THIRTY-TWO
When Preacher stepped over one of the wagon tongues into the circle, he saw that the argument had spilled out of the tepee into the open. Roger and Peter stood facing each other, fists clenched, faces red with anger.
“I won't allow it!” Roger declared. “I'll be damned first!”
“You don't have any say in the matter!” Peter shot back.
“The hell I don't! He's my son!”
Peter shook his head and said, “No, he's not, and you know it.”
Angela came running from the tepee and got between the two men. “Stop it!” she cried. “Have you two no decency? Simon and poor Dorothy are barely in the grave, and you're ready to kill each other again!”
“No one is taking my son away from me,” Roger said, his voice shaking with emotion. “Least of all
him
.” Undisguised loathing dripped from the words.
“John Edward is my son, and you know it,” Peter said. “You heard Dorothy admit it. Since I'm his father, I have a right to raise him as I see fit.”
Angela swung toward him, her previous role as would-be peacemaker forgotten for the moment. “What about me?” she asked. “Don't I have any say in this?”
“No,” Peter said flatly. “You don't.”
“That baby will be raised believing that I am his father,” Roger insisted. “It's only right and proper.”
“It's neither of those things. You know you can't keep such a secret from him forever. Too many people know about this, Roger.” Peter adopted a more reasonable tone. “Wouldn't it be better and easier for John Edward if he knew the truth all along?”
“Never!” Roger practically spat at him. “He'll never be your son!”
“Then go to hell!” Peter shouted as he shoved Angela aside and launched a punch at his brother's head.
Angela cried out as she stumbled, tripped, and fell into the snow. Roger ducked the blow and grappled with Peter. They swayed back and forth for a second, clawing at each other's throat, before Preacher reached them. He grabbed each of them by the coat collar and flung them in opposite directions, his great strength sending them flying through the air. They crashed to the ground and skidded in the deep snow.
Preacher reached to his waist and grasped both pistols. He brought them out and leveled them at Roger and Peter, earing back the hammers as he did so.
“No!” Angela screamed from the ground.
“Preacher, wait!” Jonathan called from the tepee, where he and Geoffrey had just pushed out through the gap in the canvas cover.
“Don't shoot them!” Geoffrey added.
Preacher stood there for a moment, then growled a curse and lowered the hammers on the pistols. “I wasn't goin' to shoot 'em,” he said, “though I was sore tempted there for a spell.” One at a time, he tucked the weapons back behind his belt. “You two get up,” he snapped at the men on the ground. “What's all this about?”
Roger and Peter climbed to their feet and started brushing snow off their clothes. “He says he's going to take John Edward away from me,” Roger said, nodding to Peter.
“Yeah, I reckon I got that.” Preacher turned to Peter. “What ever gave you that idea?”
“He's my son,” Peter insisted. “I have a right to raise him.”
“His mama should have had a say in that.”
“His mother is dead,” Peter said flatly. “The decision is mine to make. Legallyâ”
“Now there's an idea you got to get out o' your head,” Preacher cut in. “The nearest court is one hell of a long way from here, and the only judges who got any jurisdiction west o' the Mississippi are cold steel and hot lead. The only law is what's right, and you got to enforce it yourself.”
“That's what I was trying to do.”
Preacher turned back to Roger. “You want that boy, don't you?”
Roger wiped his mouth and said, “I . . . Yes, I do. He's part of Dorothy, and God help me, I love him, just like I loved her. I never stopped loving her.”
Preacher looked at Jonathan and Geoffrey. Behind them, the three older children were peeking out of the tepee, curious about what was going on but at the same time scared to see all the grown-ups so upset. “What do you fellas think about this?” Preacher asked the two older men.
They looked uncomfortable at being caught in the middle of the dispute. Jonathan said reluctantly, “It seems to me that a child ought to have both a mother and a father. I know Roger means well by saying he'll raise the boy, but . . .”
