TWENTY-SEVEN
He had just
thought
the wind was blowing hard before. Now he staggered as it smashed at him with incredible force. Not only that, but he was blind, instantly surrounded by an ocean of white flakes driven with stinging force by that terrible wind. Preacher had been battered by heavy rainstorms before, but he had never known that
snow
could hurt.
He held his hat on and lowered his head so that the wide brim protected his face, at least to a certain extent. He went to a knee before he could be bowled over by the gale. “Dog!” he shouted, not knowing if the animal could hear him or not.
A moment later, the great furry body pressed against him and he felt Dog's warm breath against his ear. Preacher looped his right arm around Dog's neck and buried his hand in the thick fur.
“We got to get back to camp!” he shouted. “Come on!”
Relying on his inner sense of direction, he came up in a crouch and started moving toward the buffalo wallow. At least, he hoped that he was going the right way. If he wasn't, if he became completely disoriented by the storm, he might wander around out here for hours until he finally collapsed and froze to death. He kept his hand knotted in Dog's thick coat, knowing how keen the wolflike creature's senses were and knowing as well that Dog would head for the camp.
Preacher felt the ground under his feet change its pitch. He was moving down a fairly gentle slope now, and relief washed through him as he realized it was probably the buffalo wallow. He still couldn't see anything except the sea of white that had swallowed him, but a few moments later he ran into something big and unyielding. It took him only a second to feel of it and realize it was a wagon wheel.
He groped his way along the wagon until he came to the back of it. Stepping up on the tailgate, he pulled the canvas flap aside and tumbled inside. It wasn't much warmer, but at least he was out of the wind. For the most part anyway, since the canvas cover popped and billowed and let in some of the howling monster.
“Who's that?” someone exclaimed loudly as Preacher entered the wagon. “Who's there?”
Preacher recognized Jonathan Galloway's voice. “Take it easy, Jonathan,” he assured the older man. “It's just me, Preacher.”
“Thank God! We were afraid you were lost out there in the blizzard.”
“I came damn close to it,” Preacher told him. “But Dog helped me get back.”
And speaking of Dog, Preacher thought, where was he?
As if in answer to the question, he heard claws scratching at the tailgate and turned to put his head and shoulders outside the flap. He reached down and caught hold of Dog under the animal's front legs. As big and heavy as Dog was, even Preacher had to grunt with effort as he helped him climb into the wagon.
“Hope you don't mind some more company,” Preacher said as he settled back with Dog beside him. He pulled the flap closed and tied the thongs on it to keep it shut.
Geoffrey answered this time. “Not at all. Every bit of body heat we can get is more than welcome.”
“Injuns sleep with dogs during the winter for warmth. The colder it is, the more dogs you need.”
“Well, then, we could use a whole pack of them tonight,” Jonathan said.
Preacher found himself warming up a mite now that he was out of the worst of the wind. His teeth stopped chattering after a few minutes, and he said, “Is everybody else in the wagons? Everybody accounted for?”
“I think so,” Jonathan replied. “The only one I'm not sure about is Simon. He was out standing guard, you know. But he wasn't very far away, and he must have come back when the storm hit.”
Preacher frowned in the darkness. “You saw ever'body else? You know they're in the wagons?”
Geoffrey said, “That's right. Roger, Dorothy, and Angela are in Roger's wagon, and the children are with Peter in his wagon.”
“But you don't know for sure about Simon?”
“Well . . . no. We just assumed. . . .”
“You don't think he's still out there, do you?” Jonathan asked.
“Only one way to find out, I reckon,” Preacher said grimly.
“My God!” Geoffrey said. “You can't mean you're going back out there?”
“To the other wagons at least. Until I find Simon.”
“Do you want us to come with you?” Jonathan asked. Preacher heard the reluctance in his voice, mixed with worry about Simon.
“No, we don't need any more lost sheep,” Preacher said. “Stay here with Dog. I'll be back.”
