TWENTY-ONE
On his way across the clearing where the Indians had planned to make their camp, Preacher picked up his pistols and quickly reloaded them. Dog was nosing around the sprawled bodies of the fallen warriors. Preacher knew if any of the Indians were still alive, Dog would let him know about it.
The kids were already clustered around their great-uncles. Jonathan propped Geoffrey up in a sitting position. “I tell you I'm all right,” Geoffrey insisted, but his voice held a thin edge of pain.
Preacher hunkered beside the two older men and said, “Let me have a look.” He pulled Geoffrey's coat aside and saw the bloodstain on the man's shirt, just below his right shoulder. It looked like Hawley's knife thrust might have missed anything vital.
A quick further examination of the wound revealed that to be so. Preacher wadded up a piece of cloth and pressed it to the blood-leaking hole. “Hold that there,” he told Jonathan, then turned to look at the kids. “Are all you young'uns all right?”
“I'm tired and hungry,” Mary said. “And I was scared until you got here, Mr. Preacher.”
“None of us are hurt,” Nate assured Preacher. “Some of the Indians wanted to kill us when they first caught us, but the chief stopped them.”
Preacher grunted. “Prob'ly figured to use you as hostages if'n he needed to. How'd Hawley come to throw in with them?”
Nate shook his head. “I don't know. He was with them when they found us.” The youngster looked around. “Where did he go?”
“He got away,” Preacher said in disgust. “So did the chief.”
“Swift Arrow?”
Preacher nodded. “If that was his name. I wouldn't know.”
“That was his name. He spoke a little English and talked to Hawley some.” Nate pointed to one of the fallen warriors. “That one there was their medicine man. His name was Badger's Den.”
That was the man whose throat had been torn out by Dog. His medicine hadn't been powerful enough to stop the big wolflike creature.
With Swift Arrow and Hawley still on the loose somewhere out there in the darkness, Preacher didn't think they could afford to lollygag around here all night. He said to Geoffrey, “You reckon you can travel?”
“Of course I can, if someone will just tie this bandage in place. . . .”
Preacher did that, and then Jonathan helped his brother onto his feet. Geoffrey was a mite shaky at first, but he steadied himself and nodded to Preacher. “Let's go.”
The six of themâseven if you counted Dogâmoved out quickly as soon as Preacher had gathered up all their weapons. He took some of the knives and tomahawks that the Arikara had dropped too. You never knew when something like that might come in handy.
Preacher kept up a fast pace, guiding them by the stars and by his own instincts. He wanted to put some distance between them and the scene of the fight with the 'Rees. The fact that Swift Arrow had survived the fracas was worrisome. Preacher didn't think the war chief would try to follow them and attack them by himself, but it was possible, even likely, that he would find the other groups that had split off from the war party earlier in the day and come after them.
Hawley still being alive didn't concern him as much. The renegade was wounded, and Preacher hoped that he would just crawl off in the brush somewhere and bleed to death. That would be just fine.
Preacher knew the kids must be worn out, but they bore up without much complaining. When he finally called a halt a couple of hours later, though, they flopped mighty gratefully on the ground. Jonathan and Geoffrey sat down on a log. Preacher asked Geoffrey, “How you holdin' up?”
“I'm all right,” Geoffrey answered, but he spoke between teeth gritted against the pain. “I must admit, though, I'll be quite glad when we get back to the wagons.”
“You saved us, Uncle Geoffrey,” Nate said. “Hawley was gonna shoot us. I never saw you jump around and fight like that before.”
In the moonlight, Preacher saw Geoffrey's rueful smile. “You may never see it again either. I'm, ah, not much of a brawler.”
“You did fine,” Preacher assured him. “In fact, both o' you fellas handled yourselves well back there. You'll do to ride the river with.”
“Thank you, Preacher,” Jonathan said, his voice thick with emotion. “Coming from a man like you, that's higher praise than I ever expected to hear.”
Preacher said, “You two wait here with the kids while I scout around a mite on our back trail, just to make sure that Arikara chief ain't skulkin' around.”
He faded off into the darkness with Dog padding quietly after him. When they came back a few minutes later, Preacher said, “No sign of Swift Arrow. If you're rested up enough, we'll get movin' again.”
“Can't we rest a little while longer?” Mary asked.
“Come on,” Nate told her in a tone that brooked no argument. “Don't you want to get back to your folks?”
“I do want to see Mama again,” Mary admitted, and her little brother said, “I want Mama too.”
“Let's go, then,” Nate said as he prodded them to their feet.
Jonathan helped Geoffrey up, and the whole group set out again.
Preacher got them started down a long, narrow valley that they could follow in the moonlight, and then dropped back slightly to bring up the rear. If trouble was going to catch up to them, he wanted it to find him first, so that he could deal with it.
A moment later he saw Nate coming toward him. “Something wrong?” Preacher asked.
“No, I just wanted to come back here and walk with you.”
Preacher started to send Nate back ahead with his cousins and uncles, but then he decided it would be all right to let the youngster accompany him for a little while. “All right, but if I tell you to get back with the others, you skedaddle, you hear?”
“Sure, Preacher.” Nate hesitated. “Preacher, can I have a pistol?”
