“I hope we don’t have to deal with it,” Casey said with a little shiver. “Maybe whatever it was will go on and leave us alone.”
“That’d be good,” Preacher said. But he wasn’t convinced that was the way it would turn out. His instincts told him a different story.
For a moment there, out on the prairie, he had been convinced that he and Dog were the ones being stalked.
And it wasn’t a good feeling.
CHAPTER 6
The next two days were uneventful. No Indians, no mysterious creatures lurking in the night . . . in fact, Preacher and the other members of the freight caravan didn’t see another creature except a few prairie dogs. The unvarying landscape was mind-numbing, but the wagons made good time.
Then it began to rain.
Preacher rode a few miles ahead of the caravan. He’d noticed the bank of blue-gray clouds building to the southwest early on the morning of the fifth day out from Independence. He pointed it out to Lorenzo, who was riding beside him.
“Yeah, I seen it,” the elderly black man said. “Looks like we’re gonna have a storm blowin’ through.”
“It might miss us,” Preacher said. “Hard to tell just how far away anything is out here.”
“That’s the gospel truth! I never seen a flatter, emptier country than this here.”
Preacher kept an eye on the clouds all morning. They loomed closer and closer, filling up half the sky until everyone in the wagon caravan, even the rankest greenhorn, couldn’t help but notice them. Leeman Bartlett rode forward to talk to Preacher.
“Do you think we need to find shelter?” Bartlett asked as he cast nervous glances toward the billowing black clouds. Preacher knew that the sun shining on the clouds made them appear darker than they really were, but they were plenty dark enough to hold a lot of wind and rain, maybe even some hail.
In reply to Bartlett’s question, Preacher swept a hand at the vast emptiness surrounding them and said, “That’d be a mighty fine idea . . . if there was any place to hole up. But you can see for yourself there ain’t really any place like that out here.”
“Then what should we do? Just keep going right into the teeth of that storm?”
Preacher shook his head. “No, I reckon it’d be best to stop. Maybe the worst of it will skirt past us.” He didn’t think that was likely, but stopping was just about the only thing they could do.
“Should we circle the wagons and unhitch the teams, like we do when we make camp?”
“No, leave ’em harnessed. We may have to move, if the water starts risin’.”
Bartlett looked confused. “Are you talking about a flood? How would that be possible on flat ground like this?”
“You’d be surprised at the amount of rain that can fall in one of these cloudbursts.”
Bartlett turned his horse and rode back to the wagons to pass along the order to stop.
There hadn’t been much wind and soon it laid down and was dead still. Lorenzo scratched his jaw and said, “I don’t much like the way the air feels.”
“Me, neither,” Preacher said. Horse tossed his head, and beside them, Dog let out a little whine. “These two varmints agree, and I’ve learned over the years to always trust ’em.” Preacher turned his mount. “Let’s get back.”
As they rode toward the wagons, which were coming to a stop about a quarter mile behind them, a hard gust of wind suddenly slapped them in the back. They grabbed their hats and kept riding.
Preacher had fought many battles in his life, sometimes against overwhelming odds. Some of the battles he’d had no business winning, but through guile, determination, and sometimes sheer luck and stubbornness, he had prevailed.
But against a fierce force of nature like the powerful storm rolling across the prairie toward them, there was no way to fight. All one could do was hunker down and hope.
Casey rode out to meet Preacher and Lorenzo, and as usual, Roland Bartlett was tagging along after her. The wind continued to rise. Casey had to shout to be heard above it.
“Preacher, what are we going to do?”
“Find a place to crawl into one of those wagons, otherwise you’re gonna get wet,” he told her as he reined in. He looked over his shoulder. He could see the rain, sweeping like a gray curtain toward them. They had a few minutes before the storm hit, but not much more than that.
“How bad is the storm going to be?” Roland called.
Preacher shook his head. “No way of tellin’.” He glanced again at the black-fanged clouds. “Bad enough, that’s for dang sure!”
“Come on,” Roland told Casey. “We’ll find a spot for you in one of the wagons!”
They hurried off. Preacher and Lorenzo dismounted beside the lead wagon and tied their horses to one of the front wheels. The big gray stallion turned his rear end toward the storm and gave Preacher a baleful look, as if scolding him for bringing him out in weather like that in the first place.
Preacher told Dog to get under the wagon. The big cur obeyed, crawling underneath the vehicle, lying down, and resting his muzzle on his paws.
