THIRTY
Dorothy's eyes were open but lifeless. Her face was so pale it seemed to have been completely drained of blood. Her lips were blue.
“She was still bleedin' inside somewhere most likely,” Preacher told Jonathan. The older man had climbed into the wagon to help him with the body. Roger and Angela were back in the other wagon with Geoffrey. They had taken the baby with them, of course. Preacher wasn't sure how they were going to continue feeding the infant with Dorothy gone. Preacher was not optimistic about the poor baby's chances of survival.
“It never should have come to this,” Jonathan said bitterly. “She was a good woman, and she shouldn't have died this way.”
“Can't argue with that.”
“If only Roger and Peter and Simon hadn't pushed so hard to leave Philadelphia. We could have waited until next spring, but no, they had to start. There couldn't be any delays. They were just too . . . too anxious to get to the Promised Land. But like Moses, Simon will never enter it. He won't even see it.”
Preacher wouldn't have compared Simon Galloway to Moses, but he knew what Jonathan meant. “Best get on with the job at hand,” he said. “Let's wrap this blanket around her nice and snug.”
With Dorothy no longer needing all the blankets and quilts that had been around her for warmth, the two men used only one blanket as her shroud. They wrapped the body securely, and Preacher tied the blanket in place with several lengths of cord. Then they picked up the body, Preacher at the head and Jonathan at the feet, and carried it out of the wagon.
It took them only a few minutes to place Dorothy in the other wagon with the body of her father-in-law. With that unpleasant task accomplished, Preacher got to work on the chore that he had hoped to have done by now, getting a shelter built and a fire burning.
Using a shovel from the farm tools stored in one of the wagons, Preacher cleared the snow as best he could from an eight-foot-wide circle and then angled some stakes in the ground, tying them together at the top. He used a couple of pieces of canvas to rig a makeshift tepee on the framework. It was crude but it would work. The canvas would protect the fire from the wind and snow, and the opening at the top would let the smoke out. If everyone crowded inside, it might even be halfway warm. Since it looked like they might be here for several days, they needed something like this in order to survive.
He dug buffalo chips out of the pile the young'uns had made, shook the snow off them, and carried them into the tepee. A few minutes of diligent work with flint, steel, and tinder got a tiny fire started. Preacher leaned over and blew on the flames until he was confident they wouldn't go out. He held his hands above the fire for a moment, enjoying even the little bit of warmth that the flames gave off.
Jonathan stuck his head in through the opening where the pieces of canvas came together. He said, “I've got the coffeepot and the frying pan and our supplies. If you'll move over, Preacher, I'll get to work on breakfast.”
“Sounds mighty fine to me,” Preacher said with a nod. “I'll go take a look around, just to make sure there ain't nobody tryin' to sneak up on us.”
With Dog at his side, Preacher trudged up the slope and out of the buffalo wallow. Although visibility was much better than it had been the night before, the snow was still swirling and blowing enough so that Preacher couldn't see very far. He made a complete circle around the camp, knowing he had gotten back to the place where he had started because he could still see the path he had broken through the deep snow. The tracks might fill up if the snow continued coming down, but it would take quite a while. Not having seen anything threatening other than the weather itself, he went back down to the wagons and inside the circle. He caught a brief whiff of coffee brewing, and the aroma made his mouth water. He went to the tepee and bent over to step inside quickly, so as not to let out warm air and let in cold.
He found Jonathan, Geoffrey, and the two younger children sitting by the fire. Mary looked up at him and said, “Good morning, Mr. Preacher. This is just like an Indian's house, isn't it?”
Preacher hunkered on his heels next to her. “It sure is, little missy. They build 'em a mite better than I do, but I reckon we can get by with this'un.”
The youngsters wore solemn expressions, and Preacher figured they had heard about their Aunt Dorothy's passing. He said quietly to Geoffrey, “Where's everybody else?”
“Roger and Angela and Nate and the baby are in our wagon,” Geoffrey replied. “I'm not sure where Peter is.”
Preacher felt a faint stirring of alarm. “He wouldn't wander off in this storm, would he?”
“I'm pretty sure he's in his wagon brooding. Don't worry about Peter; he's prone to doing foolish things, but not anything that will hurt him directly.” Geoffrey spoke quietly, and the children didn't seem to be paying any attention to him. Preacher was glad of that, since Geoffrey was talking about their father. As sorry a human being as Peter Galloway was, Preacher didn't believe in talkin' down a man in front of his kids.
