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    Preacher: The Legendary Mountain Man: How It All Began
    Preacher: The Legendary Mountain Man: How It All Began
    Preacher: The Legendary Mountain Man: How It All Began
    Ebook643 pages12 hours

    Preacher: The Legendary Mountain Man: How It All Began

    By William W. Johnstone

    4/5

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    • Survival

    • Adventure

    • Frontier Life

    • Friendship

    • Survival in the Wilderness

    • Noble Savage

    • Grizzled Mountain Man

    • Damsel in Distress

    • Dangerous Wilderness

    • Grizzled Veteran

    • Outlaw Gang

    • Power of Friendship

    • Lone Hero

    • Fish Out of Water

    • Hero's Journey

    • Wilderness

    • Mountain Men

    • Conflict

    • Conflict With Native Americans

    • Coming of Age

    About this ebook

    Johnstone Justice. Made in America.
     
    An ordinary boy with extraordinary dreams. A man whose legend spreads across the frontier. Ride the epic saga of an American hero and the battles that forged his soul in these classic tales in the legendary Preacher series.
     
    In 1812, a boy filled with wanderlust and courage runs away from home, westward, into a vast, dangerous land. Along the way he learns the rule of the frontier: do whatever it takes to survive. By the time the boy—now a young man—is hired to lead a wagon train through the last leg of the Oregon Trail, he has acquired a nickname known throughout the West: Preacher. Armed with a long gun, he is as fierce as the land itself.
     
    For the brave pioneers who are counting on this mountain man to lead them to a Northwest paradise, the Preacher’s cunning and fighting skills will mean the difference between life and death. But even Preacher can’t see all the dangers ahead, or how his legend as a frontiersman will lead him into the most violent fight of all . . .
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherPinnacle Books
    Release dateMar 27, 2018
    ISBN9780786042487
    Preacher: The Legendary Mountain Man: How It All Began
    Author

    William W. Johnstone

    William W. Johnstone is the #1 bestselling Western writer in America and the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of hundreds of books, with over 50 million copies sold. Born in southern Missouri, he was raised with strong moral and family values by his minister father and tutored by his schoolteacher mother. He left school at fifteen to work in a carnival and then as a deputy sheriff before becoming a full-time writer. 

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      Book preview

      Preacher - William W. Johnstone

      WHO IS PREACHER?

      In November of 1985, William W. Johnstone’s western The Last Mountain Man was published—and the legendary Smoke Jensen was born. The series became an immediate hit and remains to this day one of his most popular creations.

      In 1990, Bill was asked to create a spin-off character. He created a prequel to the Last Mountain Man series called The First Mountain Man, featuring another man of the frontier, known only as Preacher—a boy who left home in 1812 and became one of the most fearless men to conquer the American West.

      But the question remained: Who is Preacher?

      To answer that question, Pinnacle Books has now released—in the volume you hold in your hands—two Preacher western adventures: The First Mountain Man and Preacher, first published in 1991 and 2006, respectively. With these two novels, you will learn the legend of the first mountain man: Preacher. Solitary, smart, and armed with a long gun, he is as fierce as the land itself.

      Look for These Exciting Series from

      W

      ILLIAM

      W. J

      OHNSTONE

      with J. A. Johnstone

      The Mountain Man

      Preacher: The First Mountain Man

      Matt Jensen, the Last Mountain Man

      Luke Jensen, Bounty Hunter

      Those Jensen Boys!

      The Family Jensen

      MacCallister

      Flintlock

      The Brothers O’Brien

      The Kerrigans: A Texas Dynasty

      Sixkiller, U.S. Marshal

      Hell’s Half Acre

      Texas John Slaughter

      Will Tanner, U.S. Deputy Marshal

      Eagles

      The Frontiersman

      AVAILABLE FROM PINNACLE BOOKS

      PREACHER THE LEGENDARY MOUNTAIN MAN

      How It All Began

      W

      ILLIAM

      W. J

      OHNSTONE

      PINNACLE BOOKS

      Kensington Publishing Corp.

      www.kensingtonbooks.com

      All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

      PINNACLE BOOKS are published by

      Kensington Publishing Corp.

      119 West 40th Street

      New York, NY 10018

      First compilation copyright © 2006 Kensington Publishing Corp.

      The First Mountain Man copyright © 1991 William W. Johnstone

      The First Mountain Man: Preacher copyright © 2002 William W. Johnstone

      All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

      To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

      If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as unsold and destroyed to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this stripped book.

      PINNACLE BOOKS, the Pinnacle logo, and the WWJ steer head logo are Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

      ISBN: 978-0-7860-4483-2

      ISBN-13: 978-0-7860-4248-7

      ISBN-10: 0-7860-4248-6

      Table of Contents

      WHO IS PREACHER?

      Also by

      Title Page

      Copyright Page

      THE FIRST MOUNTAIN MAN

      Book One

      Book Two

      Book Three

      THE FIRST MOUNTAIN MAN: PREACHER

      1

      2

      3

      4

      5

      6

      7

      8

      9

      10

      11

      12

      13

      14

      15

      16

      17

      18

      19

      20

      21

      22

      Notes

      THE FIRST MOUNTAIN MAN

      Book One

      1

      When you call me that, smile!

