approaching the caravan. Nothing threatening appeared. Hot, tedious hours crept by, and finally the sun lowered toward the horizon and Preacher began looking for a good place to make camp.
He found it near a cluster of rocks and motioned for the bullwhackers to pull the wagons into a circle again. It was a good thing they would reach the springs tomorrow, he thought. The water in the barrels was starting to run a little low.
After the strain of the day everyone was exhausted, but the possibility the Comanches might return had the men so on edge that sleep was difficult. Preacher had no trouble getting volunteers to stand guard.
When he checked on the wounded man, Casey reported, “He seems to be sleeping peacefully and doesn’t have any fever. I think there’s a good chance he’ll be all right.”
“It’s thanks to you taking care of him if he is,” Roland said.
“How’re you doin’, boy?” Preacher asked. “You must’ve hit your head pretty hard to get knocked out cold like that.”
Roland shrugged. “I’ve got a headache, but that’s all.”
“Seein’ straight?”
“As far as I can tell.”
“All right.” Preacher turned back to Casey. “If you need me, give a holler.”
She nodded. “I will.”
Despite the tension in the camp, the night passed quietly. The wagons rolled out the next morning without incident, and the day passed, with long hours of slow, hot travel toward Santa Fe.
Late that afternoon, Preacher spotted a patch of green ahead and felt his spirits surge. Vegetation meant the springs were still flowing. He rode ahead to make sure, then returned to the wagons to give the others the good news.
“Looks like the spring is in good shape,” he told an exhausted-looking Leeman Bartlett. “I’m thinkin’ after such a long haul and the trouble we’ve had, it might be a good idea to stay here a few days and let everybody rest up, includin’ the oxen.”
“That sounds like an excellent idea,” Bartlett responded. “I couldn’t agree more.”
“Thing is, we’ll still have to keep our guard up. Injuns have been using this spring for a whole lot longer than wagons have been goin’ to Santa Fe. Wouldn’t surprise me none if they knew about the spring before there ever
The spring emerged from the ground and formed a pool surrounded by a marshy area covered with reeds and grass. The Cimarron River itself was nearby, its banks lined with scrubby trees, but its water supply was actually less dependable than that of the spring. It had been Preacher’s experience that the spring water tasted better than the river water, which was brackish at times.
The caravan pushed on. The worn-out bullwhackers had more life in their steps, as did the oxen. The big brutes smelled the water and were anxious to reach it.
“Be careful not to let ’em drink too much when we get there,” Preacher warned the men as he rode alongside the wagons. “We don’t need ’em boggin’ down.” He paused and then added, “The same thing goes for you men. You been on short water rations for a few days now. Fill your bellies too full and it’s gonna make you sick.”
By nightfall, the wagons were circled, camp was established, and morale was better than it had been for days. It was hard to believe that only one day earlier they had been battling for their lives against the Comanches. Fresh water and green vegetation did a lot to lift a man’s spirits.
The man who’d had the arrow go through his body was awake and feeling better, thanks to Casey’s nursing. The other men who had been wounded during the fight were recovering as well.
For the next two days, the men rested, filled the water barrels, and did routine repair work on the wagons. The arrows that had pierced the canvas had been removed, and the holes sewn up. Several of the burly bullwhackers proved to be surprisingly deft at the mending.
On their third night in camp, Preacher sought out Leeman Bartlett and said, “I reckon we’d better get back on the trail tomorrow, if that’s all right with you. Once we leave the springs, another week should see us in Santa Fe.” Maybe the last leg of the trip would prove to be the easiest, he thought.
The man nodded. “Whatever you think is best, Preacher. Although I must say, I’ll miss this place. Compared to what we’ve seen so far of the Cimarron Cutoff, this is a veritable Eden.” Bartlett paused. “I’ve started to think about what we’ll do after we reach Santa Fe. I wish you’d come back to St. Louis with us and guide us west again on our next journey.”
Preacher didn’t even think about it. He shook his head and said, “Sorry, Mr. Bartlett. I ain’t sure yet where I’ll be goin’ when I leave Santa Fe, but it ain’t gonna be back to St. Louis. I’ve had my fill of that town for a good long while.”
“Well, perhaps you’ll reconsider. I’d pay you good wages.”
Preacher smiled. “One thing a man like me ain’t ever considered all that much is good wages.”
He said good night to Bartlett and went to find Lorenzo. The old-timer was playing cards with some of the bullwhackers. “You up to standin’ guard tonight?” Preacher asked him.
Lorenzo glanced up from his cards. “I reckon.”
Preacher nodded. “Good.” He looked out at the blackness surrounding the camp. “I got a feelin’ . . .”
“A bad feelin’?” Lorenzo asked shrewdly.
“Just a feelin’, that’s all.”
One of the bullwhackers said, “I hope them damn Comanches don’t come after us again.” The other men muttered agreement.