“But if Peter and Angela raise him,” Geoffrey said, “he'll have two parentsâ”
“Wait a minute,” Angela interrupted. “You're assuming that Peter and I are going to stay married.”
“What?” Peter exclaimed, thunderstruck by the implications of her statement.
She looked coolly at him. “I'm not sure I intend to remain married to you, Peter.”
He gave a harsh laugh and said, “You can forget about that. You heard what Preacher said. There are no courts out here, which means there are no divorces. Such a thing is practically unheard of anyway. Why, it . . . it's unholy! A marriage is sacred and forever.”
Angela crossed her arms over her chest and took a deep breath. “Yes,” she said. “I can go in there and look at that poor baby, and see for myself just how sacred marriage is to you, Peter.”
He didn't have anything to say to that.
Night had fallen while the argument was going on. Preacher said, “We ain't goin' to settle anything tonight, I don't reckon. And if it don't snow no more tonight, then first thing in the mornin' we'll be pullin' out, so there won't be time to fuss about it then. Seems to me that right now, we're all sort o' responsible for takin' care o' that baby, so let's just leave it at that.”
“That's the best idea I've heard,” Jonathan declared.
“I agree,” Geoffrey put in. “We'll sort it all out later.”
Preacher looked back and forth between Roger and Peter. “What do you say?”
“All right,” Roger said grudgingly. “I'll never give up my son, though.”
“We'll see,” Peter said. “This isn't over yet.”
Preacher was beginning to wonder if it ever would be.
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Far into the night, the clouds began to thin, with stars peeking through the gaps. As the overcast broke even more, the moon appeared and showered silvery light that was reflected and made brighter by the snowfield. In fact, it was almost as light as the past couple of days had been.
That's what Mart Hawley thought as he trudged along in the wake of the Indians. Swift Arrow was in the lead, tirelessly breaking a trail through the snow for the others. The war chief drew strength from his hatred and his thirst for vengeance on the whites.
Swift Arrow had gotten them moving again when the clouds began to break. Hawley hadn't wanted to leave the warm, dry cave, but Swift Arrow had made it plain that his choices were either going along with the war party or staying there with his throat cut. Hawley hadn't taken very long to make up his mind. He knew he was lucky that Swift Arrow had left him alive to start with. The Arikara didn't really need him, although it was possible they might be able to make use of him in a trap for the immigrants, if it came down to that.
The deep snow made it impossible to find any tracks left behind by the wagons, so Swift Arrow was steering his course by the stars and heading as much due east as possible. He thought they would be able to see the wagons against the snow if they passed anywhere within a couple of miles of them. Hawley figured that was pretty likely. And by starting out while it was still dark, they had a chance to cut down considerably on the lead that the pilgrims had. The snow hadn't stopped until mid-afternoon, and Hawley thought it was likely that wherever the Galloway party had waited out the storm, they wouldn't get moving again until morning. They might not leave even then; the snow could be too deep for the wagons.
The two dozen Arikara warriors strung out behind Swift Arrow, with Hawley bringing up the rear. His wounded shoulder ached, and he was cold, clean through. Walking in deep snow wore a man out about as quick as anything. It would have been better if they'd had snowshoes, but the war party hadn't expected to be away from their village this long and that was one thing they hadn't brought with them. They were running a little low on rations too. They wouldn't starveâthey were Injuns after all, and able to live off the land where a normal man couldn'tâbut they were liable to be pretty thin and hungry by the time they got back home.
Hawley slowed down more and more and fell farther and farther behind the others. He began to wonder what would happen if he lagged far enough behind that the Indians forgot about him. Could he just stop and let them go on without him? Surely, sooner or later Swift Arrow would notice that he was gone. The question was whether or not the war chief would take the time to turn around and come back after him. The more Hawley thought about it, the more he doubted whether that would happen. Chances were, Swift Arrow would just keep going.
Hawley's mouth stretched in a thin smile under the muffler that was wrapped around his neck and the lower half of his face. He slowed down some more. The nearest Arikara warrior was now a good thirty yards in front of him. Hawley dawdled until that gap had increased to fifty yards.
