a real strong feelin’ it won’t be the last…”
Chapter 3
By nightfall, the two men were buried, Reverend Thomas Porter had said the proper words over the graves, and Preacher had gotten a good meal cooked on a stove in the trading post rather than over a campfire. Now he sat in a barrel chair in a corner, his long, buckskin-clad legs stretched out in front of him as he took an occasional nip from the earthenware jug he held. Several other trappers of his acquaintance sat with him, swapping windies. Preacher was mostly silent, though, a frown on his face as he pondered what had happened.
Despite the nonchalant answer he had given Corliss Hart, the attempt on his life did bother him. Life on the frontier was fraught with enough dangers already. Even though the two strangers had been unsuccessful in their efforts to kill him, the very fact that they had tried told Preacher that somebody else could show up out of the blue and do likewise.
“What do you think, Preacher?” a red-bearded trapper named Bouchard asked.
The direct question shook Preacher out of his brooding. “What do I think about what?”
“Jock thinks there’ll be real towns out here someday.”
“Aye,” another trapper said. “Jus’ like Glasgow or Edinburgh, wi’ factories and shops and row after row o’ houses.”
Preacher shuddered at the thought. “Lord, I hope not. If things ever start to get like that, just take me out and shoot me ’cause I don’t wanna see it.”
“Maybe that’s why those fellows ambushed you,” Bouchard suggested with a grin. “They were just trying to spare you from having to witness the ravages of civilization, mon ami.”
Preacher downed a snort of hooch. “Yeah, I reckon,” he said caustically.
The Scottish trapper, Jock, leaned forward and said, “Ye dinna kin why those scuts came after ye, Preacher?”
Preacher shook his head. “I don’t have any idea. Maybe I had trouble with a friend o’ theirs in the past, and they were tryin’ to settle the score.”
He didn’t have to explain what he meant. The other men knew that whenever somebody had trouble with Preacher, that somebody usually ended up dead, or at least hurt mighty bad.
Corliss Hart came over and said, “Why don’t you stay here at the trading post tonight, Preacher?”
A frown creased Preacher’s forehead. “Sleep with a roof over my head? I ain’t in the habit o’ doin’ that very often. Hell, it ain’t even been a year since I was last in St. Louis.”
Jock said, “Next thing ye kin, he’ll be wantin’ ye t’ take a bath, Preacher!” The Scotsman slapped his thigh and laughed uproariously at the very idea. The other trappers joined in the laughter.
“No, I’m serious,” Corliss said. “Surely, it would be safer staying here than camping somewhere in the area. Maybe those two men were the only ones who are after you, but you can’t be sure of that.”
“Fella can’t be sure of much of anything in this life,” Preacher said. “He gets up in the mornin’ not knowin’ if he’ll see the sun go down that evenin’. But worryin’ about that too much will drive him plumb out of his head if he ain’t careful.”
“Well, the offer stands, if you’re so inclined. Deborah and Jerome and I would be glad to have you as our guest.”
Preacher took another drink from the jug and wiped the back of his other hand across his mouth. “I’m obliged, Corliss. I truly am. But I reckon I’d have a hard time goin’ to sleep without the stars up yonder lookin’ down at me.” He pulled in his legs and stood up, moving with the easy grace of a big cat. “Fact is, I’m a mite tired, so I think I’ll go on and find a place to lay my head.”
He said his good nights and walked out of the trading post, dangling the jug from his left hand. The thumb of his right hand was hooked behind his belt, not far from the butt of one of his pistols. The weapon was in easy reach if he needed it, and it was loaded and charged again. He had taken the powder horns and shot pouches off the two men he had killed that morning. They wouldn’t be needing ’em again.
Torches burned at the watchtowers and at intervals along the walls, casting their glow over the area outside the stockade. The gates were still open, but a couple of armed guards stood just outside them keeping watch. Preacher paused on the porch to look out at the night. Dog lay on the porch a few feet away. He raised his head and pricked his ears forward as Preacher stood there.
The valley was peaceful. Lights burned in the windows of some of the cabins in the settlement, and silvery moon glow washed over the grass. At moments such as this, it was hard to believe so many dangers lurked in the darkness.
But hostile Indians could be watching the settlement at this very moment. So could lawless white men, for that matter. Bandits weren’t common on the frontier, but they weren’t unheard of either. Storms could be brewing…natural or man-made. A fella never knew.
Preacher gave a little shake of his head. It wasn’t like him to mope around like this. He had left his belongings on the porch, wrapped up in his bedroll. He picked them up now, growled, “Come on, Dog,” and stepped down from the porch. The big cur rose and padded after him.
He had already put Horse away in the paddock adjacent to the stockade after dickering with Jerome over the load of pelts and the two horses. They had come to an agreement without much trouble. Preacher knew he could have gotten more for the furs in St. Louis…but that would have meant going to St. Louis. The Harts paid him enough to take care of his simple needs.
He planned to walk out into the trees that came right up to the edge of the settlement in places and find a good spot to spend the night. As he left the stockade, he nodded to the guards and said, “Might as well close ’em up for the night, boys. I don’t think anybody else is leavin’.”
“All right, Preacher,” one of the men said. They knew his reputation. If he offered an opinion about anything, nine times out of ten it could be taken as the gospel. The guard went on. “I’m sort of surprised that you’re not staying inside the walls tonight.”
“Why’s that?”
The man shuffled his feet a little uncomfortably. “Well, I mean, since those fellas tried to kill you and all…not that I think you’d worry about that even for a second, Preacher…!”
The mountain man chuckled. “Forget it, son. I ain’t offended. But I ain’t worried neither.”
To tell the truth, if there was somebody else out there in the night looking to kill him, he almost hoped they’d go ahead and do their damnedest. That beat waiting around. He’d take his chances against almost anybody, especially with Dog around to warn him and pitch in if need be.
And if somebody did come after him, maybe this time he’d be able to grab them and make them tell him what in blazes was going on. He had learned a few tricks from the Blackfoot about the best ways to make a fella talk…
Despite the fact that Preacher was halfway hoping his enemies would come after him again, the night passed quietly and peacefully. He slept lightly, as always, resting but ready to come fully awake at an instant’s notice. His soogans protected