He ordered Dog to stay, then loosened the flap and climbed out of the wagon. The icy wind pounded at him and the snow stung him fiercely as he fastened the canvas behind him. He moved to the front of the wagon, keeping at least one hand on it all the time. When he came to the wagon tongue, he worked his way along it until he could reach out and touch the next wagon in the circle. He stuck his head in the back and asked who was there, but no one answered. That came as no surprise. According to what Jonathan and Geoffrey had told him, one of the wagons should have been empty, unless Simon had crawled into it, and obviously he hadn't.
With his head bowed against the wind, Preacher moved along the second wagon to the third one. This time when he climbed onto the tailgate and put his head through the flap, someone inside screamed. A childish voice yelled, “Indians!”
“No, it ain't Injuns,” Preacher said. “Peter, you in here?”
In this catastrophic weather, the earlier conflicts had been forgotten. Preacher thought he heard relief in Peter Galloway's voice as the man answered, “I'm here. And all three children are with me. We're all right, Preacher.”
“What about your pa?”
“What about him? He's in one of the other wagons, isn't he?”
“You ain't seen him since this blizzard started?”
Peter hesitated. “No. I don't think I have.”
“You don't think so, or you're sure you ain't?”
“I'm sure,” Peter said. “I got the children together and brought them in here when the storm hit, and we've been in here ever since.”
The uneasy feeling inside Preacher began to grow stronger. He said, “All right. Stay here, and don't come out until the storm lets up. It'll last all night, and it might even last all day tomorrow.”
“We have food,” Peter told him. “We'll be all right.”
Preacher nodded, even though they couldn't see him in the snow-choked darkness, and closed the flap. There was just one wagon to go, and if Simon Galloway wasn't in it, then the unavoidable conclusion was that he was out there somewhere in the storm, definitely lost and maybe already dead.
One more time, he felt his way along the wagon and came to the last one. As he paused at the tailgate, he saw a narrow strip of light coming from inside, through a gap in the canvas cover. The occupants of this wagon had managed to keep a candle going, even with the drafts that had to be blowing through there. He pulled the canvas aside, and the light flickered as the wind made the candle flame waver.
“Whoâ” Roger Galloway began excitedly.
“Preacher. Take it easy, folks. It's just me.”
He climbed in and closed the flap behind him, and as the candle flame grew steady and bright again, he saw Roger and Angela sitting on either side of the thick pallet where Dorothy lay. Both of them were wrapped in blankets, and Angela had a bundle in her lap that had to be the baby. Preacher looked at the pale, haggard face of the woman lying on the pallet and realized he was seeing Dorothy Galloway for the first time. He had heard plenty about her during the time he had been with the wagons, of course, but until now he hadn't laid eyes on her.
There was no sign of Simon Galloway inside the wagon.
Preacher's spirits sank for a moment as he realized that. He hadn't particularly liked Simonâthe man struck him as weak and lazyâbut Preacher wouldn't wish freezing to death on him either. And he knew as well that he was going to have to go out in that blizzard and look for Simon. He had to at least make the attempt.
“It's good to see you, Preacher,” Roger said. “We were worried about you. I thought, though, that if anyone could make it back here once that storm hit, it would be you.”
“What about your pa?”
“What about him?” Roger asked with a frown. “He's with Peter, isn't he? Or Jonathan and Geoffrey?”
Preacher shook his head. “He ain't in any of the wagons.”
Angela lifted a hand to her mouth. “Oh, Dear Lord. You mean . . .” She couldn't go on.
“He's out in . . . in that?” Roger finished for her, horror in his voice and on his face.
“I reckon he must be. There ain't no other place he could be.”
Roger hurriedly started to get up. “We have to find him! It may not be too late!”
That was true. Simon was probably still alive, since he wouldn't have frozen in the time that had passed since the storm hit. But he wouldn't be able to last much longer.
Preacher put a hand on Roger's shoulder and held him down. “Stay here,” he grated. “I'll find him.”
“But how? We . . . We can't afford to lose you, Preacher.”
“You got any rope? I need as much as you can muster.”
Roger nodded. “We have several coils. If we tie them all together, they'll probably stretch six or seven hundred feet.”
That ought to be long enough, Preacher thought. The buffalo wallow was about a hundred yards across. Likely Simon wouldn't have gone any farther than that to stand guard. Unless, of course, he had tried to get back to the wagons when the storm hit, gotten turned around, and moved farther and farther away instead of coming closer. If that was the case, there was no telling where he could be by now.