The war party came to a gully where the snow had drifted even deeper. Swift Arrow paused on the lip of it for a moment, studying it. The gully ran north and south as far as the eye could see in both directions, and Swift Arrow didn't want to take the time to try to get around it. Besides, it might run for miles and miles, both ways. He slid down the bank, floundered through the drifts, and then climbed up the other side. The rest of the war party came after him. No words had been spoken; no words needed to be.
Hawley had hung back as much as he dared during that little delay. When he came to the gully, he climbed down into it as well. But instead of clambering up the far bank, he turned and began making his way along the bottom of the gully, heading south. The snow was above his waist, but he forced his way through it for several hundred yards until he came to an overhang. He rested there with his back against the bank and listened. The night was deathly quiet. He knew that angry voices would have carried well in the thin, cold air. Either the Injuns hadn't discovered that he was no longer with them, or they just flat didn't care.
Every minute that passed meant that he was safer, because it would take longer for Swift Arrow to come back and kill him. Swift Arrow knew that Hawley hadn't had anything to do with the death of his son. The war chief wouldn't waste the time to murder one white man just on general principles. Hawley clung to that hope.
Finally, when an hour or more had passed, he was convinced that the Injuns weren't coming back. He came out of his hidey-hole and climbed up the bank to the plains. Turning slowly, he looked all around and saw nothing in the silvery moonlight except the snow-covered prairie. He was alone, he thought exultantly. He had escaped.
And he was
alone,
he thought again, as the realization hit him that he was indeed by himself, wounded and without food, in the middle of a vast, snowy wilderness.
A sob of fear came from his throat as he asked himself what the hell he was going to do now.
THIRTY-THREE
The weather had improved by the next morning. Even before sunup, Preacher could tell that the sky was clear. Once again, a storm had come and gone.
Unfortunately, the atmosphere in the camp hadn't gotten better since the night before. That storm was still raging.
At least Roger and Peter didn't come to blows as everyone began to stir and get ready for the day. They made a point of avoiding each other as much as possible, although that was difficult given the close confines of the circled wagons.
Preacher had spent most of the night on guard, sleeping only for a short time early that morning. Peter had retreated alone to his wagon, while Roger, Angela, and all the children remained in the tepee. Jonathan had taken a short turn on watch while Preacher slept, and Geoffrey had gotten up before the rest of them to start on breakfast. His wounded arm was still sore, but it was healing and he was able to use it more now.
Preacher and Dog walked out onto the prairie to check the snow. It was deep, but not quite as deep as in the buffalo wallow. Preacher thought the wagons would be able to handle it, although the going would be slow. When he walked back down to the camp to report as much, he found Roger and Peter glaring at each other.
“Now what?” Preacher asked, not bothering to suppress the weariness and impatience in his voice.
“Now he's not only trying to steal my son, but my wife as well,” Peter said accusingly.
“You're insane,” Roger shot back. “If you make any more evil insinuations about Angela, I'llâ”
Peter broke in by saying, “See? See the way he defends her? He's in love with her! And she spent the night with him in that tepee, like she was some sort of . . . Indian squaw! It's not proper, I tell youâ”
He fell abruptly silent as Preacher stepped up to him and grated, “Shut your damned mouth. You ain't the one to be talkin' about what's proper and what ain't. Miss Angela spent plenty of nights in Roger's wagon whilst she was tryin' to save Miss Dorothy's life. Now she's lookin' after the kids. I reckon that's all.”
Peter sneered at him. “You're just saying that because of the way you feel aboutâ”
“Shut . . . up,” Preacher whispered, “or I swear I'll take my knife and open you up from gizzard to gullet, you son of a bitch.”
He ached with the desire to smash a fist into Peter's face and carve him up with the heavy hunting knife, just as he had threatened. Peter swallowed, paled slightly, and backed off a step. “I didn't mean to get everyone upset,” he muttered.
