He straightened and looked around. Evidently the three Pawnee had been alone, because he didn't see any more of them. Probably out on a last hunting trip before the real snows came, and when they had seen a lone white man riding along, they had decided to have some fun with him.
Their sport had backfired on them. Preacher left the bodies where they had fallen, reloaded his pistols, found the Hawken that had been shot out of his hands, and then went back to looking for a place to camp. The storm wouldn't hold up just because he'd been forced to spend a few minutes killing those Injuns.
TWENTY-FOUR
He kept a close eye out for more Indians, just in case those three Pawnee had split off from a larger group. He didn't see any, though. Except for him and the dun and Dog, Preacher thought, the vast plains might as well have been deserted.
A short time later he came upon a buffalo wallow and knew he wouldn't find a better place for the pilgrims to camp. The wide depression in the earth wouldn't offer much protection from the wind, but any was better than none. Preacher marked the spot in his mind and then wheeled the horse to ride back to the wagons.
As Preacher came up to the lead wagon, Jonathan reined the team to a halt and said excitedly, “We heard shots, and then we passed some dead Indians back there a ways. Did you see them, Preacher? Do you know anything about them?”
“Reckon I do,” Preacher drawled. “They jumped me a mite earlier this afternoon.”
Jonathan goggled at him. “You killed all three of them?”
“Seemed like the thing to do at the time, considerin' that they was shootin' at me and hell-bent on liftin' my hair.”
“Yes, of course, I didn't mean to imply that you did anything wrong,” Jonathan said quickly. “I was just surprised. . . although I don't know why I should be. I saw how you fought with those Indians when we took the children away from Swift Arrow. Three-to-one odds wouldn't mean anything to you.”
“Don't be too sure of that,” Preacher told him. “But sometimes a fella's just got to go ahead and do what has to be done, no matter what the odds.”
Jonathan nodded. He had come to understand a lot more about life on the frontier than he had when he started this journey.
Following Preacher's orders, the men drove on to the buffalo wallow and bunched the wagons inside the depression, pulling the vehicles close to each other in a circle. The daylight began to fade with a swiftness that surprised even Preacher. The clouds had to be growing very thick overhead for them to shut out the sun that way. For a while, Preacher seemed to be everywhere at once, helping to unhitch the teams and bring them inside the circle of the wagons.
They would have to have a fire, and though there were still clumps of trees here and there, for the most part the landscape since leaving the foothills had become a treeless prairie. That meant firewood was in short supply . . . but not buffalo chips, and they would burn too.
Preacher put the young'uns to work. “See them buffalo chips on the ground?” he said. “I want y'all to pick up some of them and make a big pile of 'em.”
“What are they?” Mary asked.
Nate leaned over and whispered in his cousin's ear. Mary made a disgusted face.
“Don't worry, they won't hurt you,” Preacher assured her. “And the heat they'll give off when we make a fire out of 'em will feel mighty good tonight when the temperature gets down below freezin'.”
“Do you think it's going to snow again?” Nate asked.
“It sure might.”
The kids set to work. Preacher motioned for Geoffrey to come over, and when the older man had joined him, he said quietly, “I'd 'preciate it if you'd keep an eye on them young'uns. I know you got a bad arm, but you can handle a pistol a little with your left hand, can't you?”
“Certainly,” Geoffrey replied, and from his enthusiasm Preacher could tell that he was glad to have been given something to do. “I'll watch over the children and fire a shot if anything threatens them.”
Preacher nodded. “That's the idea. Much obliged.” He clapped a hand on Geoffrey's uninjured shoulder for a second, then went on about the task of seeing that the camp was set up properly and safely.
By the time full darkness had fallen, a small, almost smokeless fire was burning next to one of the wagons. The mules and horses were on the other side of the circle, kept there by a rope strung from one wagon to another. That didn't leave the humans much room, but they would make do, Preacher thought. Right now, that livestock was just about as important as the people; that is, if any of them hoped to make it back alive.
Preacher went over to Roger Galloway and asked, “How's that new son of yours?” He hadn't seen Angela since that morning, so he hadn't had a chance to ask her about Dorothy.
Roger had a haunted look in his eyes as he nodded. “The baby seems to be fine. Angela says he has a good appetite and a healthy pair of lungs.”