The question took him by surprise. “You know how to handle a gun?”
“I've shot one before. They're heavy, but if I hold it with both hands, I can manage.”
Preacher chuckled. “You hit what you aim at?”
“Sometimes. And even when I don't, I don't miss by much.”
Preacher figured he knew what was going on. Being captured and held prisoner by the Indians must have made Nate feel pretty helpless, and now he wanted a gun so he wouldn't have to feel that way again. Preacher could understand that. He drew one of the pistols from behind his belt and handed it to the boy.
“It ain't primed. You know how to do that?”
“Sure. I'll get some powder from Uncle Jonathan and put it in my pocket.”
“Your ma might not like that.”
“She won't like me carryin' a gun neither, but I'm goin' to do it,” Nate said with a grin.
“Best you remember one thing . . . a gun comes in mighty handy, and it can sure enough save your life out here. But there's problems that it can't solve. You got to use your brain for that. A fella who can think fast and straight is gonna come out on top most of the time.”
Nate nodded. “I'll remember.” They walked along in silence for a spell, and then Nate said, “Preacher . . . that Indian Swift Arrow kept talkin' about how him and his people had vengeance coming, like we'd done something bad to them.”
Preacher had felt all along like the Arikara must have some sort of blood debt they wanted to settle with the Galloway party. Otherwise they wouldn't have tracked the immigrants so far and so stubbornly.
“You got any idea what he was talkin' about?”
“No, not really. But he sure acted like
we
had done something bad to
them,
instead of the other way around.”
“Maybe we can figure it out when we get back to the wagons and talk to your folks,” Preacher suggested.
“It won't do any good for me to talk to them,” Nate said. “I'm just a kid. They won't pay any attention to me.”
Maybe not, but they would pay attention to
him,
Preacher thought. He was tired of not knowing what was going on and why the Arikara were so determined to kill them. When they got back to the wagons it would be time for a showdown, time for the Galloways to put their cards on the table.
Preacher intended to make sure of that.
Â
Â
As night fell, Angela sat inside the wagon and studied Dorothy's sleeping face by the light of the single candle that burned.
They had been friends, Angela thought, more like real sisters than sisters-in-law. Why had Dorothy betrayed her by sleeping with her husband?
Angela couldn't answer that question, but she knew what had to be done. She was waiting now for Dorothy to wake up.
John Edward squirmed in his little nest of blankets and pillows next to his mother. His lips made sucking noises. Soon he would be hungry enough to wake up, and when he did, he would demand to nurse and would raise a squalling ruckus if he didn't get the nipple. Angela hoped she would have things settled with Dorothy before then.
A few minutes later, as John Edward stirred even more, Dorothy's eyes flickered open. She was disoriented for a moment, her gaze darting around the room, but then her eyes focused on Angela's gravely solemn face and she whispered, “The baby . . . ?”
“He's right here,” Angela assured her, “and he's fine. You'll probably have to nurse him in a few minutes.”
Dorothy closed her eyes for a moment and nodded weakly.
“But before then,” Angela went on, “we have to talk, Dorothy.”
Dorothy looked up at her again and began, “I'm so sorryâ”
“Don't. I don't want your apology.” Angela saw the pain on Dorothy's face and went on. “I don't know what happened, but I forgive you for your part in it. What's important now is that things don't get any worse. Listen to me, Dorothy. . . . You haven't told Roger about you and Peter yet, have you?”
Dorothy's head moved from side to side, not much but enough to signify her answer. “I . . . I couldn't bring myself to . . . to tell him.”
“Then don't.” Angela's voice was firm with resolve. “No one needs to know about this but the two of us.”
“But the baby . . . looks so much like . . .”
“Roger and Peter are brothers,” Angela said. “Yes, the baby looks more like Peter, but that's not unheard of. Peter inherited his dark hair from one of their ancestors. John Edward could have gotten his from the same place.”
“I . . . I suppose. But don't you think . . . Roger has a right to know?”
“Roger has a right to be proud of his new son. And since you've been sick, Dorothy, you probably don't know everything else that's been going on. There's been some trouble . . . an Indian attack . . . and now we're headed back east, instead of trying to go on to Oregon.”
She hoped that Dorothy was coherent enough to understand what she was being told. Angela didn't say anything about the children being missing. Dorothy was in no condition to do anything about that, and in her weakened, fragile state, the added worry over her son Nate might be enough to send her over the edge. She would have to be nursed along carefully. Anyway, Preacher would be back soon with the children, Angela told herself, and Dorothy wouldn't have to know about any of that until later, when she was stronger.
It was vital, though, for the sake of all of them, that the true identity of the baby's father remain a secret. They had to concentrate on getting safely to Garvey's Fort once Preacher returned with Nate, Mary, and Brad.
“Do you understand, Dorothy?” Angela pressed her. “You mustn't say anything to anyone about you and Peter.”
Dorothy closed her eyes and nodded. “I understand,” she replied in a hollow whisper. “But I'm so sorry, Angela.”
“Don't worry about that,” Angela said. She slipped her hands under John Edward just as he began to cry. “You've got something a lot more important to tend to right here.”