Jonathan had bacon frying and some left-over biscuits warming, and the coffee was ready. When the food was done, Preacher ate sparingly. These pilgrims might believe they had plenty of food, but Preacher knew first-hand how quickly supplies could disappear, especially when a trip took longer than anyone thought it would. He didn't want them to run out of rations before they got back to Garvey's Fort. He poured himself a full cup of coffee, though, and savored it.
The others had eaten by the time he swallowed the last of the strong, black brew. “Stay here,” he told them. “I'll go let the others know breakfast is ready.”
“Is there room in here for everyone?” Geoffrey asked.
“It'll be a mite cramped, but I reckon ever'body can squeeze in. Be warmer that way too.” Preacher just hoped there wouldn't be any more ruckuses between Roger and Peter. Peter had promised that they would get along, but Preacher wasn't convinced of it yet.
He walked across the camp to the wagon where Roger, Angela, Nate, and the baby were and stepped up at the back of it to put his head through the flap. “Mornin', folks,” he said, keeping his voice pleasant but not cheery. These people were bereaved, after all. Roger had lost a wife, Nate and John Edward a mother, and Angela a sister-in-law. “There's food and coffee, if anybody wants any. And I'd recommend that you eat. We all got to keep our strength up.”
Angela sat on one of the bunks built into the side of the wagon, cradling the blanket-wrapped infant in her lap. Roger and Nate were on the other bunk. Roger had an arm around his son's shoulders. Preacher almost thought of Nate as Roger's older son, then reminded himself that Roger wasn't really John Edward's father.
It might be best all around if Roger
did
regard himself as the baby's pa. John Edward could be raised that way and might not ever have to know the difference. Preacher didn't pretend to be an expert on such things, though. He knew about huntin' and trappin' and trackin' and fightin', and everything else that went with staying alive on the frontier. He had explored places where no white man had ever set foot. But like most folks, the human heart was still largely uncharted territory to him.
“I don't think anyone is very hungry right now,” Angela said. She smiled sadly. “Except for this little fellow here.” The baby squirmed a little in her lap and made tiny crying noises.
“Better eat anyway. Won't do nobody any good to starve, and it might even make y'all feel a mite better.”
“My mama is dead, Preacher,” Nate said dully. “How can I feel better?”
“Well, now . . . did you ever fall down when you was runnin' and scrape your knee or bust your shin against somethin'?”
“Yeah. I guess I did.”
“Whenever that happened, I'll just bet you your ma tried to make it not hurt quite as much, didn't she?”
Nate hesitated but finally said, “Yeah.”
“Then I reckon she'd prob'ly like it if you didn't hurt quite so much now, wouldn't she? It'd make her happy if you weren't so sad?”
“Maybe,” Nate said. “I never really thought about it like that.”
“Well, you ponder it, and if you want some bacon and biscuits whilst you're ponderin', just come on over.”
“Thank you, Preacher,” Roger said in a voice choked with emotion. “I think we'll do that. Won't we, Nate?”
“Sure, Pa. If you say so.”
Preacher looked at Angela. “Be warmer on you and the babe in the shelter I made too.”
She nodded, and there was gratitude in her eyes for more than the offer of food and coffee. “Let's all go,” she said to Roger. “Just let me wrap up the baby a little better. . . .”
A short time later, they had joined the group already inside the tepee. Dog was in there too, lying between Mary and Brad, enjoying the petting they were doing. There was a time when he'd been too touchy to let himself be loved on like that, Preacher thought. The big, wolflike creature was getting more tolerant as he got older.
That left Peter as the only one who wasn't in the tepee. Preacher figured he ought to go get him. That might make things a bit tenser, but they didn't need anybody else freezing to death right now.
Preacher tromped through the snow to Peter's wagon and thumped a fist on the tailgate. “Come get some breakfast!” he called. “Coffee and baconâgood for what ails ye!”
There was no response from inside the wagon.
“Galloway!” Preacher called. “You hear me?”