      Owen Wister

      He was on the east side of the Absaroka Range, in the timber, heading down toward the Popo Agie. He was in no hurry, and there was no real reason for him to go there. He just had him a hankering, call it. He felt he might run into some old friends around there who, like the lone rider, had felt the calling for companionship.

      He hadn’t been down there in some time, not since the last rendezvous back in ’30, he thought it was. He was pretty sure it was the year of our Lord 1837. Had to be close to that, anyway. If the year was as he figured, he was about thirty-five years old, near as he could figure. And he’d never felt better in his life.

      The rider was of average height for his time, lean-hipped and rawhide tough, with tremendous power in his upper body. What women he’d run into over he last seventeen or eighteen or so years in the mountains considered him handsome. He tried to recall the last time he’d seen a white woman. Two, three years at least.

      Just thinking about the rendezvous got him all lost in memories—but not so lost that he forgot where he was and to keep a sharp eye out for Injuns. He rode with his Hawken rifle across the saddle horn and had another one shoved into a saddle boot. He carried two .50 caliber pistols behind his waist sash and two more hung in leather on the saddle horn, one on each side. He’d always boasted that he was a peaceful man, but Injuns is notional folks. You never really know how to take them. A man can nearabout always ride into an Injun camp and they’ll feed you and bed you down for the night. They’ll usually treat a body right well. ’Course, depending on the tribe and the general mood of the day, the rub comes when you try to leave the next morning. They might decide to have some fun and skin you alive. He had seen what was left of a man after that. It was a disheartening sight, to say the least. He didn’t expect the other feller cared much for it either.

      The lone rider rode easy, ruminating on this and that. He’d seen a white man up the trail about five months back, when the snow was thick, and he’d told him it was Christmas. That had got him to feeling all maudlin and the like, thinking about folks and family he hadn’t seen in years and would probably never see again on this side of the grave.

      Time gets confusing up in the High Lonesome. The months and years just blend together and don’t take on a whole hell of a lot of importance.

      He reined up at a creek and swung down from the saddle, getting the kinks out of his muscles and bones and giving his horses a chance to drink and blow. He rode a mountain horse he’d caught and gentle-broke. Called him Hammer for no particular reason. Hammer was a gray, tough as a mountain goat and stood eighteen hands high. His good pack horse was also a gray, just as tough as Hammer and just as smart: he wouldn’t tote no more than he felt he could comfortably carry. Overload him and he just wouldn’t move. Stand there and look at you with them eyes telling you to get that crap off his back. Smart.

      The rider looked all around him careful, then stood still and sniffed the air. He could detect nothing in the cool mountain air except the scent of nature’s own growth in springtime. There was no Injun smell. After so many years in the mountains, he had learned that all men have a distinctive scent that can be picked up by others if you just teach your blower to do it.

      He stretched out on his belly by the creek and took him a long drink of cold clean water. He thought about taking off his moccasins and sticking his bare feet in the crick and splashing around some, like a kid, but some poor critter downstream that wasn’t hurtin’ nobody and who just come out of the woods for a cool drink would be sick for a week.

      He did take off his moccasins and rub his feet, though. Felt good.

      He rubbed his feet dry on the grass and slipped back into his moccasins. He chewed on a piece of jerky and wished long for some coffee, but he’d been out of coffee for weeks. That was another reason for this trip. He had to resupply with salt and beans and coffee and the like. He also had to get him a new pair of longhandle underwear. His was plumb wore out. And his buckskins were thin.

      He was known from the Northwest to the deserts of the Southwest as Preacher.

      He was far from being a man of the cloth—about as far as a man could get, even though he’d been raised in the church as a boy. When he was new and green to the High Lonesome, Injuns had grabbed him and was planning on slow-roasting him to see how well he stood pain. If he stood it well, they would praise him and sing songs about him. ’Course, those songs would be sort of hard to appreciate from the grave. So he started preaching. He preached all day and all night. The Injuns finally figured he was crazy as a lizard and turned him loose. The nickname stuck.

      Preacher had been in the mountains since he was just a boy; he had run away from a good home and reached the mountains a year later. And while he had left the mountains many times to see what was over the next ridge or river, he always returned to the High Lonesome. He had lived with a number of tribes, and gotten along with many of them. He’d had him a squaw from time to time, and a few offspring.

      But unlike many of his counterparts, Preacher could see the writing on the wall, so to speak, even though he might have some difficulty reading actual words. The beaver market was glutted. Man was hard-pressed to make a living anymore, and it was only going to get worse. He knew that while most of the other mountain men did not, or would not accept it.

      Preacher could do a lot of things besides trapping. He could pan for gold, he could scout for the Army or for wagon trains, he even knew a little about farming—although he kept that to himself.

      He cut his eyes to Hammer as the horse raised his head and pricked his ears up. He was over to him in a heartbeat, stroking his neck and talking to him low, so he wouldn’t whinny and give away their position. He spoke to the pack horse and rubbed his neck. They stood quiet, but they weren’t liking what they smelled one damn bit.

      Then Preacher smelled what the horses had smelled, and he heard them coming. Injuns, and their scent was strong. With it came the scent of blood. Fresh blood.

