S
EVEN
“They don't want me here, Rim,” Preacher said, saddling up. “It don't sadden me none 'cause I understand it. You boys stick around and see these pilgrims through the winter if you're a mind to. Grub's pretty good, if a body can put up with all the gospel shoutin'. I'm gonna ride a ways and find me a good camp and then ponder for a time how come it is I keep gettin' myself in these situations.”
Hammer was tired, but he was, as usual, ready for the trail. Preacher rode out within the hour and headed for the Blue Mountains. He knew he wouldn't near 'bouts make them, but he knew of a little place about ten miles from the mission that was out of the wind and near a creek. He made it before dark and picketed his horses in a protected area with some graze left and set about making his lonely camp. He rigged him a lean-to in front of a boulder so the stone would reflect the heat from the fire back into his open-front shelter. He gathered up wood to last several days and stacked it close. Then he fixed him something to eat and put water on for coffee.
People sure were funny, he thought. Hard to figure them out. When a body thinks he's doin' right, turns out he's doin' wrong. Strange. He give his blessin' to Betina and Miles, and still they got all swole up about him being in the mission proper.
Hell with them.
Preacher lay about the camp for two days and finally got restless and saddled up. Hammer was snortin' and pawin', ready for the trail. Preacher then began a lonely odyssey across the southern part of what would someday be called Wyoming. He camped very near the spot that would someday become Fort Bridger. Only a few years in the future, Bridger and Vasquez would build a trading post on almost the exact spot where Preacher now sat before his small fire, pondering the fates that had led him to this desolate spot. But Preacher wasn't going to ponder long, for action seemed to find the man. In this case, in the form of two Arapaho Indians who were wandering and saw the fire. Preacher knew they were there, but he made no move toward his Hawken. Just kept it very close.
“Shore is gettin' tiresome talkin' to myself,” he said, raising his voice to be heard. “I'd be pleased to talk to someone. Even two mangy Arapaho called Kicking Bear and Runs Fast.”
Both the braves laughed and rode into the camp. “We thought it was you, Preacher. But we couldn't be sure. We have fresh buffalo hump if you have coffee.”
“Gather 'round, pull up a rock, and sit. We'll eat and talk.”
“It is good to see you, Preacher,” Kicking Bear said, pouring a cup of coffee. “In more ways than one. But we bring trouble to you.”
“My middle name. What's the matter?”
“A band of war-painted Pawnee trails us.” There was a definite twinkle of high humor in his eyes. “But since we know how Preacher loves the Pawnee, perhaps we should ride on. Preacher might not want to bring harm to his favorite people.”
Preacher looked at the man and smiled. “Oh, yeah. Them's my favorite, all right. I been stuck with several arrows over the years, all of them Pawnee. How many and how far away?”
“Ten or twelve. Perhaps they will hit us at first light.”
Preacher took note that both Arapaho were carrying new Hawken rifles in addition to bows and quivers of arrows. He did not ask where they got the guns, the powder horns, or the shot. “We'll eat and then move over yonder in them rocks. A trickle of water flows through there and they's some graze for the horses. Pawnees are a little out of their territory, ain't they?”
“They are mostly young men, hunting scalps to impress the girls,” Runs Fast said, fitting hunks of meat on sticks. “They will be mostly dead when they find us, I am thinking,” he added very dryly.
“They are also ugly,” Kicking Bear added. “They paint themselves and make them even more ugly.” He spat on the ground. “They look like something out of a nightmare. I hate the Pawnee.”
The men ate their fill and more, belched loudly, then drank two pots of coffee. Preacher took out tobacco and they smoked and were content for a time. The fire was warm, the late afternoon still peaceful and safe, for the birds were singing and the little animals playing.
“White men from the East are wintering on the Laramie River,” Kicking Bear said. “They have plans to come west in the spring.” He smoked for a time and Preacher waited. “The leader of the group is the man who has an alliance with the renegade, Red Hand.”
“Sutherlin,” Preacher said.
