail. He was a horse who liked to see the country about much as his rider. “See you, boys.” Preacher headed east at a lope.

Betina and Coretine stood by their wagons with a group of people and watched him ride out. One of the missionary women looked at the expression on Betina's face and said, “Never set your eyes for a mountain man. They're like the wind. You might never see him again.”

“Even the wind rests every now and then,” Betina replied, her eyes on the now dark dot in the distance.

“Not for long,” the woman said, and turned away, walking toward her quarters.

“He'll be back, Betina,” Coretine said gently, the words only for the other woman's ears.

Arm in arm, they walked around the mission complex. The first snow of the season was gone, and they stepped carefully to avoid the mud.

“I know she's right,” Betina said. “But I can't help the way I feel.”

“Do you love him?”

“No. But I could. And that's just as bad.”

Coretine looked at her friend. “Maybe worse.”

Preacher was aware of a trading post on the Columbia that catered to both legitimate trappers and to outlaws and renegade Indians. It was run by an Englishman who, so the stories go, had been forced to leave England just ahead of the hangman's noose. Because he dealt in guns and whiskey to the Indians, they left him alone. He would also buy stolen pelts from outlaw trappers ... of which there was more than people liked to believe. As he rode, Preacher struggled for a time to think of the man's name. Finally it came to him. Dirk. That was what he was called. Dirk. Preacher had never been to Dirk's place, but he knew where it was. Odds were, that's where he'd find the Pardees and Son and his bunch. Or close by there.

Then something else came to him. He'd have to be doubly careful. Dirk, so the stories went, was a poisoner. Had disposed of several men and women in England 'fore he was caught. He was supposed to be some kind of expert with potions and such. Preacher made up his mind that he'd not drink nor eat at Dirk's place.

Then he smiled a hard curving of the lips. He just might put Dirk out of business, too, while he was up this way. Might as well do the good people of the world several favors while he was in a favorin' mood.

Hammer's ears pricked and Preacher felt the big horse tense under him. Stopping in a glade, Preacher waited. He could now hear the prod of horses' hooves. He eased the hammer back on his Hawken, then slowly let the hammer back down as the rider came into view. The rider was a trapper named Quinn.

“Ho, Quinn,” Preacher called out. “It's Preacher here.”

“Wagh, Preacher!” Quinn yelled. “You 'bout skirred me out of my moccasins, boy. Blackfeet done monikered you right when they named you Killin' Ghost. You quiet, boy. Spooky so.”

“Thank my good horse for that, Quinn. Hammer picked up on you long 'fore I did.” Preacher kneed Hammer out of the glade and up to Quinn.

“You lookin' prosperous,” Quinn remarked. “You been eatin' home cookin', maybe?”

“Movers been feedin' me from time to time. Whole passel of 'em down to that gospel shouter's mission.”

“I'll fight shy of that place then. I know it ain't a polite question to ask, but I got reasons aplenty and I'll tell you. Where you bound?”

“Up to Dirk's place on the river.”

Quinn shook his shaggy head. “You be in mortal danger up yonder, Preacher. The country is fairly aboundin' with scoundrels. I seen that damnable Son up there, and I also gleamed a couple of them crazy Pardee brothers. Talk is, they runnin' from you and has decided to flee no more. And you know well as me if you see one Pardee, the others ain't far away.”

“For a fact, ol' hoss. For a fact. But they'll be a lot less Pardees when I'm done with them.”

Quinn smiled. “I reckon they done tugged on your halter 'til they got you riled. Be a sight to see, I'm thinkin'. I'd go if my woman wasn't waiting for me at the lodge. Winter gonna be a hard one this season, Preacher, and my rummetism is a-hurtin' me something fierce. I'm lookin' forward to hot fires and warm robes this winter.”

Rheumatism was the trappers' main complaint, for during the trappers' two seasons, spring to midsummer, when the beaver molts, and again from autumn to waters' freeze, they stand in icy cold waters.

“I be headin' west come the spring,” Quinn continued. “Me and my woman done talked it over an' she's agree to go west with me. We're bound for Callyforny where it's warm all the time. They's a dozen or more mountain men done pulled up stakes and headed there.”

“What you gonna do when you get there?”