      He picketed both horses on graze and pulled the pistols from the saddle horn. He slipped to the top of a rise and peeked through the brush. What he saw below didn’t set well at all. Five young bucks and they had prisoners. The Injuns looked to be Arapaho, and Preacher never had got on too well with that tribe. They just didn’t much like the white man. Preacher lay still, moving only his eyes, carefully checking everything out. But it appeared five was all there was. But five bucks on the warpath was plenty. He could see fresh scalps on the manes of their horses and on their war lances. And they weren’t Injun scalps.

      The bucks had two white women and two white men, and from the looks on their faces, they were all plenty scared. And they had a right to be.

      A lot of wagon trains were pushing west, to Oregon or California. Wagons had been rolling to Oregon for several years. Nat Wyeth, Preacher thought it was, took the first emigrants over the Oregon Trail back in ’31 or ’32. Been a lot of them since then, and a lot of them hadn’t made it.

      Preacher had him a thought that those poor, scared pilgrims was part, or had been part, of a small wagon train that just ran out of luck.

      The Lord will see us through, brother and sisters, a man said. Put your faith in the Lord.

      Missionaries, Preacher thought. Come to the wilderness to bring Jesus to the savages. Damn fools bringing womenfolk out here to preach with them. Injuns don’t think like white people. It’s not that the whites is right and the Injuns is wrong, it’s just that they’re two very different ways of life. Whites and Injuns don’t think alike. Injuns don’t steal ’cause they’re bad people. It’s more of a game to them, and right and wrong doesn’t enter into it. Courage and dying well and bravery mean a great deal to Injuns. They can’t none of them abide a coward.

      Preacher had tried to tell a few missionaries that the Injuns didn’t need or want their religion; they had a religion all their own and the practiced it and lived by it. But you’d have better luck trying to tell a lawyer to shut up than you would with a Bible-thumper.

      Preacher watched as one young buck pulled at himself and grinned at the others. He knew then that one of the young women—and they were both lookers—was fixin’ to get hopped on right then and there in front of God and everybody else.

      Then the buck said as much. Preacher spoke some Arapaho, and heard him tell the woman what he was gonna do. She looked up at him from the log where they’d plopped her, confusion and fear on her face. Then that buck just reached down and run his hand up under her dress. That woman squalled something fierce.

      Here now! a man blustered up. You stop that barbaric behavior, you hear me?

      The woman’s hands was tied behind her back, but her feet were free. She kicked that buck right between his legs and he went down howling and puking, both hands holding onto his privates.

      Preacher winced and he was thirty feet away.

      Preacher knew if he was to do anything, it had to be now. He eased the hammers back on his old .50 caliber pistols and laid them on the ground. He took the second brace—hoping the powder was dry on them all—and eased the hammers back on them. Another buck jerked out a knife and whacked an ear off one of the men prisoners. The man screamed and the blood poured. The buck then proceeded to make it clear to the lady—using sign language that an idiot could understand—that if she didn’t hike up her skirts and do it real quick, he was gonna cut something else off the man, and it was located a mite lower than his remaining ear.

      Melody! the man with one ear hollered.

      Preacher figured he got the message, too.

      The buck she’d kicked in the privates was still on the ground, rolling and moaning and being sick all over the place. She had really put her little foot in him.

      There wasn’t any other option left Preacher. He lifted his pistols with the double-set triggers and let ’em bang. He had double-shotted these and the first ball hit the buck with the knife in the chest; the second ball hit him in the belly. Both balls from the second pistol hit a brave smack in the face. He was a real mess when he hit the ground.

      Preacher grabbed the second brace of pistols and let the lead fly. He couldn’t hardly see a thing for the gun smoke but knew he had put four Injuns on the ground and the other one was just getting to his moccasins, still bent over in pain. Preacher jerked his long-bladed knife from its sheath and ran down the short slope toward the scared pilgrims.

      He ran right over that skinny Injun with the bruised privates and knocked him sprawling back to the ground. He jumped up, a war axe in his hand, and he was some mad. Preacher told him in his own language what he thought of him, his family, and his horse. The buck screamed and charged. Preacher ducked and cut him from brisket to backbone. That blade was honed to a fine edge and went in easy. The skinny Injun was out of it. Preacher ran back to his guns and loaded up again as fast as he could.

      The women were in a shocked silence. The man with one ear looked at Preacher like he was some sort of devil. And, Preacher thought, maybe he did look like one. He hadn’t shaved in a month or so and his clothes were made from what he could kill and skin and cure. His hat was so old and floppy it had no shape. Preacher reckoned he did look like a wild man to these city folks.

      Praise be! Melody found her voice. The Lord has sent us a warrior!

      He ain’t done no such of a thing, Preacher told her, while cutting her bonds loose. I just happened to be close by. Now get them others untied and let’s get the hell gone from here ’fore more Injuns show up.

      The second man put his mouth in motion and stuck his two pennies worth in. We’re all Christians, brother. And we don’t hold with strong language in front of ladies.

      Preacher spat on the ground. That’s your damn problem. I don’t hold with fools comin’ into the mountains and stirrin’ up the Injuns. So I reckon that makes us even. Preacher cut the others loose.