When there was still nothing but silence, Preacher frowned. Earlier, Jonathan and Geoffrey had said that Peter wouldn't wander off in the storm or do anything else to hurt himself, but Preacher wasn't so sure of that. If the man had even an ounce of humanity left in him, he had to be feeling pretty damned bad right now about everything that had happened. He hadn't put a pistol to his headâPreacher would have heard the shotâbut there were other ways for a fella to end his own life if he was determined enough to do so.
Muttering under his breath, Preacher pulled himself up, stepped over the tailgate, and pushed into the wagon. It was very dim inside, and he couldn't see well. He could smell, though, and the reek of raw whiskey hit his nostrils. His foot bumped something lying on the floor of the wagon bed, and when he knelt and reached out, he put a hand on Peter's shoulder. The man groaned when Preacher shook him.
Dead drunk, Preacher thought. And if he stayed here like this, maybe just plain dead. The temperature was still below freezing, and Preacher had heard that cold weather was even harder on a fella when he was full of rotgut.
“Come on, damn it,” Preacher said as he slipped an arm around Peter's shoulders and rolled him onto his back. “We better get you by the fire so's you can thaw out.”
Peter was a big, muscular man. It took some effort for Preacher to get him onto his feet and wrestle him out of the wagon. Peter was only half-conscious, and he fell when Preacher tried to guide him over the tailgate. He plunged down into the thick snow, which cushioned his fall. He came up sputtering and pawing at the snow that covered his face. The cold had shocked at least some of the drunkenness out of his system.
“What . . . what the hellâ”
Preacher grabbed his arm and swung him toward the tepee. “We're gonna get some black coffee in you.”
“Let go of me, damn you!” With that, Peter swung a wild, shaky punch at Preacher. The mountain man easily avoided the blow and gave Peter a shove that sent him stumbling several feet away. Preacher expected him to fall, but somehow Peter managed to remain on his feet.
“Listen to me,” Preacher grated, and his voice was low and dangerous. “I know you been in there guzzlin' Who-hit-John all night 'cause you feel sorry for yourself. But I reckon you're the only one who feels sorry for you. I sure as hell don't. And if you swing at me again, I'll bust you, sure as shootin'.”
“I'm not . . . not afraid . . . of you,” Peter said thickly.
“You damn well better be.”
After a moment, Peter shook his head gingerly, mumbled a curse or two, and wiped the back of a gloved hand across his mouth. “You said something about . . . coffee?”
“Come on. And you best behave when you get in there. The mood ever'body's in, if you cause any trouble they're liable to line up to thump you.” Preacher added grimly, “And I ain't gonna stop 'em neither.”
THIRTY-ONE
It stopped snowing about the middle of the afternoon, but the sky remained thick with clouds. When Preacher stepped out of the tepee and regarded the heavens through squinted eyes, he couldn't tell if the snow was really finished or just holding up for a while. He hoped the storm was over. There were some three feet of snow on the ground. He thought the mule teams and the wagons could negotiate that much, if they avoided the deeper drifts. With any luck, they might be able to pull out early the next morning.
He took up the shovel he had used to clear the ground where the tepee now stood and said, “Come on, Dog.” Together they walked up the slope to the edge of the buffalo wallow. Before he stepped out onto the prairie, he took a good look around. The thick white carpet of snow would make it easy to see anyone who was coming toward the camp. Preacher didn't spot any movement anywhere in the vast sweep of the plains.
He found a spot where the wind had scoured some of the snow off the ground, leaving only a thin covering. The shovel had a difficult time biting into the dirt when he began to dig, but the ground wasn't frozen so hard yet that it was impossible. He had been working at it a while, enough so that he was starting to feel a mite warm in his buckskins and heavy coat, when footsteps came crunching through the snow behind him.
“Let me help,” Peter said. When Preacher turned to face him, he was holding out his hand for the shovel.
Preacher grunted and handed over the tool. Peter took it and began to dig. He went at it hard and fast, his breath fogging thickly in front of his face. After standing by and watching for a few minutes, Preacher said, “That ain't gonna change anything.”
Peter paused and looked up at him, breathing heavily. “What?”
“No matter how hard you dig, it won't change what you did. And it won't bring back your sister-in-law or your pa.”
Peter gave him a surly glare. “I'm just trying to help.”
“And I appreciate the help. I'm just tellin' you not to think it means more than it really does . . . 'cause it don't.”
Peter stared at him for a long moment, then finally said, “You're a hard man, aren't you, Preacher? Your heart's as cold as all this snow.”