Quinn shrugged. “Beats me. But I'll find something to do. It's over for the likes of us, Preacher.”

Preacher nodded his head. He had been one of the first to know that. “See you, Quinn. Good luck.”

“The same to you, Preacher.”

Quinn headed south, Preacher continued on to the north. As of one mind, the two mountain men looked back. Both lifted a hand in farewell and then they were gone. For one, a way of life was ending; for the other, a new era was just opening.

Preacher made his camp not far from the Crab, in the Saddle Mountains. This area was the home and the range of a half dozen Indian tribes, including the Walla Walla, the Spokane, and the Yakima. But Preacher got along well with those tribes, and while he rode cautiously, he was not particularly worried. The Indians knew Preacher and most accepted him as one of their own. Preacher would fight if he was pushed to it, but left alone, the mountain man could be a good friend and the Indians knew it. Twice on his way north, Preacher stopped in Indian villages to socialize and eat. Indians loved to talk and had a high sense of humor, although most did not let that side show around whites they did not know.

As he drew nearer the trading post of Dirk, Preacher began to ride with more caution, for the Indians he'd spoken with told him there were plenty bad men around the post and that they were up to no good. And that the trappers that were like Preacher did not come to that trading post any longer.

Preacher didn't tell them so, but if what he had in mind came true, there wouldn't nobody ever come to that trading post again – ever.

But he wasn't going to just ride in there big as brass. He'd have more holes in him than a tree full of woodpeckers if he done that. Preacher made his camp a few miles from the trading post and set about pondering just what he might do.

“Get it right,” he told himself and the gathering shadows. “ 'Cause it could be that you ain't gonna get but one chance.”

Come the morning, he picketed Hammer and the packhorse on a few hidden acres of grass on the edge of the Cascades and pressed on on foot. Why that damn crazy Englishman ever wanted to build a trading post around here was a mystery to Preacher. Damn wind blew all the time, storms could whip up out of nowheres, and the place wouldn't grow diddly squat. But then, he figured, nobody ever come here, and it damn shore was off any known and well-traveled trail, so maybe that Brit wasn't so stupid after all, considerin' the ugly business he was in.

He made his way to within sight of the trading post, and it was a run-down, ramshackle place, looking more like a roofed and walled hog pen rather than a place where human beings frequented. But, Preacher reckoned, considering the caliber of men who visited this place of late, it was fitting.

Preacher's cover was adequate, but not the best by a long shot. He watched as several riders approached the building and dismounted. He didn't recognize any of them. Whatever their business was, it didn't take long. Within minutes, the three men exited the building, mounted up, and rode off.

Preacher knew that out here, three visitors a day was considered a heady business. There might not be anymore customers the rest of the week, for that matter. Preacher made up his mind and carefully changed locations after taking a long, low look all around him. He worked his way around to the back of the building, taking the better part of an hour to complete his swing. Now came the hard part, for several acres around the building had been cleared and only stumps remained. He started to move forward, then checked the movement, every sense telling him that something was mighty wrong. He remained motionless behind a stump, his buckskins blending in with the early-winter terrain. Something was wrong, but what?

He scanned his surroundings, only his eyes moving. He could not check behind him without moving, and he wasn't about to do that. But he had inspected the flats behind him carefully before moving to his position, and was secure in his belief that no one was back there. At the time, he amended.

Preacher watched the rear of the cabin, keeping his eyes on the windows. The “windows” of most buildings were no more than a small sliding door without glass. One window moved slightly, cracking open a few inches, and Preacher tensed. How could they know he was here? Or did they only suspect? Either way, he was in a pickle and knew it.

He could hear the murmur of voices from inside the cabin, but could not make out any words. After several moments, one man said, “Oh, hell, Dirk! Preacher ain't nowheres near here. I'll show you.” The back door opened and a burly man stepped out to the ground and stood there. “Hey, Preacher!” he shouted in a strong voice. “You no-good son of a bitch!” Then he proceeded to call Preacher every vile and foul name he could think of, which was a-plenty. He traced Preacher's ancestors back several thousand years, and just before running out of breath and names to call him, he compared the mountain man to a monkey in a cage, and worse.