“That is the name, I believe. But since the names of white men are so strange and one must twist his mouth all out of shape and almost swallow his tongue to speak them, I cannot be sure. But I believe that is the person.”
“I kilt most of the Pardee gang and Son's bunch up north and west of here.”
“So we heard. It is a good thing you did. They were bad people.”
“How many men does Sutherlin have with him?”
“Ten or twelve, at least.”
Preacher did not ask how Kicking Bear and Runs Fast knew all this. The Indians had a grapevine that was both astonishing and very fast and accurate. When around whites, Indians usually said little and listened intently. The language of the Plains Indians varied with each tribe, but most Indians were multilingual and all could communicate thousands of words and thoughts with a few hundred signals by hand. The Arapaho were friends of nearly everyone â when convenient â but most did not like the Pawnee. Their sign for the Pawnee was the first two fingers of either hand held up in a V. No one knew why, it just was.
Preacher cocked an ear and listened. The birds were gone and the woods animals had ceased their playing. “I think we best head for them rocks. I don't think the Pawnee are gonna wait for dawn to hit us.”
In two minutes flat, Preacher and the Arapaho were in the rocks and taking up positions.
Then, from all around their stone fort, came hoots of derision and taunting catcalls. “Arapaho shit!” a Pawnee called out. “You will not die well, I am thinking.”
“You are incapable of thinking,” Kicking Bear shouted. “Your mother was a buzzard and your father was a skunk.”
The Arapaho warriors shouted insults for a time, and then fell silent.
“They got their courage worked up now,” Preacher remarked. “They been slippin' all around us for a few minutes. They'll be comin' at us pretty quick now.”
No sooner had the words left his mouth when the Pawnee braves rushed the rocks, screaming war cries. Preacher blew a hole in one's chest with his Hawken, picked up his other Hawken, and almost blew the head off another. He jerked out one brace of pistols just as the charge broke off. Preacher and the two Arapaho had done some fearsome damage to the young Pawnee warriors. Six of them lay dead or dying around the rocks.
“They will quit now,” Runs Fast said as he reloaded. “We have wiped out half of their band. Their medicine is no good.”
The sounds of ponies galloping away reached them and Kicking Bear snorted in disgust. “They leave their dead behind. Filthy cowards.”
Kicking Bear and Runs Fast took out their knives and went to work. First they scalped the dead, then cut off their hands, took out their eyes, and cut off their genitals. Now, in the World That Came After, the dead would not be able to see their way, find their enemies, or breed young to carry on the fight. Preacher watched them dispassionately. Unlike the missionaries, he seldom tried to change the Indians way of thinking or questioned their customs. He figured it just wasn't none of his damn business.
Which was one of the reasons he got along so well with most tribes.
When Runs Fast and Kicking Bear had finished, they held up their bloody trophies, grinned, and waved goodbye to Preacher. Preacher returned the smile, made the sign of thanks and farewell, and the two Arapaho rode off. Preacher packed up and got the hell gone from there.
Preacher found the trail of the Arapaho, followed it for a time to make sure they were not going to circle around back, and then cut north for a time. He wasn't in any hurry; had no place really to go and no timetable set for him. He wanted to meet up with this Sutherlin person, but didn't want to ride right into the post and start opening up. Also, one of the dead outlaws he'd left back on the trail had had him two pistols that Preacher had coveted something fierce almost immediately. Preacher had just now remembered that he'd picked up the broken guns and stashed them in his supplies. He wanted to find him a spot where he could work on the things.
The next afternoon, he made camp early and dug out the pistols. The pistols were complicated-looking things, each one of them having four barrels, over and under. He repaired the bullet-shattered butt of one with the brass butt plate from a spare of his own, then replaced the bent hammers on the second one with hammers taken from other spares he'd picked up from the dead and dying. They were the same caliber as his Hawken, so he loaded them up and taken them out to test-fire them. They were of a slightly shorter barrel than his other pistols, but gave him eight times the firepower. Once he got the hang of them, he was pleased, mighty pleased. Chuckling, he double-shotted two of the four barrels on each pistols and set about making holsters for them from a skin. Once that was done, he fashioned the holsters to his wide leather belt and went down to the creek to take a look at himself. He sure hadn't ever seen nothing like the image that reflected back up at him.