“That's a damned lie,” Roger snapped. “All you want to do anymore is upset everyone.”
Peter turned his back, saying, “Go to hell.” He headed for his wagon.
Preacher let him go. He wanted to get the wagons moving again as soon as possible, and wasting time on Peter Galloway just wasn't in his plans.
“Soon's we eat, we'll get the tepee taken down and them teams hitched up,” he said, and Roger and Jonathan nodded in agreement.
The next half hour was a busy one. Everyone ate quickly, and then Preacher assigned each of them a job, even the young'uns, who helped Geoffrey take down the tepee. They rolled up the sections of canvas and stowed them away in one of the wagons, along with the stakes that had formed the structure's framework. If they needed to set up the tepee again, it would be faster and easier next time.
Roger and Jonathan hitched up some of the mules while Preacher and Peter tended to the others. Preacher didn't like working with the man, but he knew better than to tell Peter and Roger to work side by side. When the teams were all hitched and the supplies had been loaded, Preacher walked over to Geoffrey and asked, “Can you handle a team with that wounded arm?”
“I reckon I'll have to,” Geoffrey replied, sounding more like a frontiersman than ever. “Angela can drive, but she'll have to take care of the baby and the other children.”
“I can take a team if I need to.”
Geoffrey shook his head. “We need you on horseback, Preacher, scouting ahead of us and watching our back trail.”
“That's true, I reckon. We'll try to rest as much as we can along the wayâ”
“Not on my account,” Geoffrey insisted. “Let's get moving, and put as much distance between us and those Injuns as we can.”
Preacher grinned and said, “Sounds like a fine idea to me.”
There was a solemn moment as the wagons rolled out of the buffalo wallow and then halted while everyone looked back at the lonely grave where Simon Galloway and his daughter-in-law Dorothy lay in eternal rest. Preacher sat his dun beside the lead wagon, where Jonathan was at the reins. The older man said, “It doesn't seem right to just leave them there like that, without even a marker.” He looked at Preacher. “Could you find this place again come spring?”
“I reckon I could,” Preacher said with a firm nod.
“Would you come back and put up a marker of some kind, so that if anyone else comes along and sees it, they'll know who's buried there? I . . . I hate to think about them being completely forgotten.”
“Sure,” Preacher said quietly. “I can do that.”
“I'd be glad to pay you for your troubleâ”
“No need. We've fought side by side. We're pards now, you and me, and Geoffrey too.”
“You're sure?”
“You say anything else about payin' me, and I'm liable to get a mite insulted,” Preacher told him.
“Well, all right then. I really appreciate it, Preacher.”
Preacher shrugged to say that it was nothing. He didn't bother explaining to Jonathan that any marker he put up on the grave probably wouldn't last more than a year before the elements claimed it. After a few years had gone by, all signs of the grave would be gone for sure. It would be just another small stretch of prairie, just like the other hundreds of miles of prairie.
That didn't really matter, Preacher thought. The memories that folks kept in their hearts were the best and most lasting markers of all.
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The wagons rolled steadily eastward all day, with only occasional stops to rest the teams or to clean out hard-packed snow that had piled up underneath the wagon beds and slowed them down. The snow had one other disadvantage besides making travel more difficult, Preacher thought: They were leaving a clear path behind them now, a trail that a blind man could follow. If those Arikara warriors stumbled on it, they wouldn't have any trouble knowing where their quarry had gone. And Preacher knew that once they had the trail, they would come on fast.
He rode back a mile or more, Dog bounding through the snow beside him. Stopping and scanning the plains for as far as he could see, Preacher didn't notice anything out of the ordinary. Then, suddenly, he did, his keen eyes picking out some small dark dots against the white sweep of snow.
“Damn it,” he said under his breath. The Injuns were back there, and they were moving quickly. He wheeled the dun and put it into a trot, knowing it didn't matter if the Arikara had seen him or not. Chances were they had, since he had spotted them and they probably had pretty good eyes too.