“But your wife ain't doin' so good, is she?”
Slowly, Roger shook his head. “Not at all. She's been either unconscious or out of her head all day.” His voice shook from the strain he was under. “I don't know what to do, Preacher. I . . . I want to make things right, but I just don't know how.”
“Ain't much you can do right now, stuck out here in the middle of the prairie like we are,” Preacher said commiserating with the man. “Time for thinkin' about the right thing to do was before you ever took off for Oregon at the wrong time of year.”
“I know that now. I guess we'll just keep trying to make it back to that fort you told us about.”
“Pretty much all we can do,” Preacher agreed.
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Inside the wagon, Angela was thinking about how they would feed John Edward if Dorothy died. She felt terrible about even considering the possibility, but they had to face facts: If Dorothy sank much lower, she wasn't going to make it. If they'd had a milk cow, they might have been able to give that milk to the baby.
But the nearest cow was . . . Angela couldn't even make herself think about how far away. Too far to ever do them any good.
Dorothy broke into her reverie by murmuring, “Peter . . . Peter . . .”
Angela felt herself grow even more tense. She loved Dorothy like a sister, and she had meant it when she forgave her for whatever her part had been in the illicit affair with Peter. But Angela didn't need to be reminded all the time of her husband's adultery.
“Hush now,” Angela said quietly as she leaned closer to Dorothy. “The baby's asleep, so you should rest too.”
Dorothy's eyes blinked open, and she looked up at Angela with uncommon lucidity. “Angela . . .” she said. “How can you stand . . . to be around me?”
“Shhh. I'm here to take care of you. You have to get well, for the baby's sake.”
“The baby . . .” Dorothy repeated weakly. “Your husband's baby, your own husband . . . You're so good, Angela. . . . I don't deserve . . .”
“Hush,” Angela said again. Suddenly she felt the wagon shift slightly on its thoroughbraces as someone stepped up at the rear of it. More emphatically she said, “Be quiet now, Dorothy.”
Dorothy ignored her plea, though, and her voice chose that moment to grow stronger as she went on. “But Peter is John Edward's father, Angela. You must hate us both.”
“No, no, I don't, just . . . just please don't talk anymoreâ”
“No,” Roger said flatly from behind Angela. “Let her speak if she wants to.”
Angela jerked her head around to stare at her brother-in-law. Roger's face was bleak and dark with rage in the light from the single candle as he stepped on into the wagon and let the canvas flap fall closed behind him.
“If Dorothy has something to say,” he went on, “let her say it.”
Dorothy sighed, a long, fluttery sound that made Angela look around sharply. She saw that Dorothy's eyes were closed again. Her breathing was soft and shallow. She had slipped back into unconsciousness, exhausted from those brief moments of awareness.
Without turning to look at Roger, Angela said, “She can't say anything right now. She's resting.”
“I heard her,” Roger said. “She . . . she was crazy there for a minute, wasn't she? She didn't know what she was saying?”
Angela heard the desperation in his voice, the urgent need to cling to any hope, even the slimmest one. She knew she could lie to him, could agree that Dorothy had been out of her head, but she knew that in the end it wouldn't do any good. Roger had heard for himself the conviction in his wife's voice and knew that Dorothy had spoken the truth.
She turned her head at last to meet Roger's stricken gaze. “It's true,” she said. “Dorothy admitted it to me after John Edward was born. Peter is . . . is the baby's father.”
Roger stood there without saying anything for a long moment, his breath rasping in his throat as he visibly struggled to control his emotions. He stared past Angela at Dorothy, fixing his gaze on his wife's face. Slowly he moved his eyes down to the tiny, sleeping form nestled next to her. Angela held her breath, thinking that she might see hatred growing in Roger's eyes, but instead, to her great relief, his expression softened and nothing but love shone on his face.
“It's not his fault,” he said quietly. “He had no part in this.”
Angela shook her head. “No. No, he didn't.”
“He's the only truly innocent one among us.”
Angela nodded in agreement with that. Since Roger seemed a little calmer now, she ventured, “I think it would be a good idea if we didn't say anything to anyone about this. It won't help anythingâ”
She stopped as Roger's expression hardened again. “Oh, there'll be something said about it,” he told her. “You can count on that.”