“Stay put and tell me where the rope is.” Preacher was ready to go. Waiting wouldn't make things any better.
Roger told him where to find the rope in one of the storage packs slung underneath the wagon. Preacher gave Roger and Angela a reassuring nod and then crawled out into the snow and wind once more. He found the ropes and began knotting them together. His fingers were stiff from the cold, and that, along with the gloves he wore, made the task difficult and awkward. Preacher took the necessary time, though, to make sure the ends of the ropes were knotted together securely. If they came apart while he was searching, he might be in big trouble.
Once he was satisfied, he moved around to the outside of the wagon, dragging the heavy coils of rope with him. He found an end and tied it around a wagon wheel, making sure that knot was secure too. Then he gathered the rope in his arms and started walking straight out from the wagon, paying out the makeshift lifeline as he went.
Of course, there were risks. As long as he had hold of the rope, he was confident that he could follow it back to the wagons. But if he lost it for any reason, he might not ever be able to find it again. Then too, there was no guarantee that he would find Simon Galloway by doing this. He might pass within five feet of the man and never see him. All he could do was work his way out to the end of the line, move over a little, and start back in. When he got to the wagons, he could move again and go back out. It would be a slow, tedious process . . . maybe too slow to do Simon any good.
But as far as Preacher could see, it was the only chance Simon had. He trudged ahead, buffeted by the wind, stung by the snow, hoping that once again luck would be with him.
TWENTY-EIGHT
It took Preacher a good ten minutes to walk to the end of the rope, leaning over into the wind the whole way. Keeping a firm grip on the lifeline, he faced back the way he had come, moved some ten feet to his right, and started back in, gathering up the rope as he went. The return trip went a little faster since the wind was now at his back. When he reached the wagon the rope was tied to, he turned around and started out at a different angle this time.
He was pretty sure he was checking the general vicinity where Simon had gone to stand guard. There was no way of knowing, though, how much Simon had moved around once he was out here. And Preacher's mind kept coming back to the possibility that Simon could have easily wandered off even farther after he was blinded by the blizzard.
The minutes seemed to race past, because Preacher knew that with each one that went by, the chances of him finding Simon alive were less. Out to the end of the rope, back to the wagons . . . Again and again, Preacher moved along the lifeline, back and forth, out of the buffalo wallow and then back in. He lost track of how many times he had made the trip and how long he had been out here. His fingers and toes were getting numb. He knew he couldn't stay out in the blizzard for much longer, or he would risk losing them.
A fella ought to be in somewhere snug and warm on a night like this, he thought. In his own cabin maybe, with a fire roaring in the fireplace and a pretty gal to share a buffalo robe in front of that fire. A girl like Jennie . . .
He saw it plain as day in his mind's eye, the two of them snuggled together while the storm raged outside, secure in the knowledge that they were together and would never be parted. With the kids asleep up in the loft and Dog at their feet . . . Jennie had loved Dog and he had loved her, had in fact nearly lost his life trying to protect her. It sure made a pretty picture, Preacher thought. Never would happen, of course, couldn't happen because Jennie was dead, but for a moment, as Preacher trudged through the snow, he felt almost warm as he thought of it. What might have been, Lord, what might have been if only things had worked out different....
Maybe he was warm because he was freezing to death, a part of his brain warned him. He had heard that was what happened just before a fella drifted off to his final sleep, the one from which he never woke up.
A moment later, he tripped over something and went to his knees in the deepening snow.
The fall made the rope slip out of his left hand. It slid in his right too, so that only two fingers were around it. He clutched desperately at it, knowing that if he let go the wind might whip the rope around so that he could never find it again. Should have tied it on to his belt, he thought wildly, but the idea hadn't occurred to him. Now that oversight might be the death of him.
His flailing left arm tangled in the rope. He grabbed on firmly with both hands and knelt there for a few seconds, letting his racing pulse slow down a little. When it had, he wrapped the rope completely around his waist and knotted it there. Then he reached out to feel around and locate whatever it was he had tripped over.