He rode hurriedly after the wagons. Peter was last in line, with the wagon Geoffrey was handling in front of him, then Roger, and finally Jonathan in the lead. Preacher didn't stop to talk to Peter, but he rode alongside the vehicle where Geoffrey was perched on the seat and said quietly, “I think I done spotted the Injuns back there a ways.”
Geoffrey's breath hissed between his teeth. He looked at Preacher with a frown and asked, “Are they catching up? They can't catch up, can they? I mean, they're on foot and we have wagons and mule teams.”
“Even with the snow, those warriors can run faster than them mules can pull the wagons,” Preacher said. “If they keep on a-comin', they'll catch up. It's just a question of how long it'll take 'em.”
“How long will it take us to reach Garvey's Fort from here?”
“With luck we might get there tomorrow, or more likely the next day.”
“We're that close?” Geoffrey asked with despair in his voice. “We could make it in less than forty-eight hours?”
“I reckon.”
“My God . . . What do we do now, Preacher?”
“Keep movin',” Preacher said. “When the Injuns get closer, maybe we can find someplace to fort up. If not, we'll just have to stop, circle the wagons, and fight 'em as best we can.”
“We're only five men. There are still at least a couple of dozen of them.”
“Nate can handle a rifle, I reckon, and maybe Angela too, unless we decide we want her to load for us. One way or another, we'll have some cover. The Injuns'll have to come at us over open ground. Don't give up, Catamount.”
“I won't . . . What did you call me?”
“Catamount,” Preacher said with a grin. “That's another name for a mountain lion. I figure you were fightin' about like one when we had that tussle with the Injuns back yonder in the foothills.”
“Catamount,” Geoffrey repeated. “I think I like it.”
“It suits you,” Preacher assured him. With a wave, he rode on ahead to break the news that they were being followed to Roger and Jonathan.
After Preacher had told him about the Arikara, Roger asked quietly, “Should I tell Angela and the children?”
Preacher thought about it, then shook his head. “No need to worry 'em just yet. They'll find out what's goin' on soon enough.”
Roger nodded in agreement. “What should I do?”
“Just keep drivin',” Preacher told him. “Just keep drivin'.”
Like his brother and his nephew, Jonathan took the news calmly. “I suppose this means a fight,” he said.
“I reckon it does. Sooner or later. The Injuns won't turn back.”
“Well, we have plenty of ammunition, and they don't outnumber us as much as they once did.”
Preacher couldn't help but chuckle at the optimism in Jonathan's voice. “That's a good way to look at it, Silvertip.”
Jonathan's face lit up in a grin. “Silvertip? Is that my mountain man name?”
“That's right. You got some silver in your hair, just like a silvertip grizzly bear. Built a mite like a bear too.”
Jonathan threw his head back and laughed. “That's the greatest thing I've ever heard!” he exclaimed. “I'll carry the name with pride, Preacher. What about Geoffrey?”
“You mean Catamount?”
That brought another laugh from Jonathan. Then he grew more sober and said, “You've given us those names because we're running out of time. You think we may not survive the day.”
“That's true of ever'body, every day they open their eyes and go on livin'. I sure as hell ain't givin' up, if that's what you mean.”
“No,” Jonathan said, “I suppose you're not. And I don't intend to either. How do we proceed?”
Preacher leveled an arm and pointed east. “Keep goin',” he said. “I'll let you know when to stop.”
Jonathan nodded, flapped the reins, and called out to the mules, urging them on. The wagon wheels continued turning, crunching their way through the snow.
The snow wasn't as deep here as it had been farther west, telling Preacher that the storm hadn't been quite as intense. A little less than a foot of the stuff was on the ground. The sky was a bright blue overhead, but the temperature was still below freezing. That was all right with Preacher. The wagons could move faster on snow-covered, frozen ground than they could through mud, and that was what they would have out here once all the snow melted.
By the time that happened, either the wagon train would have reached Garvey's Fort . . . or it would never get there.