“Most likely not, but it could be, if they’re lookin’ for trouble. Get your men together.”
Bartlett nodded and hurried off to do as Preacher said. The mountain man walked on past the wagons until he reached the end of the caravan. Then he waited for the riders to arrive. They were already in sight and coming steadily closer—close enough for Preacher to be able to count them.
Five men, and one of them was leading a pack horse. Not a real threat, considering that Bartlett had twenty bullwhackers working for him, but Preacher was still wary. His instincts wouldn’t allow him to be otherwise.
“Preacher?”
Casey’s voice came from behind him. He looked over his shoulder and saw her plodding through the mud toward him with a worried expression on her face. Not surprisingly, Roland trailed after her. So did Lorenzo.
“Someone is following us?” Casey asked.
“Somebody’s goin’ the same direction we are,” Preacher said. “It ain’t necessarily the same thing.”
“You don’t think they could be some of Beaumont’s men, do you?”
Back in St. Louis, Casey had worked for Shad Beaumont, a prominent criminal. Beaumont was dead, but ever since they had left St. Louis, Casey had worried that some of the surviving members of his organization might come after them and seek vengeance.
Preacher didn’t think that was likely, but he couldn’t rule out the possibility entirely, which was yet another reason to be cautious. He told Casey, “I’d be mighty surprised if those fellas had anything to do with Beaumont, but if they did and if they’re lookin’ for us . . . well, we’ll deal with it, that’s all.”
“Who’s Beaumont?” Roland asked.
Casey looked over at him and shook her head. “No one. He’s dead. But some of the men who worked for him might have a grudge against Preacher and Lorenzo and me.”
“Oh.” Roland was clearly puzzled, but he didn’t indulge his curiosity. Preacher figured Casey hadn’t told him she used to work in a whorehouse, and she probably wouldn’t tell him unless she was forced to for some reason. Her past didn’t matter to Preacher and she knew that, but likely Roland would be a different story.
As the riders came closer, Preacher’s keen eyes saw that they were all wearing buckskins. A couple sported coonskin caps, the others broad-brimmed felt hats like the one Preacher wore. He recognized them as fellow mountain men, even though he had never seen any of them before.
One of the men edged his horse in front of the others as the party closed to within thirty feet and reined in. The self-appointed spokesman was tall and rangy in the saddle, with a gray-shot brown beard that jutted from his angular jaw. He put a grin on his face and nodded to Preacher, who walked out from the wagons to meet him.
“Howdy.”
“Afternoon,” Preacher said as he returned the nod. He had his rifle cradled in his arms with his thumb looped over the hammer. The stranger couldn’t fail to note that sign of being ready for trouble. As a matter of fact, the man’s own rifle was resting across the saddle in front of him, also ready for quick use.
“Looks like you folks are a mite bogged down,” the man commented. “We saw that storm blowin’ through, but we were lucky and the worst of it missed us. Looked like it was a ring-tailed roarer, though.”
“It sure was,” Preacher agreed. “A big cyclone came down from the clouds, and for a minute I thought it was gonna carry us off.”
The man shook his head. “I saw one of those things down in Texas once. It’d be mighty fine with me if I never saw another one.”
“Same here,” Preacher said.
The man leaned over and spat. “Name’s Garity.” He waved a hand at his companions. “This here’s Levi Jones, Walt Stubblefield, Micawja Horne, and Edgar Massey. We’re headin’ for New Mexico.”
“They call me Preacher.”
He saw the looks of recognition that appeared on the faces of all five men. They knew the name, all right. Most folks who roamed the wild places west of the Mississippi did.
“Preacher, eh?” Garity said. “Didn’t know you’d started guidin’ wagon trains to Santa Fe. I reckon that’s where these wagons are goin’?”
“That’s right. What do you plan to do in New Mexico?”
It was an unusually blunt question. Whenever folks met somebody for the first time, they normally waited for the other fella to offer whatever information he wanted to about where he came from and where he was going . . . and what he planned to do once he got there.
Garity frowned. “Figured we’d do some trappin’.”
“Ever been to that part of the country before?”
“Nope. I’d wager you have, though, what with you bein’ the famous Preacher and all.”
Preacher stiffened at the edge of mockery in Garity’s voice. The man obviously didn’t think that based on looks alone, Preacher lived up to his reputation.
Preacher didn’t give a damn about that, but he didn’t like the predatory gleam he saw in Garity’s eyes when the man looked at the wagons . . . and at Casey.
“Yeah, I’ve been there several times. Pretty country. The trappin’s better farther north, though. That’s where the real fur trade is.”
“Yeah, but there’s more competition up there,” Garity pointed out. “We figure the field’ll be clearer down south.” He scratched at his beard. “How long do you folks figure on stayin’ here?”
“Until the trail dries out enough that the wagons won’t get stuck when they try to move,” Preacher said. The
