“What’s that?”
“It’s time for that varmint to die,” Preacher said. “After we get Bartlett buried tomorrow, you and me are gonna do us some bear huntin’, Lorenzo.”
Bartlett was the one who had read from the Good Book at the previous burials. With him gone, that job fell to his son. Roland, who was still grief-stricken but more in control of himself the next morning, took on the task. His voice broke a few times as he read the Twenty-third Psalm and led a prayer, but he made it through the solemn ceremony.
When it was over, Preacher led Roland away from the grave while some of the bullwhackers filled it in. With Casey and Lorenzo accompanying them, they went to the other side of the camp.
“I’ve been thinking about what you said last night, Preacher,” Roland mused. “About me being in charge. I’m not sure I’m up to the job.”
“There’s only one way to find out,” Preacher said. “But I’ll do whatever I can to help you out.”
“What do you think we should do next? Move on to Santa Fe like we planned to do?”
“I don’t think it would hurt anything to stay here one more day. That’ll give Lorenzo and me time to do a little job.”
Roland frowned. “What sort of job?”
“We’re goin’ after that griz.”
Roland stared at him. “That won’t bring my father back,” he finally said, his voice grim.
“No, but maybe it’ll keep the varmint from killin’ anybody else. It’s got a taste for blood, that’s for dang sure.”
“You went after it before, remember?”
Preacher nodded. “I remember. And I wish we’d caught up to it then. This time we won’t come back until we do.”
“You think we should wait here for you?”
“You’ve got plenty of supplies,” Preacher pointed out, “and the best water supply in this part of the country. I’m hopin’ it won’t take us long to find the bear. We might be back later today. But if it takes a few days, you’ll be all right here. Just keep a full shift of guards on all the time.”
“In case the Indians come back.”
Preacher shrugged. “It could happen.” He rubbed his bearded jaw. “And it’d be better if I was here to help you fight ’em off.”
“I don’t think there’s any doubt of that.” Roland frowned. “Why don’t we compromise? You and Lorenzo see if you can trail the bear. But if you don’t find it, come back tonight and we’ll move out for Santa Fe tomorrow morning.” He took a deep breath. “I hate the idea of letting that creature get away with killing my father, but as you pointed out, Preacher, I have other responsibilities now, like all the men who work for him. Who work for me.”
Roland might still have a ways to go, but he was starting to grow up, Preacher thought. He said, “All right. We’ll ride out now and be back tonight, one way or the other.”
Roland nodded. “Thanks, Preacher. I feel like I ought to come with you, instead of asking you to avenge my father.”
“Nope, be better for you to stay here,” Preacher said with a shake of his head. “Somebody’s got to be in charge, and I reckon that’s you.”
Roland drew in a deep breath. “That still sounds wrong to me, but I’ll do what I can.”
Preacher clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Just keep your guard up, son. That’s the most important thing you can do right now.”
Motioning for Lorenzo to follow him, Preacher started toward the horses. He put his saddle on the big gray stallion while Lorenzo got the other horse ready to ride.
In a low, worried voice, the old-timer said, “You know, Preacher, I’m startin’ to think that bear can’t be killed. We done shot it and shot it, over and over, and the damn thing keeps on a-comin’ back.”
“Ain’t nothin’ ever lived that can’t be killed,” Preacher said.
“What if it ain’t . . . a real bear? What if it’s some kind of spirit?”
“A ghost bear?” Preacher shook his head. “It’s real, all right. My jaw still aches from the wallop it gave me last night. It’s real, and with enough powder and shot, it’ll die.”
CHAPTER 18
Accompanied by Dog, they rode out of camp heading north, the same direction the bear had gone. The trail was harder to follow since the ground was hard and didn’t take tracks well. Dog also seemed to have trouble picking up the scent.
Preacher’s keen, experienced eyes were able to spot the little signs of the grizzly’s passage: the rocks that had been overturned recently, the marks in the dirt left by a dragging claw, the occasional drops of blood that testified to the fact the bear was wounded again.
If Preacher had been the superstitious sort, he might have wondered about the bear, just like Lorenzo. There was no telling how many times the big varmint had been wounded, and yet it was still alive, still vicious, still determined to wreak havoc on the wagon train. Preacher had no explanation for how it had survived or why it was so hell-bent on delivering death and destruction to the caravan, but he had seen men who were hard to kill, as well