He knew what it was, of course, before he found it, or at least he was afraid he knew. And as his fingers touched something and explored it until he was sure it was a face, his guess was confirmed. He ran his hand over the man's head and felt the lack of hair on top. Simon Galloway had been mostly bald.
Preacher checked for a pulse, a heartbeat, a breath. Nothing. He even leaned down and pressed his cheek against Simon's. The flesh was cold and hard.
Preacher bit back a curse. He hadn't liked Simon Galloway, had considered the man pretty much useless most of the time. But his death still bothered Preacher, even though the mountain man knew it wasn't his fault. He had sensed that a storm was coming, but he'd had no way of knowing it would be as bad as it was. The frontier could be a harsh, unforgiving place, and Simon had been unlucky enough to bear the brunt of its fury on this night.
Simon was a good-sized man. Preacher couldn't pick him up and carry him. He had to settle for dragging the body back to the wagons. When he got there, he took it to the empty wagon, lowered the tailgate, lifted Simon enough to prop him against it, and slid the body inside. Then he untied the rope from his waist and went to tell the others.
He stopped first at the wagon where Jonathan and Geoffrey were. As he climbed in, Jonathan asked, “Preacher? Is that you?”
“It's me,” Preacher said heavily. He recalled that these two didn't know he had been out searching for Simon. The last they had seen of him, he had been headed for the other wagons to check on everyone else.
He went on, “I've got bad news, fellas. Your brother wasn't in any of the other wagons.”
“My God!” Geoffrey exclaimed. “You mean he's out in this storm somewhere?”
“We have to go look for him!” Jonathan said.
“I already did,” Preacher said, “and . . . I found him.”
The ominous tone in his voice told the two older men what they didn't want to know. Still, they had to ask. Geoffrey said, “Is . . . is he . . . ?”
“He's dead,” Preacher confirmed. “I figure he tried to make it back to the wagons when the storm hit, got turned around, and finally couldn't go any farther.”
Jonathan muttered something, and after a second Preacher figured out it was a prayer for Simon's soul.
“I brought him back in,” Preacher went on. “He's in that empty wagon.”
“What can we do?” Geoffrey asked, his voice thick with grief.
“Nothin', at least not tonight. Come mornin', we'll see about diggin' a grave, if the ground's not frozen too hard already.”
He left them talking quietly with each other, no doubt reliving some of the good memories of their brother's life. Bypassing the wagon where Peter was staying with the young'uns, Preacher went to Roger's wagon.
He pushed the flap back a little and called softly, “Roger, come out here.”
A moment later, Roger climbed out of the wagon. He was followed, to Preacher's surprise, by Angela, who clutched a blanket tightly around her.
“Ain't no need for you to be out here, ma'am,” Preacher told her. “You ought to be in there watchin' over the other lady and the little one.”
“They're both asleep,” Angela said. “They don't need me right now. And if you have news about Simon, I want to hear it. He's my father-in-law, you know.”
“Yes, ma'am, I know. And I'm mighty sorry to have to tell youâboth of youâthat I found him out yonder a good ways. Looks like he froze to death, so I reckon he went pretty peaceful-like and prob'ly didn't really know what was goin' on.”
Angela let out a sob, and Roger flinched almost like he had been struck. “Dear Lord, is there no end to the tragedy?” he said. He put his hands over his face for a moment, then found the strength to straighten slightly and ask, “Where is he now? Were . . . were you able to bring him back?”
Preacher nodded. “Yeah, I put him in that wagon with nobody in it. I already told your uncles, but I ain't said anything to Peter. Didn't want the young'uns over-hearin' and gettin' upset any sooner than they have to.”
“Thank you. I'll tell Peter.” Roger took hold of Preacher's arm for a second, squeezing hard in his grief. “And thank you for . . . for finding him. I feel a little better knowing that he . . . he wasn't left out there in the storm all night.”
Preacher didn't say anything. It didn't matter to Simon where he spent the rest of the night, but then, after a fella was dead, nothing mattered. All the gestures and rituals that went with death were for those who remained behind, not the one who had already crossed over the divide.
Angela said, “Come inside where it's at least a little warmer.”