He looked like a ... come to think of it, he didn't know what the hell he looked like. Then he taken rawhide thongs, punched a hole in the bottom of each holster, and tied the holsters to his legs so's they wouldn't flop around so much.
Then he decided he'd see how fast he could get them out of the holsters and cock and fire them. First time he tried it he damned near blowed his foot off. Then he decided he'd try it with the pistols empty. He spent a week in his camp, practicing several hours each day. Each hour he got faster and more accurate.
“By God,” he said to the cold winds. “I just might have me somethin' here. I don't know perxactly what, but it's something mighty important, I believe.”
Only problem was, when he mounted up to do a little scouting around the camp, the damn pistols fell out of the holsters. Preacher sat down on a log and done a little head ruminatin'. Then he taken some rawhide and fashioned some thongs at the top of each holster to loop over one hammer and that done the trick. To get in the habit, every time he dismounted, he slipped the thongs off the hammers to free his guns. Soon doing that became second nature to him.
Preacher would go down in history as being the first to do many things. Some had him as the first mountain man, but that was a lie. They was a lot of white men out in the wilderness long 'fore Preacher got there. What he didn't know, had no way of knowing, was that he would go down in history as being the first gunfighter to use the quick draw.
Preacher finally saddled up and packed up and pulled out, heading for the post on the Laramie in a roundabout way. Along the way, he met up with a disreputable-looking old reprobate of a mountain man called Natchez.
Natchez took one look at Preacher's rig slung around his lean waist and said, “What in the billy-hell has you got strapped around you, Preacher?”
“You know me, Natch. I'm always comin' up with something different.”
“Looks plumb awkward to me. You be careful and don't get yourself kilt with them fool things.”
“You been over yonder on the Laramie?”
“For a fact, I have. Man from back East is there, and a mighty quiet and secretive man he is, I say. He's got him ten or twelve brigands with him and they's tough enough, I reckon.” The old man smiled. “Tough back East, that is. Out here, I 'spect they'll have to prove their mettle.”
“This quiet man's name wouldn't be Sutherlin, would it now?”
“It would for a fact. You a friend of hisn?”
“No. Some Arapaho told me 'bout him back west of here a couple of weeks ago. I was also told he was up to no good.”
“I don't take to him, for a fact. He's a tad on the sneaky side for me. Don't care for the look in his eyes. When he does bump his gums, you can tell he's a man with book larnin', but he talks down to people. I knowed if I stayed 'round there much longer I might have to shoot him.”
“I do know the feelin'.”
Natchez looked at the big four-barreled pistols slung in leather around Preacher's waist and shook his head. “Never seen nothin' like that in all my borned days. See you around, Preacher.”
Preacher lifted a hand in farewell and the two men rode their separate ways. In the Ferris Mountains, Preacher found a cabin that had been built years back by a friend of his â long dead â and since the weather had turned bad, he decided to hole up for a time.
He cleaned out the sooted-up chimney and laid in wood and mudded up the chinks between the logs, making the cabin snug. He killed two deer and skinned and dressed them out, hanging the meat high from a limb. In a few hours the meat was froze solid. Preacher started work on the skins, for he needed new high-top moccasins and a shirt.
For a month he saw no sign of a human being and he was content. He killed several more deer, and when he was ready to leave the snug cabin, he was dressed in new buckskins from neck to feet. He had cut his hair and trimmed his beard close. He had practiced at least one hour a day, and had become incredibly fast and deadly accurate with his awesome pistols with the complicated hammer systems and four barrels each. He had taken skins and hardened them, making better holsters for his guns.
He wondered occasionally how the folks were getting on back at the mission during this hard winter... but he didn't dwell on it long. He knew that Windy and Rimrock and Caleb would not leave them in the lurch. And even if the mountain men did leave the mission to go their own way â they certainly were under no obligation to stay â the movers would make it; if they didn't, then to Preacher's way of thinking, they should have stayed to home.