      He helped Melody to her feet and she swayed against him for a moment. She was all woman, that one. And when their eyes met, Preacher could see that she knew he was all man. A high flush came to her cheeks and her smile was tight and her eyes bright, like with a fever. They had a fever all right, but it wasn’t brought on by sickness. Preacher released her hand and she stepped away, each knowing what the other was thinking, and Jehovah didn’t have a damn thing to do with it.

      You don’t have to worry about the other savages, the man with one ear and bloody face said.

      Preacher knew then he was dealing with a real pilgrim. In the mountains, a man always worries about Injuns.

      Preacher grunted in reply.

      You see, one-ear said, pulling a fancy handkerchief out of a jacket pocket and pressing it to the side of his head. The other savages fled in a different direction after the attack.

      They didn’t flee nowheres, Preacher told him. They own these mountains; they got no reason to be afraid. All they did was split up to divvy up the booty. But how do you know they didn’t plan on meetin’ up agin, right here?

      That shut one-ear right up.

      We must get Richard to a doctor, the haughty-acting fellow said.

      Preacher laughed at him. Shore. They’s one about two hundred and fifty miles from here. Won’t take us more’n a month to get there. What we’ll do is get gone from here and then I’ll take a look at your partner’s head. Clean it out good. I’d pour whiskey on it but I ain’t got none.

      You probably drank it all, lurching about in some drunken debauchery, the second female spoke up. She had her color up and was climbing up on her soapbox. Cavorting about with a loose woman, more than likely a pure, simple, ignorant savage you took advantage of.

      Amen, the mouthy man said. It’s not only the savages to whom we must introduce God.

      Preacher chuckled and shook his head. For shore I drank the whiskey. As to the second part, no. Let’s go. When we make camp I’ll fix up a poultice for one-ear there. You ain’t hurt bad, mister. But you’re gonna be tiltin’ your hat to the other side of your head for the rest of your life. Now, all of you, move, goddammit!

      2

      They were in trouble and Preacher knew that for a hard fact. The Arapaho bucks back yonder had been wearing read streaks on their faces. To an Arapaho, the color red could mean three things: earth, man, or blood. In this case, Preacher pretty well knew it meant blood, and they weren’t in the best of positions, either. They were caught with the Shoshoni just to the west of them, the Blackfoot to the north, the Crow to the east, and the Arapaho and the Cheyenne to the south and everywhere in the immediate surroundings.

      All in all, it was not a good place to be. Preacher, traveling alone, never gave it much worrying time. He knew how to stay alive in hostile country. But with four pilgrims—that was quite another matter.

      And two of them females, no less. That only added to the problem.

      Git up on them horses, Preacher told them.

      We don’t have the proper saddles for the ladies, the mouthy man said. And by the way, my name is Edmond. You know Melody and Richard. This is Penelope.

      Well, I am just thrilled beyond words. Now, get up on them damn horses!

      Nobody moved.

      With a snort of disgust, Preacher climbed up the gently sloping bank, slid down the other side, and fetched his own animals, leading them around to the others. They still hadn’t made a move toward the ponies.

      He swung into the saddle and led an Indian pony over to the group. He looked at Melody. Mount up, sister. I’ll get you outta here. Move, woman!

      Melody didn’t hesitate. She stepped up on a log, hiked up her skirts, and swung onto the horse’s back. Preacher handed her the reins. Let’s go.

      What about us? Penelope shrieked.

      Keep your voice down, woman! Preacher said. You’d but a hog-caller to shame. If you wanna come with us, put your butt on that pony’s back and come on.

      Barbarous cretin! Edmond said. You’d leave us, wouldn’t you?

      You see my back, don’t you? Preacher called over his shoulder. That tell you anything?

      Are you really going to leave them? Melody whispered.

      Naw, Preacher returned the whisper. But they don’t know that.

      She grinned at him. Preacher winked at her.

      I’m a worker in the house of the Lord, sir, she reminded him.

      You’re a woman first, he told her. And a hell of a woman, at that.

      She blushed and tried to adjust her bonnet, pushing some blonde hair back under the brim and almost fell off the pony.

      Hang on, sister, Preacher told her. You’re all lucky them Injuns took saddles from the dead pilgrims for their ponies. You’d be plumb uncomfortable if you was ridin’ bareback.

      I can just imagine, Melody muttered.

      I bet you cain’t, neither. Here come the others. I figured I’d get them movin’. He looked with approving eyes at the way the men sat their saddles. They could ride. Penelope, on the other hand, was bouncing up and down like a little boat on a great big lake in the middle of a storm. Grab ahold of that saddle horn, sister, Preacher said. And hang on. The damn thing ain’t for tootin’, you know.

      She gave him a dark look and muttered something under her breath.

      Must you use profanity? Edmond said.

      Will if I want to, and I want to, so hush up and stay in line. And don’t get lost. Which way’s what’s left of the wagon train?

      On the Oregon Trail, Richard said.

      Preacher whoaed up and twisted in the saddle. "Somebody’s been playin’ games with you folks. The Oregon Trail is ’way, ’way south of here. People, you was lost!"

      As a goose, Melody said. I knew that, but nobody would listen to me.

      Richard and Edmond both looked embarrassed. Richard said, I suspected our guide didn’t know what he was doing. He drank a lot.

      I know lots of guides who drink a lot, Preacher said. That ain’t got nothin’ to do with it. Where’d you folks outfit and jump off from?