“I've stayed alive this long and aim to stay alive a while longer. And I don't really give a damn what you think of me.”
Peter drove the shovel into the ground with a grating sound. “The feeling is mutual.”
He went back to his digging. A few minutes later, Preacher saw another figure trudging up from the center of the buffalo wallow. As the man came closer, Preacher recognized him as Jonathan Galloway.
“I thought I'd come lend a hand,” Jonathan said as he walked up to the other two men.
Peter stepped out of the shallow hole and handed the shovel to his uncle. “Don't work too hard at it,” he advised, “or Preacher will insult you.”
Jonathan frowned in confusion but didn't press the matter. He turned to Preacher and said, “Roger told me he thinks it would be all right to dig one grave for both Simon and Dorothy. They got along well enough in life, he said, that they can stand to be buried together.”
Preacher nodded. That was the practical thing to do, of course. He was glad Roger had suggested it, though, so he hadn't been forced to.
Jonathan worked on the grave for a while, but being older, he tired more easily. Preacher took the shovel back from him and went to town with it. The ground was softer the lower he dug, and the work went fairly quickly. By the time the light was beginning to dim, he had a big enough hole to do the job.
Peter had already gone back to the wagons, but Jonathan was still there, keeping Preacher company while the mountain man completed the grim task. As Preacher stepped up out of the grave, Jonathan said, “I'll go tell the others we're ready.”
Preacher nodded. There was no point in putting it off. Now that the grave was dug, it would be better to go ahead and get it over with.
He followed Jonathan down to the camp and found Peter sitting alone in his wagon, rather than in the tepee with the others. “Come on,” Preacher told him. “You and me'll take the bodies up there.”
“Why me?” Peter asked, still surly from the earlier confrontation.
“Because you're the strongest of the bunch next to me. Besides, I'll be damned if I'm gonna make your brother carry his own wife's body.”
“Don't you have any feelings?” Peter choked out. “I . . . I loved her too, you know.”
“You keep your trap shut about that,” Preacher warned. “Take your hat off when the words are bein' said over 'em and look sad all you want, but don't you say a damned word.”
Peter glowered at him for a moment, then shrugged. “I'm not going to waste my breath arguing with you.”
“Good.”
They went to the wagon where the bodies lay and one at a time carried the blanket-shrouded figures up the slope to the grave. They took Simon Galloway first and then returned for Dorothy, and as they brought her to her final resting place, the others left the tepee and walked slowly and solemnly behind them. Angela held the hands of her children, while Roger carried the baby and Nate walked alongside him. Jonathan and Geoffrey brought up the rear of the gloomy procession, at least as far as the humans were concerned. Dog padded along through the snow behind them.
The grave was wide enough so that Simon and Dorothy could lie side by side. Simon was on the left, Dorothy on the right. The mourners gathered around the grave. Despite the cold, the men removed their hats.
“I'm now the oldest one in the family,” Geoffrey began, “so I'll begin. We've come here to lay to rest these two fine people. Simon Bartholomew Galloway was brother, father, and grandfather to us, and we loved him very much. He was a kind man, a hard-working man.”
Preacher thought Geoffrey was being a mite generous, based on what he had seen of Simon Galloway, but hell, the man was talking about his brother after all. It was understandable.
“And Dorothy Elizabeth Corrigan Galloway was a fine, loving woman, a dear wife to Roger, a devoted mother to Nathan and John Edward. So devoted to her children that she gave her own life to bring the newest member of the Galloway family into the world. She will be deeply missed.” Geoffrey looked around. “If anyone else would care to say a few words . . .”
Preacher meant no disrespect, but his mind wandered some as Jonathan, Roger, and Angela all spoke glowing, emotional tributes to the two people who had passed on. He had buried quite a few friends over the years, and beyond a simple prayer, not much had been said at those services. The frontier taught those who dared to live there how to be practical and efficient in all things, including their ceremonies. Also, he was standing so that he could keep an eye on the country to the west, because that was where the pursuing Arikara war party would come from. He watched for any sign of movement now that the storm was over. It wouldn't surprise him a bit if the Injuns were already on the move again, coming after the wagon train they had tracked halfway across the plains, into the mountains, and back out again. He didn't see anything moving against the snow, however, except a distant animal that his keen eyes identified as an antelope. He found himself wishing the creature would come within rifle range. Some antelope steaks fried over the fire would be mighty good tonight.