Preacher lay behind the stump, on a slight backward sloping incline, and waited motionless. He would deal with this loudmouth in due time – and deal with him he would, Preacher silently promised.

“See?” the loudmouth said proudly, as what had to be Dirk stepped out of the door and stood looking around.

“I guess you're right, Hubert” the second man said. “From all that I've heard about Preacher, he certainly wouldn't tolerate all that name-calling. But that red savage certainly said he'd seen Preacher.”

“He lied,” Hubert said. “Tryin' to get in your favor for a drink of whiskey or a blanket.”

“I suppose you're right. Let's get in out of this cold. It's going to be a bitter winter, Hubert.”

Preacher wondered if there were any more men inside the small post and decided not. The instant the window slide was closed shut to keep out the cold breeze, Preacher made his move, leaping to his feet and dashing to the rear of the building and flattening out against the logs. Preacher moved around to the side of the building and pushed up against the base of the chimney to catch some warmth from the heated rocks. From about head-high on up, the rocks changed to a stick chimney, the sticks held together with a mixture of mud and clay. It was a common-enough affair.

On Preacher's side of the stones was the woodpile, stacked high, so Preacher moved around to the other side in case the wood box got low and Dirk or Hubert came out for more firewood. Preacher saw an old doghouse someone had made, and looked in it. Cobwebs had taken over, the dog long gone. With a smile, Preacher crawled in the doghouse. It was a large doghouse and Preacher hoped the long-gone dog would not return to claim its house anytime soon. A dog that needed a house this size would be big enough to give a grizzly some problems. Since the rear of the doghouse was built up against the side of the stone chimney – the outside of the fireplace – the hut was surprisingly warm. Preacher made himself comfortable and waited.

One side of the doghouse was the wall of the cabin, so with his knife, Preacher began digging out a hole between the logs, carefully working out the mud that was chinked between the logs and pulling it toward him until he had him a hole just big enough to see and hear through. The darkness of the interior of the doghouse would, he hoped, prevent those inside the post from noticing the tiny hole.

“Them others gonna get here?” he heard Hubert say.

“Today is all I know,” Dirk replied. “Put us on some meat to cook, Hubert. This cold gives me an appetite.”

Somebody is always cookin' when I'm in a position to do nothin' but smell it and salivate, Preacher thought. He stuck a piece of jerky in his mouth and chewed. Then he heard the sounds of horses.

“Son and his bunch,” the voice of Hubert came to him. “I reckon the others will be along shortly. I hope they brought their own food.”

Son and his bunch stomped in amid a lot of laughing and cussing and rough humor, on both sides, and after the jug was passed around, they got down to serious talking. Preacher had his ear pressed to the tiny hole.

“The way Malachi sees it,” Son said, “is we hold off until spring and then hit the wagon train two, three days out of the mission. It'll be clear of the Hudson's Bay post by then and we can all take the wagons and possessions and sell them. I think it's a grand idea.”

“And the people?” Dirk asked.

“All dead. And the dead can't hook us up with anything.”

“I hear Preacher's tied in with them, as well as three, four other mountain men.”

“Where'd you hear that?”

“From an Injun who passed through yesterday. He said he saw Preacher about twenty miles from here. He swore it was him.”

“I don't believe it,” Hubert said. “I just don't believe it.”

“Neither do I,” one of Son's bunch piped up. “He thinks he's got the Pardees run clear out of the country and I believe he's 'way south with the train.”

“It's a deal, then?” Son asked. “We take the train, and with your connections on the coast, we get rid of the stuff?”

“It's a deal,” Dirk told him. “I've been wanting to leave this wretched country for some time.”

“The both of you have to understand this,” Son said. “Oncest we start, we can't have no soft hearts 'bout none on the train. They all got to die – men, women, and kids alike. We can hump the women and the girls, then they got to die.”

“That's understood.” Preacher recognized Dirk's voice. “I've done in all three in my time. I have no use for kids anyway.”

And I understand it, too, Preacher thought. I understand that you all are the most black-hearted band of cutthroats I ever seen in all my borned days. And now that I heard with my own ears what you plan to do, I ain't got no sympathy for the lot of you.

In other words, Preacher added silently, you bastards are in for a world of woe – from
me!