      Missouri, Melody told him. Our guide told us we would bypass Fort Hall because he knew a better route.

      Damn fool, Preacher muttered. All right. How far north is the train?

      I would say about fifteen miles, Edmond said. No more than that, I’m sure.

      Probably not that far, Preacher said. Injuns wouldn’t travel that distance in these mountains ’fore torturin’ and rapin’. If that’s what they had in mind.

      Perhaps you could take us on to Oregon? Edmond suggested.

      I’ll take you somewheres, Preacher said, and pointed his horse’s nose north.

      Night draped the mountains before they could reach the site of the wagon train. Preacher killed a couple of rabbits with a sling and stopped before dark to build a small fire. While the meat was cooking, he said, We’ll eat, then move on a couple of miles and make camp for the night. It’s gonna be cold, so you folks use your saddle blankets for warmth.

      "But they smell!" Penelope complained.

      You will too ’fore you get where you’re goin’, Preacher told her. Like a bunch of polecats—but you’ll be alive. So shut up.

      Preacher let the others eat the rabbits while he chewed on jerky and ate a handful of some berries he’d picked. He was used to lean times. These pilgrims looked like they’d never missed a meal in their lives.

      He carefully put out the fire and moved them north a couple of miles for a cold camp. Melody was the only one who didn’t complain, even though she was just as uncomfortable as the others.

      She’ll do, Preacher thought. She’s tough.

      Their eyes met in the darkness through the dim light of the quarter moon. She blinked first, then laid her head on the saddle. Preacher grinned and rolled up in his blankets.

      Across the small clearing, Edmond had watched the silent exchange through hot eyes, and bristled in anger.

      * * *

      They all saw the buzzards long before they reached the site of the ambush and massacre. Those carrion birds who had not yet feasted on dead flesh soared and circled and wheeled and waited their turn in the sky, while the others staggered around on the ground, too full and heavy to lift off.

      It ain’t gonna be pretty, Preacher warned. I’ve seen it before. When you puke, don’t get none on me. Where are you folks from anyway?

      Philadelphia, Richard said.

      Shoulda stayed there. This country’s too crowded as it is. Can’t ride for five days without seeing some damn body.

      It’s called progress, Edmond said.

      It’s a damn nuisance, is what it is, Preacher retorted.

      "Must you swear constantly?" Melody asked.

      Yeah, I must. I’m gettin’ in practice for our rendezvous down south. Although it don’t look like I’m gonna make it.

      I’ve read about those affairs, Richard said. Then you’re a real mountain man.

      I am.

      What drove you to this horrible existence? Edmond asked.

      Preacher turned to look at the city man. "Horrible? What’s so horrible about it? I’m as free as an eagle, wild as a grizzly, mean as a wolverine, tough as a cornered wolf, and quick as a puma. I can out drink, out cuss, out fight, out dance, out sing, ride farther and faster than any man, and tell more lies than any ten men. And I’m good-lookin’, too."

      Melody laughed at his words.

      You should be ashamed of yourself, Edmond admonished him.

      Why? Preacher asked. For bein’ what the good Lord intended me to be? You are what you are, I am what I am. It’s just as simple as that. He reined up and let the horses drink. This here’s what we call Shine Crick. I know what your guide was up too, now, but he was flat out wrong. He’d been listenin’ to lies about a trail through the wilderness just to the west of us. There ain’t no wagon trail through there. You’d have to go north over a hundred miles and then cut west. But even then, that would be a tough pull. Windin’ way. Get caught there in the winter, and you’d die. You people were listenin’ to a fool. What happened to him anyways?

      When the savages attacked, he ran away, Melody said. I watched him leave.

      You know his name?

      Jack Harris, Edmond said. I did not like him. He was a lot like you.

      Jack Harris ain’t nothing like me, Preacher told him. Jack’s a back-shooter and a coward. Brags a lot about how brave he is, but when it comes down to the nut-cuttin’, he ain’t nowheres to be found.

      He claimed to be a mountain man, Melody said.

      Preacher snorted. He’s a hanger-arounder, is what he is. He tell you about the time I whupped him down at Bent’s Fort? No, he wouldn’t mention that. I whupped him to a fare-thee-well, I did. He ain’t liked me to this day.

      What was the fight about? Richard asked. Although the man was in considerable pain, he’d come up in Preacher’s eyes by not complaining about his missing ear and by pulling his weight.

      He insulted my mother. Now, you can insult me all day long—if you do it in a friendly manner—and I’ll just insult you back. But leave my dear sainted mother out of it. Or get ready to get bloody.

      The wind shifted and brought a horrible stench with it, wrinkling the noses of the missionaries.

      That’s . . . the wagon train? Melody asked, getting a little green around the mouth.

      Yep, Preacher said. What’s left of the bodies, that is. Buzzards’ll try for the soft parts first. Belly and kidneys. It ain’t a real pretty sight. I’ve seen yards and yard of guts all strung out like rope. Why, I recollect one time, I come up on this Pawnee village that’d been hit by a band of Injuns that didn’t like ’em very much—nobody likes the Pawnee. And I seen . . . Preacher went into great long gory detail until the sounds of retching stopped him. Penelope and Edmond were off their ponies, kneeling down in the trail.