He turned toward the rear of the wagon.
Angela stood up and hurried to his side, catching hold of his coat sleeve. “Roger, wait! If you confront Peter now, it'll just cause troubleâ”
He jerked away.
“He
caused the trouble already! He slept with my wife. The bastard!”
“We don't really know what happenedâ”
“We know enough.” Roger thrust out a hand and pointed at the mother and child bundled up on their makeshift bed. “We know that that baby is no son of mine. I should have realized that! He looks so much like Peter. . . .”
Roger's voice trailed off, and then with a sudden cry he thrust the canvas aside and pushed his way out of the wagon. Angela caught at his coat again, but he pulled away from her with ease and leaped from the tailgate to the ground. As she hurriedly climbed out behind him, he strode toward the fire, where Peter stood along with Simon. Jonathan and Geoffrey were preparing supper, while the children stood nearby. The night seemed huge, with the small fire struggling to hold back the all-encompassing darkness.
“Peter!” Roger barked as he stalked toward his brother.
Peter turned to look at him. “What is it?” he said in alarm as he saw the look on Roger's face. “What's wrong?”
“Wrong?” Roger echoed. “I'll tell you what's wrong!” He jerked a pistol from behind his belt and leveled it at Peter's face, cocking the hammer as he cried, “My brother is a traitorous bastard, that's what's wrong! And I'm going to blow your damned brains out!”
TWENTY-FIVE
Preacher was ranging outside the camp, Dog at his side, when he heard the commotion. Dog heard it too, and laid his ears back and growled.
“Yeah,” Preacher agreed, “I reckon we better go see what sort o' trouble them greenhorns are gettin' up to now.”
It was even worse than he thought it would be, he saw as he loped into the camp and stepped long-legged over one of the wagon tongues. Roger Galloway had a pistol in his hand and was pointing it right at his brother Peter.
Preacher didn't have any idea what had caused the falling out betwixt them, but he knew that with all the dangers still facing the group, they couldn't afford to go around killin' each other. He called out, “Hold it! Roger, put that damned gun down.”
Roger didn't lower the pistol. He stood there with his arm straight out. His face was twisted with anger, and his hand shook a little. Peter stared into the muzzle of the gun. His face was drained of color. Clearly he realized that he was very close to death.
Off to the side, Simon, Jonathan, and Geoffrey watched the confrontation in shocked horror. Mary and Brad sobbed, knowing only that their father was being threatened by his own brother. Nate said urgently, “Pa, no! Don't do it, Pa!”
“Listen to the boy, Roger,” Preacher advised. “I don't know what you're so het up about, but it won't make it any better for you to shoot Peter.”
“I don't know about that,” Roger said tautly. “It might make me feel better to know that I killed the man who slept with my wife.”
Carefully, so as not to spook his brother, Peter lifted his hands and held them palm-out toward Roger. “I don't know where you got that crazy idea, but I swear to youâ”
“Save your swearing,” Roger cut in. “I heard it from Dorothy herself. She was talking to Angela, and she said that you're the father of that baby in there.”
Peter swallowed hard. Preacher could tell he didn't know whether to continue denying the charge or if it would be safer for him to admit it. Preacher didn't know either. Roger sure looked ready to pull the trigger on that pistol.
“Roger, please don't,” Angela said from the back of the wagon where Dorothy was resting. “Put the gun down and think about what you're doing.”
“Think about it?” Roger echoed. “All I've been able to do for the past few minutes is think about it! I can't get that picture out of my head.... I can't stop thinking about what he did!”
“Listen to me, Roger,” Peter said. “I don't care what she told you, she wanted it as much as I did! I . . . I never forced herâ”
“Shut up!” Roger roared.
Preacher wouldn't have thought that Peter could make the situation any worse, but danged if he hadn't just done so.
“You raped her?” Roger went on. “You attacked your own sister-in-law?”
“No, I'm telling youâ”
“You've told me enough,” Roger broke in coldly.
Simon made an attempt to reason with him. “Son, you can't do this. You can't shoot your own brother.”
Roger took a deep breath, and for the first time the barrel of the pistol sagged a little. “You're right,” he said in a hollow voice. “You're right, I can't shoot him.”
