Coiled in the short grass at the edge of the trail was a thick-bodied rattlesnake. It was watching them intently with its inhuman eyes. Preacher moved Horse a little closer, and the rattles on the end of the snake’s tail started making their eerie buzzing sound as they vibrated.
Horse shied a little. “Take it easy,” Preacher told the stallion as he pulled his rifle from its sheath. “I know you don’t want to get any closer to that varmint. I don’t blame you.”
He cocked the flintlock, drew a bead with it, and squeezed the trigger. As the rifle boomed, the snake’s head, which had raised in a threatening posture, exploded in a spray of gore as the lead ball struck it. The thick, ropy body immediately uncoiled and began whipping about in death convulsions. Casey made a noise of disgust and looked away.
“See, that’s just what I mean,” Preacher said as he lowered the flintlock. “Out here, if it ain’t one thing that’ll kill you, it’s somethin’ else.”
The wagons reached the Mullberry Creek crossing of the Arkansas River late that afternoon, late enough so that Preacher decided it would be better to wait until the next morning to ford the river.
Nobody had forgotten how close the grizzly had come to the camp, so even though Preacher didn’t believe the bear was anywhere nearby, the guard was doubled again and those who slept did so lightly.
After a quiet night, the bullwhackers hitched the teams to the wagons and drove them into the broad, slow- moving river. The surface of the water sparkled in the early morning sun. The wagons crossed without incident and headed southwest with full water barrels, following the ruts of the Cimarron Cutoff that Preacher pointed out.
The landscape soon proved Preacher right again. It wasn’t long before the terrain grew flatter, the air hotter and drier than it had been on the other side of the river. The grass was sparse, and there were long stretches of rocky, sandy ground that didn’t look like it would ever be good for much of anything.
As Casey rode next to Preacher, she asked, “Nobody lives here in this wasteland, do they?”
“You’d be surprised,” he told her. “There are a lot of Comanch’ in these parts.”
“Comanche Indians, you mean?”
“That’s right.”
“Like those Pawnees we saw not long after we left Independence?” Leeman Bartlett said.
Preacher had to smile at that. “The Pawnee are good fighters, and I wouldn’t want ’em mad at me if I could avoid it, but to say that they’re like the Comanch’ . . .” He shook his head. “There ain’t no other Injuns like the Comanch’. The Sioux are probably better when it comes to ridin’, and the Blackfeet got ever’body beat when it comes to bein’ plumb mean, and the Apaches can sneak around better’n any of the other tribes . . . but the Comanch’ can do all of that, almost as well as them other tribes. Pound for pound, I reckon they’re the most dangerous critters I ever seen, including that grizzly bear.”
“Are we going to run into any of them?” Roland asked. He had started scanning the horizon nervously as Preacher spoke.
“It wouldn’t surprise me a bit.”
“Will they attack us?”
The mountain man shrugged. “That depends on how many of them there are . . . and what sort of mood they’re in. All Injuns like to barter, and that includes the Comanches. There’s a good chance they’ll let us trade some bright-colored geegaws for safe passage through their land. Or they might decide to attack us and try to take the wagons and everything in ’em. We just won’t know until the time comes.”
From the worried looks on the faces of his companions, Preacher knew it would be all right with them if they didn’t encounter any Comanches on the journey. He felt the same way . . . but he didn’t expect it to happen.
When they made camp, Leeman Bartlett asked, “Should we forego having a fire tonight? It might be wise not to announce our presence to those savages.”
Preacher shook his head. “Go ahead and build a fire. Build a big one. It won’t make any difference. You can’t take this many wagons through the desert without the Comanch’ knowin’ you’re here. Two or three people might be able to dodge ’em by layin’ low and makin’ cold camps, but not a party this big. They’ll know.”
“Then we might as well make them think there are a great many of us,” Bartlett said. “I’ll tell the men to walk around a lot and make it look like there are more of them than there really are.”
“Now that’s not a bad idea,” Preacher said.
That evening, Lorenzo asked Preacher, “What you said about two or three folks bein’ able to slip through here by layin’ low and not buildin’ no fires . . . is that what you intended for us to do if it was just you and me and Casey?”
Preacher shook his head. Keeping his voice low, he said, “Hell, no. If it was just the three of us, I never would’ve brought us this way. We’d have taken the northern route, gone over to Bent’s Fort, and then cut down to Santa Fe through Raton Pass. Wouldn’t have been any trouble on horseback.”
Lorenzo narrowed his eyes shrewdly. “Then the only reason we’re goin’ the way we are is so you can try to keep these pilgrims from gettin’ theirselves killed.”
“Since we’ve come as far with ’em as we have, it didn’t seem right to just go off and let ’em shift for themselves. The northern route may not be quite as dangerous as the cutoff, but it ain’t exactly what you’d call safe, neither, and it takes a week longer. That’s more time for trouble to happen. I reckon it all sort of balances out in the end.”
Lorenzo grunted. “If you say so, Preacher. You ain’t steered us wrong yet. I sure hope we don’t run into any of them heathen redskins, though.”
Preacher lifted his coffee cup. “I’ll drink to that.”
A heavy guard was put on again. Preacher knew that contrary to what some folks thought, Indians would attack at night if it struck their fancy. In fact, down along the Colorado River in what was now the Republic of Texas, folks had recently started using the term “Comanche moon” to describe the sort of full moon the Comanch’ liked to raid by.