      What’s the matter with you two? he asked, with a very definite twinkle in his eyes. Something you ate don’t agree with you, maybe?

      * * *

      Richard and Melody dropped off their ponies and headed for the bushes when they approached the wagon train. It was evident that the Indians had spent several hours torturing some of the survivors, and many Indian tribes could be very inventive when it came to torture.

      Savages! Edmond blurted. They need the word of God even more than I thought.

      Is that right? Preacher asked with an odd smile. Savages, huh? ’Ppears to me I read where they was still cuttin’ off folks’ heads in France and drawin’ and quarterin’ folks over in England. Big public spectacle. Ain’t them religious countries? Would you call that civilized?

      Melody and Richard returned from their hurried trip to the bushes, both of them pale. The stench from the bodies was horrible. Articles of clothing and broken pieces of furniture were scattered all over the area, along with what remained of tortured men and women and older kids.

      Where are the young children? Penelope asked, her voice no more than a whisper and her face very pale under her bonnet. There were a dozen or more boys and girls.

      Injuns took them to raise, Preacher said. They do that sometimes. If the child behaves, they’ll live. Some tribes won’t harm a child at all. Others will kill them outright. Injuns are notional. Just like white folks, you might say.

      I don’t know any white person who would harm a child! Edmond said.

      Then you don’t know many of your own kind, Preacher told him shortly. You folks start gatherin’ up clothing you think might fit you and what food and powder and shot that might be found. Get yourselves some warm clothing.

      Stealing from the dead! Penelope said.

      Preacher turned slowly and looked at her. Lady, you are beginnin’ to wear on me. Do you—any of you—know the trouble you’re in? I don’t think so. We’re smack in the middle of hostile Injun country, and from the paint on them dead bucks, they’re on the warpath. Somethin’s stirred them up. And it’s reasonable to think that they ain’t the only tribe that’s took up their war axes. Preacher knelt down and began drawing in the dirt. The others leaned over to watch him.

      Now pay attention, Preacher said. We’re here. Dry Crick is behind us here. The South Fork of the Shoshone is to our west. The Oregon Trail is ’way to hell down here. ’Way I see it is like this: we got hostiles on the warpath all around us. We’d be damn fools to try to make it south to the wagon trail. He looked at all of them for a moment, then sighed. "I reckon I’m stuck with you. I can’t in no good conscience leave you. Hell, you’d all die. Don’t none of you seem to know north from south or what’s up or down."

      Now, see here! Edmond protested.

      Shut your fly-trap, Preacher told him. "And don’t argue with me. I been makin’ it in these mountains for years. You’re just a helpless baby in the wilderness. And folks, if you think this is wild, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet. We couldn’t make it with wagons where I’m thinkin’ of carryin’ you, but on horseback. . . He shrugged his shoulders. . . . We got a chance. We’re goin’ into the Big Titties . . ."

      "The what?" Penelope blurted, high color springing onto her cheeks.

      Mountain range that was named Les Grand Tetones by a French trapper ’cause they reminded him of big tits, Preacher said, ducking his head to hide his grin. The grin did not escape Melody. It’s wild, people. It’s the most beautiful and wildest thing you’ll ever see. And it’s slow goin’. But it’s the safest way. We might run into some Bannocks in yonder; but I get on well with the. Likewise the Nez Perce further on west and north. Good people. It’s our only shot, folks, and we got to take it. Now look around for a bottle of whiskey.

      My word, man! Edmond said. Are you thinking of getting drunk at a time like this?

      Preacher gave him a look of disgust. No, you ninny. Take a look at your friend’s head. Where his ear used to be. It’s fillin’ up with pus—infection, to you. I got to open it up, clean it out, and cauterize it with a hot blade. The whiskey’s for him, to ease the pain. Even with that, y’all gonna have to hold him down. If we don’t do that, he’ll die. So shut your mouth and get to lookin’.

      Preacher slowly circled the ambush site on foot and concluded that the Injuns who had done this had not been back. No need to, for at first glance there was precious little left to plunder. He began searching the rubble, grateful that the Injuns had not burned the wagons. They had raped and killed and tortured, run off the horses and mules. They’d eaten the oxen, then lay up in a stuffed stupor for a day or so. But this was a sight that Preacher had seen more than once since pilgrims began pushing west. He knew all the secret places where folks liked to stash valuables.

      He found a cache of food in one wagon, including several pounds of coffee. Preacher immediately set about building a small smokeless fire out of dead wood and made a pot of coffee.

      Man, we have to bury the dead! Edmond said.

      You bury ’em if you’re in that big a hurry, Preacher told him. There ain’t enough left of most of ’em to bother with. You’d best worry about stayin’ alive. The dead’ll take care of themselves. I’m fixin’ to have me some coffee.

      Preacher drank the hot strong brew while the others rummaged around, picking up this and that, stepping gingerly around the torn and bloated bodies.

      You women find you some men’s britches and get in ’em, Preacher called from the fire. Be easier ridin’ that way.

      I most certainly will not! Penelope squalled in outrage at just the thought.

      Either you do it, or I’ll snatch them petticoats offen you and dress you myself, Preacher warned her. I ain’t gonna put up with them dress tails gettin’ snagged on bushes and such. My life and your lives are at stake here. Damn your modesty.