He lowered his head and closed his eyes as he realized that Geoffrey was praying, commending the souls of the departed to the Lord, asking that He welcome them into heaven. If they were going to get there, Preacher thought, they were already there, having ascended the Starry Path to Man Above, as the Indians put it. Preacher knew he would take that Starry Path himself one of these days, even though he was still relatively young, and the prospect didn't worry him overmuch. He had already crossed the earthly divide several times; when he finally crossed the heavenly one, it would be just one more new country to explore.
“Amen,” Geoffrey said, and everyone murmured, “Amen.” Peter had done as Preacher told him and remained silent throughout the service. Now he remained behind with Preacher as the others turned and walked back down the slope to the camp. Out of consideration for them, Preacher waited until they had gone into the tepee before he picked up the shovel and went to work filling in the grave. Those folks didn't need to hear the thud of earth falling onto the blanket-wrapped forms.
“I'll help,” Peter said after a few minutes. Just as he had earlier, he reached out for the shovel.
Preacher gave it to him and stepped back. As Peter tossed shovels of dirt into the hole, he went on. “You think I'm one sorry son of a bitch, don't you?”
Preacher's silence spoke volumes.
“Well, you don't understand,” Peter grated as he pushed the shovel into the mound of earth beside the grave. “You can't understand what it's been like. You don't know everything that's happened.”
“The Injuns have a sayin' about walkin' a while in the other fella's moccasins,” Preacher said. “I reckon that's pretty hard to do, though. Why do you care whether or not I understand you, Galloway?”
“I don't,” Peter snapped. “I'm just telling you not to be so damned high-and-mighty. If you were in the same position I was in, you'd probably do the same thing I did.”
“I don't reckon.”
“But you don't
know
. Nobody knows what they'll do until they're faced with a situation. You may believe you'd handle it a certain way, but you could be wrong.”
“This conversation ain't gettin' us nowhere.” Preacher stepped forward. “Gimme that shovel.”
He took it and resumed filling in the grave. Peter moved back. A humorless laugh came from him.
“You know I'm right,” he said. “You know it, Preacher. You just don't want to admit that you're fallible too. You try to act like you're not human, but you are. You make mistakes just like everyone else.”
Preacher stopped his work and faced the other man. “Sure, I make mistakes,” he admitted. “Make 'em all the time more'n likely. The difference 'tween you and me is that I don't try to excuse mine away or blame 'em on other folks. I own up to what I've done.”
“Always?” Peter asked mockingly. “You didn't come to me and apologize after you looked at my wife with lust in your eyes.”
Preacher's hands tightened on the shovel. “Miss Angela's a fine woman,” he said. “I wouldn't never dishonor the friendship she's showed me.”
“That didn't stop you from wanting her. Would you like to know what she's like in bed, Preacher? How it feels to have her under youâ”
Preacher took a step toward him and drew back the shovel. “Shut your filthy mouth,” he warned, “or by God I'll bash that head o' yours in!”
Peter laughed again. “Go ahead. Put me out of my misery. You'll just have to dig another grave.”
Slowly, Preacher lowered the shovel. He glanced toward the camp, hoping that none of the others had seen him threaten Peter. No one was in sight. He supposed they were all still inside the tepee. Even if someone had been out and about, it was getting dark, and they might not be able to see very well up here where the grave was.
“I'll finish this,” he said. “You go on down.”
“Suit yourself.” Peter turned and stalked toward the wagons.
Preacher stood there for a moment, leaning on the shovel as he tried to get control of the anger roiling around inside him. When his pulse wasn't thudding quite so hard in his head, he went back to work and finished filling in the grave. He patted down the rest of the dirt and then stepped back.
Pausing before leaving, he took off his hat and said, “I didn't say nothin' before, I reckon because I never knew you hardly at all, ma'am . . . and Galloway, I knew you but didn't much like you. Still and all, none o' that really matters now. We walk our paths in life, and we walk our paths in death. Here's hopin' that y'all's have led you home.”
He put his hat back on and started down the hill carrying the shovel, not looking back.
He was only about halfway to the camp when he heard the loud, angry voices and knew that the trouble wasn't over yet.
Somehow, that didn't surprise him at all.