He lowered the pistol the rest of the way and let down the hammer. The gun slipped from his hand and fell with a thud to the ground. Preacher let out his breath when the impact didn't make the weapon go off.
“I can't shoot you, Peter,” Roger said. His hands clenched into fists. “But I can beat you to death with my bare hands!”
With that he leaped forward, swinging a vicious punch at Peter's head.
Taken by surprise, Peter didn't have time to avoid the blow. Roger's fist smashed into his cheek and knocked him backward. Though Roger was smaller, he struck again with all the power that rage gave him, and the blow packed enough punch to lift Peter off his feet and drop him to the ground.
Roger went after him, even as those gathered around shouted for him to stop. Except for Preacher, who stood and watched calmly. Sometimes a situation got so bad there was nothing left to do except have it out. Given what he had heard about Peter and Dorothy, he reckoned this was one of those times.
Ignoring the shouts and pleas, Roger drew back his leg and aimed a kick at Peter's head. Peter shook off the effects of the punch just in time to roll out of the way. As he came over onto his back again, he reached up and grabbed his brother's leg. Since Roger was already off balance from the missed kick, it was easy for Peter to heave up on his leg and topple him. Roger fell, landing heavily on his back.
That gave Peter a momentary advantage, and he tried to seize it. He leaped on top of Roger and clawed at his throat, managing after a second to lock his fingers around Roger's neck. Peter planted a knee in Roger's belly to hold him down and began to squeeze.
Peter might have choked the life out of his brother, but Roger cupped his hands and slammed them against Peter's ears. Peter let out an anguished howl and jerked back, and that allowed Roger to break the grip on his throat. Roger bucked up off the ground, arching his back. The move threw Peter off to the side. Roger rolled away, gasping for breath.
“Both of you, stop it!” Angela screamed from the tailgate of the wagon. Behind her the baby wailed, his sleep no doubt disturbed by all the uproar.
Roger and Peter climbed to their feet and faced each other again. A bruise was starting to purple Peter's face where Roger's first punch had landed. Before they could attack each other again, Simon and Jonathan rushed in to grab them and hold them apart.
“Stop it, you two idiots!” Simon commanded as he held on to Roger's arms from behind. “I'm your father! Do what I tell you!”
“You're . . . you're through giving orders to us, Pa!” Roger rasped. His throat was sore from being throttled by Peter. “Let go of me!”
With that he brought his heel down hard on his father's instep. Simon yelped in pain and let go. Roger leaped across the small open space. Peter tore away from Jonathan and lunged to meet him.
Nobody could have more of a knock-down-drag-out fight than a couple of brothers, Preacher thought, unless it was a father and son. For the next few minutes, Roger and Peter fought with all they had, standing toe-to-toe and slugging it out. The thick coats both men wore made it difficult for them to strike with much effect at each other's bodies, so they aimed their punches at their opponent's heads instead. Blood began to fly as knuckles opened cuts, smashed lips, and pulped noses. It began to look like they might actually beat each other to death if the fight continued long enough. Preacher started to think about stepping in and ending it.
He didn't get the chance to. A gun roared, the loud noise echoing over the prairie. Startled by the shot, Roger and Peter both stopped swinging their fists. Everyone looked around to see Angela standing at the rear of the wagon, smoke curling from the barrel of the pistol in her left hand. In her right she held another pistol, and this one was pointed at the two combatants instead of into the air.
“I'll shoot the next man who strikes a blow,” she declared. “That's a promise.”
“Angela!” Peter cried. “Shoot him! Stop him!” When Angela didn't respond, he said raggedly, “For God's sake, I'm your husband!”
“You should have thought of that about nine months ago,” Angela said, her voice flinty with anger.
“I don't care if you shoot me,” Roger mumbled through swollen lips. “I'm still gonna kill him.” He started to shuffle toward Peter.
Preacher got in his way. “You ain't gonna kill nobody, old son,” he said in a flat voice that allowed for no arguments. He put a hand on Roger's chest. “Back off. Fight's over.”
Roger's fists were still balled. For a second he looked like he was going to take a swing at Preacher, but the thin smile on the mountain man's bearded face must have warned him that that wouldn't be a good idea. Glaring, he stepped back, then turned and walked unsteadily toward the wagon where Angela stood. He went past her to lean against the vehicle, where he lifted a hand and dabbed the back of it against bleeding lips.