      Preacher looked westward and shook his head. He’d been in the Tetons, but never with a bunch of persnickety pilgrims, and certainly with no females draggin’ along.

      Disgraceful! Penelope said, holding up a pair of men’s britches and shaking them.

      Just get in them, Preacher said. Be right interestin’ to see what you ladies look like without all them underthings hidin’ your natural charms.

      You are a vile, disgusting man, Edmond told him.

      Maybe, Preacher said, sipping another cup of coffee. But I’m the only hope you got of stayin’ alive. I’d bear that in mind was I you. He looked at Richard, standing with the bottle of whiskey Preacher had found. Drink it down, missionary. Get stumblin’ drunk. He took out his knife and laid it on the stones around the fire. This ain’t gonna be no fun for neither of us.

      3

      Preacher had to practically sit on the man to get him to take the first couple of slugs. After that, it got easier and Richard got sillier and looser than a goose. He passed out right in the middle of his story concerning the time he peeped in on his sister taking a bath. Lord, what wonders I did behold that evening, said he, then fell backward, out cold.

      Preacher grabbed his knife and went to work. He opened the wound, let it drain, cut away the infected skin, then applied a poultice he’d made. Long before Richard woke up, Preacher had cauterized the wound with the hot blade. Edmond got sick.

      It ain’t as bad as it looked, Preacher said. He’s gonna have him a numb of an ear. Leastways his hat won’t fall down that side. But he’s gonna be hard to get along with for a couple of days. High as we are, wounds heal quick—air’s so clean and pure. Won’t be for long, the way folks keep showin’ up out here, he added.

      Preacher prowled around some and found more articles he could use, including some soap and some store-bought britches and shirts that looked like they might fit him. There was a nice lined Mackinaw coat that had only been burned a little bit, and he took that. Best looking coat he’d ever had. And bless Pat, he found him some brand new long handles in the bottom of a trunk. In the same trunk, he found him a fancy razor and new strop and a mug with soap. He was tempted to take some boots off the dead, but he knew he’d worn moccasins for so long his feet would not be comfortable in anything else.

      He wandered off down to the crick.

      Glory be! Melody said, upon sighting him an hour later. "You are a fine looking man!"

      Melody! Penelope admonished her brazenness.

      Preacher had shaved, leaving only a moustache. He had bathed from top to bottom—he hoped nobody downstream tried to drink out of that crick for a day or two—and had dressed in the new clothes. He really felt a little self-conscious. He took the whiskey bottle and dabbed some on his freshly shaved face.

      First time in ten years I been without a beard, Preacher said. Feels funny. He looked at Richard. He made a sound yet?

      Moaned a couple of times, Edmond said. I’m beginning to get concerned about him.

      Preacher shook his head. He’s just passed out drunk, that’s all. I been that way myself a time or two.

      I’m sure, Penelope said, giving him an acid look.

      Preacher just grinned at her. Penelope needed a good man to roll around in the blankets with her for a night or two. He figured that might change her whole outlook.

      Of course, he admitted, he could be wrong. It happened from time to time. He was wrong back in ’26 or ’27, he recollected.

      * * *

      Rather than break their backs burying the dead, they dragged the bodies to a shallow ravine and then caved earth in over them. Preacher, Edmond, Melody, and even Penelope pitched in to drag small logs and then spent the better part of an hour placing rocks over the mass gravesite. It wouldn’t prevent digging and burrowing animals from getting to the bodies, but it was the best they could do under the circumstances.

      Preacher stood holding a new hat he’d found to replace his old one and listened to Edmond deliver a long-winded eulogy. Five minutes passed. Ten. The sun beat down mercilessly. Fifteen minutes, and still Edmond droned on.

      Preacher couldn’t take it anymore. Amen, brother! he shouted and walked off.

      They pulled out the next morning, heading into a wilderness that only a handful of white men—and no white woman—had ever seen. Richard was in some pain, but he never complained. The man might be a Bible-thumper, but he was steadily rising in Preacher’s estimation.

      The man asked sensible questions, trying to learn about the land and its people, and Preacher answered each question as best he could.

      Is this the Shoshone River we’re crossing now? he asked, as they forded the stream.

      Nope. It’s a fork off of it, though. This branch splits off east of what some folks call Heart Mountain. Injuns call it Spirit Mountain. It’s sacred to some of them. Bear in mind to keep out of Injun buryin’ grounds. That’ll bring bad medicine on you. We won’t cross the Shoshone this day. Tomorrow, ’bout noon, if all goes well.

      What do you mean by bad medicine? Melody asked. You don’t believe in Indian superstition, do you?

      What’s the difference in what Injuns believe and what you’re tryin’ to bring to them? Only difference is the Injuns don’t have no book like the Bible. Their religious ways is passed down by mouth. And each tribe has their shamans; they’re like you folks, sort of. They believe in the Great Spirit, and life after death. That Happy Hunting Grounds claptrap is white man’s bullshi . . . dooky.

      Even Edmond and Penelope had pulled closer and were paying attention and not bitching about this, that, and everything else. For a change.

