He thought it was more likely, though, that the Indians would wait until they had gotten a better look at the wagon train before they struck. They would have to gauge whether they wanted to fight . . . or bargain.
Another day and more endless, desolate miles rolled past. Following Preacher’s advice, Bartlett and his men were careful about how much water they drank. The oxen got a full ration from the barrels, because without those beasts of burden the wagons weren’t going anywhere, but the men could make do with less.
Preacher figured they were halfway to the springs where the Cimarron River made its northernmost loop. He had stopped at that marshy pool a couple times before and hoped nothing had happened to it since the last time he was in those parts. If the spring had gone dry for some reason, it would be a long and mighty thirsty trip to the next water.
Roland and Casey were spending nearly all their time together, Preacher noted. With the threat of the Comanches hanging over them, it really didn’t make much sense to worry about affairs of the heart, but Preacher couldn’t help but be pleased anyway.
As they rode alongside the wagons, Lorenzo caught him smiling at the two youngsters during the third morning since hitting the cutoff. The old-timer said, “Mighty pleased with yourself, ain’t you?”
“What are you talkin’ about, old man?”
“You know dang good and well what I’m talkin’ about,” Lorenzo shot back. “You wanted that boy to court Casey, and he’s sure doin’ it. Best he can, anyway, out here in the middle of the most godforsaken country I ever seen. Any fella out here who wanted to bring a bouquet of flowers to his sweetheart would be purely out of luck.”
Preacher shrugged. “I’m thinkin’ she’ll be better off with young Bartlett than she ever would be with me. I never intended on draggin’ her all over the mountains with me. That’s no fittin’ life for a woman.”
“What about for an old colored man?”
“That’s up to you,” Preacher said. “You’re welcome to come along when I leave Santa Fe, assumin’ we both get there alive. You might decide to stay there, though. Find you some Mexican
Lorenzo snorted. “Slave or not, I been bossed around my whole life. I’d like to know what it’s like to really be free for a spell.”
Preacher was about to say something in response when he suddenly stiffened in the saddle. He stood up in his stirrups and peered off to the left of the trail.
“What is it?” Lorenzo asked sharply.
“Saw somethin’ out yonder. It’s so hot and hazy in these parts, it’s easy to see things that ain’t really there. Mirages, I think folks call ’em. But I’d swear I saw somebody movin’ out there.”
Lorenzo pointed in the other direction. “Like them over there?”
Preacher looked that way. Heat waves rippled up from the ground, distorting what he saw, but after a moment his vision focused well enough for him to make out a line of riders moving in a parallel course to the wagons. He looked back to the left and knew he hadn’t been mistaken. There was a column of riders on that side of the caravan, too.
“Lordy, lordy,” Lorenzo breathed. “Are those fellas who I think they are, Preacher?”
“That’s right,” the mountain man said. “The Comanch’ have come callin’.”
CHAPTER 14
Preacher and Lorenzo were riding a few yards ahead of Casey, Roland, and Bartlett. In a low voice, Preacher told the old-timer, “Drop back and let the others know what’s goin’ on, if they haven’t spotted those Injuns themselves. Tell ’em to stay calm and not start raisin’ a ruckus.”
Lorenzo nodded. Rather than turning around, he slowed his horse and let the other three riders catch up with him.
Preacher glanced right and left. There were two outriders on each side of the caravan. They had to have seen the Comanches, but were riding along as if they hadn’t, gradually working their way closer to the caravan. That was smart of them, Preacher thought. If they turned and made a run for the wagons, that would likely prod the warriors into chasing them.
Preacher noticed a couple rocky humps up ahead, the first real landmarks he had seen in quite a while. The trail ran between those shallow hills. It was the perfect place for an ambush, and he had no doubt Comanche warriors were waiting on both of the knobs. He held up his hand in a signal for the wagons to stop. If they got caught in that gap, they wouldn’t have a chance.
Preacher wheeled Horse around and waved for the outriders to come in the rest of the way. Leeman Bartlett hurried up to him and asked, “Do we need to pull the wagons in a circle?”
“If you do that, they’ll know you’re gettin’ ready to fight and they’ll go ahead and jump us,” Preacher said. “We might still be able to talk our way out of this. Let me give it a try. Spread the word, ever’body needs to have his rifle handy.”
Bartlett nodded. “What are you going to do?”
“Let ’em know we want to parley.” He urged Horse forward again.
“Preacher, be careful!” Casey called out behind him. Preacher acknowledged her concern with a slight wave.
Slowly, he rode out about fifty yards in front of the wagons and stopped. He sat in his saddle, waiting, apparently as calm as if nothing unusual or threatening was happening. The columns of Comanches flanking the caravan halted as well.
A few minutes dragged by, then a party of half a dozen warriors appeared in the gap between the knobs and rode toward him. They took their time about it. The Indians knew that waiting would stretch the nerves of their potential victims tighter and tighter.
