Preacher grinned and said, “All right, if you want to be particular about it.”
Bartlett looked down from the wagon as well. “Good Lord,” he said. “It’s a swamp out there.”
“Yep,” Preacher said. “Just like I told you. You couldn’t go very far without boggin’ down again. Better to wait until things dry out a mite.”
The air was hot and steamy. Preacher took off his hat and sleeved sweat off his forehead as he slogged along the line of wagons, checking on the vehicles and telling the occupants that it was all right to come out again, if they wanted to.
Casey was a little flushed as she looked down from the wagon where she had taken shelter with Roland Bartlett. “What a terrible storm,” she said. “I thought we were all about to blow away.”
Preacher nodded. “We came mighty close. That cyclone almost got us.”
“I hope I never have to go through anything like that again.”
“It wasn’t
Casey flushed a deeper shade of pink. Preacher managed not to chuckle. He figured there had been some clinging to each other going on in that wagon during the height of the storm.
He moved on and helped Lorenzo climb down from the lead wagon, then the two of them checked on the horses. The big gray stallion was wet and annoyed but seemed fine otherwise, as did the other horses. The same was true of the oxen hitched to the wagons. Considering the ferocity of the storm, they had all come through it pretty well.
They had been lucky, Preacher thought. Mighty lucky.
Lorenzo made a face as the mud tried to suck his boots off with every step. “We ain’t goin’ anywhere any time soon, are we?” he asked.
“Not until tomorrow at the earliest,” Preacher replied.
Word spread quickly among the bullwhackers that the wagons weren’t budging. Several of the men who had been over the trail before came up to Preacher and told him they agreed with the decision.
“Gonna be a cold camp tonight,” one of those veteran frontiersman said. “There’s nothin’ out here dry enough to burn right now.”
Preacher knew that was true. Without a fire, they would have to make do with leftover biscuits for their supper, and no coffee. But that was still a lot better than going hungry, which he had done many times in the past.
Since the wagons weren’t in their usual circle, Preacher rigged a makeshift corral with poles and a couple ropes. Then the bullwhackers unhitched the teams and drove them into the enclosure. The massive, stolid beasts of burden weren’t easily spooked, so it was easy to keep them penned up. Preacher told a couple men to keep an eye on them, anyway.
The last of the clouds moved on, leaving the late afternoon sky clear and hot. It was sticky, miserable weather, and it wasn’t long before everyone was on edge. Preacher was going to be glad when night fell. At least it would cool off a little then.
Remembering the thing he had caught a glimpse of during the storm, he told Lorenzo, “I’m gonna scout around a mite.” The likelihood of finding tracks in the mud was slim, but it wouldn’t hurt anything to take a look.
“You want me to come with you?” the old-timer asked.
“No, I’d rather you stay here and keep an eye on this bunch. Don’t let them do anything stupid.”
Lorenzo snorted. “You reckon they’re gonna pay any attention to a black man?”
“Well, you try to talk sense to them, anyway,” Preacher said.
He lifted Dog down from the wagon and swung up on Horse’s back. Riding north, he kept an eye on the muddy ground as he searched for signs. Dog splashed along through the puddles.
Preacher cast back and forth for quite a while but didn’t find anything, and Dog didn’t react to any unusual scents. Just as Preacher had suspected, the downpour had washed away any tracks or smells. As the sun lowered toward the horizon, he called Dog to his side and said, “We might as well ride on back to the wagons.”
He was about a mile from the caravan, he judged. As he headed south again, movement to the east caught his eye. He reined in and his eyes narrowed as he peered into the distance. After a moment, he was able to focus on the moving objects well enough to recognize them as several men on horseback.
The riders were headed west along the trail, toward the stalled wagons. Not knowing who they were but being naturally cautious, Preacher muttered, “We’d better get back there,” and heeled Horse into a ground-eating lope.
As he rode up to the wagons, Lorenzo came out to meet him. “Find anything?” the black man asked.
Preacher hadn’t explained what he was looking for, since to tell the truth, he didn’t really know. He shook his head and said, “Nothin’ unusual, except for some fellas comin’ in from the east on horseback.”
Lorenzo’s hands tightened on the flintlock rifle he carried. Even though he lacked Preacher’s experience on the frontier, he was smart enough to know that strangers could mean trouble.
“You know who they are?”
“Not a clue,” Preacher said as he dismounted. He looped Horse’s reins around one of the wagon wheels. “Where’s Bartlett?”
“Last I seen of him, he was goin’ through the wagons, checkin’ to see if the rain damaged any of the freight.”
Preacher walked along the line of wagons until he found Bartlett, who was climbing out of one of the vehicles. “Riders comin’,” Preacher told him.
“Is that a problem?”