“I'm obliged, ma'am, but I reckon I'll go back and spend the rest of the night with Jonathan and Geoffrey. Quarters are already a mite cramped in there, and I don't want to disturb the baby.”
“You're sure?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
Preacher left them and felt his way back along the line of wagons. The storm hadn't eased any. The wind was blowing just as hard and the snow was just as thick as it had been earlier.
He climbed into the other wagon to find that Geoffrey and Jonathan had lit a candle too. They sat huddled over it, as if the tiny, flickering flame would ward off not only the darkness but the cold. It wasn't doing a very good job of either of those tasks.
Jonathan held out a jug as Preacher settled down beside them. “We're drinking to Simon's memory,” he said. “We'd be honored if you'd join us, Preacher.”
“Well, I ain't one to take a drink except ever' now and then . . . but I reckon this is a righteous time.” Preacher took the jug and said, “To Simon Galloway,” before lifting it to his mouth and taking a swallow of the fiery whiskey.
“To Simon,” both of the older men said quietly.
It had already been a long night, Preacher thought, and it would be longer still until morning.
Â
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Jonathan and Geoffrey got roaring drunk. Preacher took a few more swigs from the jug, but for the most part he just passed it back and forth between the other two. When they weren't drinking, they were telling stories about the times when they and Simon had been kids and then young men. Preacher heard more yarns about the Galloway family than he ever wanted to hear.
They had been a pretty normal bunch, growing up in Philadelphia, the sons of a printer who had been friends with Ben Franklin, Tom Jefferson, and the other fellas who had led the colonies in their revolt against the English. Those must have been exciting times, Preacher thought. He had been born too late for the revolution, but he had taken part in the war that had finally finished it up, back in '14. Despite the fact that he had fought against them, he didn't bear any particular hatred or even dislike for the English. Like every other nationality, there were some good ones and some bad'uns.
“What did you fellas do when you grew up?” Preacher asked.
“Geoffrey and I took over the printing business,” Jonathan replied. “Simon became a banker. He was the most successful one in the family. In fact, he paid for most of the wagons and supplies for this journey.”
“Damn shame he didn't make it to see the end of it.”
“Yes, it is,” Geoffrey agreed.
“Any other brothers or sisters?” Preacher asked.
“Yes, but they're all back in Philadelphia.” Jonathan laughed. “They all believe that we're insane for leaving the city and coming west. I'm afraid they don't have any adventure in their souls.”
Preacher nodded. How well he understood that. He had left home at the age of twelve, determined to go out and see the world, to take care of himself and make his own way. He had been on his own ever since, his solitude broken only by occasional sojourns with friends, or with Jennie when she was still alive.
At times he suspected he would spend the rest of his life alone. That frightened him near as much as that grizz he had tangled with, back in the days when he hadn't been long in the mountains, but fate was called that for a reason. A fella chose his own path, his own way of getting there, but in the end he had a destiny to live out, and there wasn't much that could change it.
“What are you plannin' on doin' when you finally get to Oregon?”
“Well, we'll want to see Roger and Peter settled first, of course,” Geoffrey replied. “They plan to have a farm . . . although, given the hard feelings between them now, they may have to have
two
farms. After that . . .”
“After that we're going to be mountain men and go exploring,” Jonathan finished, eagerness in his voice.
Preacher grinned. “Mountain men, is it?”
“That's right.” Jonathan frowned. “You think we can do it, don't you? I know we're rather old to be starting out on such a career, but . . .”
“If that's what you really want to do, you'll find a way to do it,” Preacher assured them. “Don't forget, I've seen you fellas in action. You handle yourselves pretty good. Just keep your eyes and ears open, and learn as much as you can.”
“Just being around you seems to be an education in itself, Preacher,” Geoffrey said with a smile.
Preacher chuckled, glad that they had gotten their minds on something other than grieving for their lost brother. Sorrow was a good thing in many ways, but it had to be tempered with hope.
And he was a good one to be thinking that, he told himself, considering how he had felt since Jennie's death. Had he had any hope, truly, or was he just going through the motions? The Galloways still had time to mourn Simon. Maybe it was time for him to move on, though, Preacher thought.
“You know, if y'all are gonna be mountain men, you'll need some good nicknames,” he pointed out.