      "Injuns is real good to their kids. Very kind to them. Once you get to know them, and they like you, they’re good people. I’ve lived with them, I’ve fought them, and I’ve killed them. And likely I’ll do all three things again. And don’t you think that most Injun women is loose, ’cause they ain’t. An Injun father is just like any father anywhere. You start messin’ with his daughter, and he’ll kill you.

      You take the Cheyenne tribe, for instance, Tough, mean fighters. Everybody’s scared of the Cheyenne. But for all their fierceness, they hold women in high regard. A girl’s comin’ of age is a big deal in a lot of Injun tribes. And any number of tribes worship dogs and wolves. If one has to be killed for whatever reason, they’ll apologize to it. And to a Cheyenne, a dog is damn near a god. They even have a warrior society called the Dog Soldiers.

      "It sounds to me that you actually like the Indians," Edmond observed.

      Oh, I do. You can’t blame them for fighting the whites. Hell, this is their land. It’s been theirs for only God knows how long. Thousands of years, probably. If they’d let me, I’d never strike a hostile blow against any of them.

      He thought about that for a moment. Well, exceptin’ maybe them goddamn Pawnees.

      When they made camp that afternoon, Preacher figured they were within a half day’s ride of the Shoshone. As soon as they crossed it, he’d cut south, down toward Togwotee Pass. He sure wasn’t going to attempt to take them across the Snake and over the middle part of the Tetons. At least he hoped he wouldn’t have to.

      While they had been resting back at the ambush site, two horses had wandered back into camp, anxious for human closeness. Preacher had rigged up frames and they were used for pack horses. He’d found enough canvas that hadn’t been burned to use as shelters for the pilgrims. While it wasn’t any fancy Eastern hotel, it did offer a small creature comfort.

      It’s a great, vast, lonesome place, isn’t it? Melody asked, sitting close to the fire as the sun sank past the towering mountains.

      It’s big, all right, Preacher told her. But lonesome? Well, I never dwelled on that too much, though some folks do call it the High Lonesome. I’ve knowed men who’ve gone crazy out here, sure enough. And a lot more men who gave up and headed back to towns and people and such. Takes a special breed to make it out here. I knowed one old boy who lost his horse and was afoot during the winter. He fought him a puma to the death. We found ’em both come the spring. Both of them froze stiff to a tree. He had his hand on that big cat’s head, like he was sayin’ ‘It’s all right. No hard feelin’s. We both was just doin’ what come natural.’

      Did you bury him.

      Not right then. Ground was too hard. We come back about a month later and put them both together in a cave and sealed it shut.

      That was a nice gesture, Penelope said.

      Preacher looked at her. I reckon. Howsomever, we didn’t have much choice in the matter. They was both still froze together. It’ve took an axe to get them apart.

      * * *

      By noon of the next day, Preacher knew they were being followed. Problem was, he didn’t think they were Injuns. If they were renegade white men, they could turn out to be worse than Injuns. The mountains weren’t exactly overflowing with renegade white men, but there were enough of them to cause trouble every now and then. They’d knock trappers in the head, or even shoot them for their pelts or for food or their boots or coats, for that matter. And, he thought, trying to cheer himself up, it could be a party of government surveyors or explorers.

      But he couldn’t quite make himself believe that.

      He figured they were renegades after the women. Two beautiful white women could make even a good man go bad. Especially men who hadn’t even seen an ugly white woman in years.

      When he called a break and the women stepped behind some bushes to do their business, Preacher got Richard and Edmond close.

      We’re bein’ followed, he told them. I don’t think it’s Injuns, and it ain’t the Army—I’m sure of that. They’d have seen ’way back that we’re not a hostile party and they’d have closed with us. Any good scout would have seen the sign that women leave and they’d be mighty curious. I think we got us some renegades on our trail and I think they’re after the women. So keep your powder dry and be ready to fight and fight quick. ’Cause when they come, they’ll do it one of two ways, they’ll either come real sudden like, or they’ll hail the camp and get in amongst us. That’s what we don’t want. We can’t let ’em get in amongst us. I know you two think of yourselves as highly principled men, but you just remember this: there ain’t no law out here except the gun, the knife, and the war axe. And if they’re renegades, missionaries or not, they’ll kill you both and do it without blinkin’ an eye. You got the women to think about. They got to come first.

      Neither one of us has ever used violence against another human being, Edmond pointed out.

      Well, you’re about to do so, Preacher said, unless you want to die. Make up your minds. I don’t think we got a lot of time to ponder it.

      We should warn the women, Richard said. I feel they have a right to know about this.

      It’s only a suspicion, Edmond said. Why alarm them unduly?

      Preacher walked away, leaving the two men arguing. When Melody and Penelope stepped out of the bushes, he walked up to them. You ladies stay put with the men. Rest awhile. No fires. You understand me? They nodded. Good. I’ll be back in an hour or so.

      He took his Hawken and set out at a ground-covering lope. Preacher could run all day, and had done so several times during his time in the mountains. He’d had more than one horse shot out from under him, by both white men and Injuns, by bullet and arrow, and been forced to run for his life.

      He ran for a couple of miles, then scrambled up on a ledge. He squatted down, studying their back trail. Far below and behind them, he could pick out tiny doll-figures moving toward them on horseback. He counted eight riders, and they were not Indians. They had only two pack horses, so they were not trappers. They were not dressed in uniform, so they were not

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