“Pa,” Nate said as he came up to Roger. “Pa, can I help you?”
Roger summoned up a pained smile as he looked down at his son. “Thanks, Nate,” he said thickly. “But I reckon it's too late for that.”
Angela still had the pistol lined on Peter. He glowered at her and snapped, “For God's sake, put that gun down. It's liable to go off accidentally.”
Preacher never had held a very high opinion of Peter Galloway's intelligence, and it went down another notch now. If Peter couldn't see that if that pistol went off it wouldn't be an accident, then he was damn near too stupid to live.
Still, they might need every warm body they could muster before this journey was over, so Preacher said, “Might be a good idea for you to lower that pistol, ma'am. We don't need any more shootin'.”
His calm words got through to her. Slowly she lowered her arm until the pistol was pointed at the ground. Preacher took it from her and eased down the hammer. He set the weapon on the tailgate.
Angela turned away. Instead of going to her husband, she stepped over to Roger's side and put a hand on his arm. “Come inside the wagon,” she said. “We'll put some salve and plaster on those cuts on your face, and your hand should probably be wrapped up too. You may have some broken knuckles.”
Peter stared at her in disbelief. She ignored him as she helped Roger into the wagon. Nate climbed in after them.
Preacher tightened his jaw to hold in a chuckle as he looked at the expression on Peter's face. “You prob'ly made some big mistakes in your life, mister, but none bigger'n this'un.”
“I don't need any advice from you,” Peter said.
“Wasn't offerin' any, just commentin' on what a damned fool you are. A fella don't go messin' with his brother's wife.” Preacher found himself growing a little angry. “And out here, a man who forces hisself on a woman usually winds up dead in a hurryâshot if he's lucky, kickin' his life out at the end of a hang-rope if he ain't.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“Just tellin' it to you straight, so you'll know not to cross me.”
Peter muttered a curse under his breath and turned away, clearly not wanting any further confrontations tonight. He pulled a rag from his pocket and started wiping at the blood on his face. His two young'uns just stared at him, unsure of what they were supposed to do. It had to be mighty unsettling for them, seeing their mama point a gun at their papa that way.
“Simon, grab a rifle and go stand guard,” Preacher said. “Everybody else, go back to what you were doin'. Fight's over, and if we're lucky, there won't be any more trouble tonight.”
Grudgingly the others went back to their chores, even Mary and Brad, who resumed piling up buffalo chips near the fire. Nate hadn't returned from the wagon where Angela was patching up Roger's injuries.
Preacher wasn't sure what to do with Peter. If the man really had raped his sister-in-law, he ought to be punished, but there was no law out here on the frontier to do it. The nearest law was back in St. Louis. Everywhere west of there, folks took care of their own problems.
And to complicate matters even more, there was still the threat of the Arikara war party lurking behind them. Peter might not be much of a man, but as long as he could point a gun and pull a trigger, he was valuable to the rest of them.
For the time being Roger was going to have to call a truce with his brother. They couldn't be tussling or threatening to shoot each other all the time. They had to find a way to get along. The safety of the whole bunch might depend on their cooperation.
Preacher hoped it never came down to that, though, because if things were that bad, then they were sure enough in trouble.
Roger climbed down out of the wagon, followed by Angela and Nate. He had bits of plaster stuck here and there on his bruised, battered face, covering up the worst of the cuts and scratches. He still looked very angry, but he was in control of himself again. Angela must have been talking to him as she worked on his injuries, Preacher thought. She must have argued some sense into his head.
“Peter,” Roger said.
Peter had his back to his brother. He turned slowly and said, “What are you going to do now, take another punch at me?”
Roger shook his head. “No, I'm through fighting. You're not worth it. I can see that now. But you're no longer my brother.”
“Oh, come on. Brothers fight. You know the old saying about blood being thickerâ”
“No,” Roger cut in. “I'll never forgive you, Peter. I see you now for what you are. You're nothing but a selfish coward, and you don't care about anyone except yourself. You've been causing trouble ever since this trip started.” An even more bitter edge crept into Roger's voice as he added, “If it weren't for you, those damned Indians wouldn't even be after us.”