Being forced to double up on some of the wagons and teams had slowed the caravan, but two more days would bring them to Santa Fe. Preacher was looking forward to it. He could have used more like two weeks to recover from the ordeal, but a full recuperation would have to wait. By the time they reached the settlement, he would be ready to do whatever needed to be done. Anything else wasn’t an option.
They had plenty of horses again, since they had recovered the mounts belonging to the dead outlaws. Roland kept two outriders scouting ahead and behind the wagons. He didn’t have the manpower to do any more. He was usually one of them, and as Preacher watched, the young man rode back toward the wagons after a foray ahead.
“Everything still looks clear,” Roland reported as he swung the horse around and fell in alongside the lead wagon. “I think we’ve already had our share of trouble on this trip, and more besides.”
“Don’t say things like that,” Preacher warned. “You’ll jinx us.”
He hoped Roland was right, though. They were past the area where the worst danger of Indian attacks lay, and since the bear was finally dead, its great shaggy carcass far behind them, the only real threat was that they might run into another gang of outlaws. If that didn’t happen, likely they would make it to Santa Fe without any more problems.
“I can’t stop thinking about Casey,” Roland said with a sigh. “Do you really think we’ll find her, Preacher?”
“Damn right we’ll find her. Santa Fe ain’t
“But what if Garity didn’t take her to Santa Fe?”
Preacher’s jaw tightened. “Where else would he go? But if he didn’t, as soon as I’m in better shape, I’ll head back to the spot where he grabbed her and pick up their trail.”
“After all that time?” Roland sounded dubious.
“I’ll find ’em,” Preacher said. “If it takes a year, or two, or however long, I’ll find ’em. And then Garity’ll pay for what he done.”
The wagons rolled into Santa Fe’s broad plaza late in the afternoon. With Lorenzo’s help, Preacher climbed down from the vehicle where he had been riding. The mountain man wore boots, whipcord trousers, a linsey-woolsey shirt, and a broad-brimmed brown hat, all of which came from the freight carried by the caravan. His buckskins had been too bloody and shredded to be saved, but he figured he could get another set of them in the settlement . . . once the rest of his business was done.
He was armed with a new knife, two pistols, and a rifle, also new. He had offered to owe Roland for them, but the young man wouldn’t hear of it.
“We’d all be dead now if it weren’t for you, Preacher,” Roland had said. “I’ll never finish paying that debt.”
“You best be careful,” Lorenzo warned as he and Preacher stood beside the wagon. “You may not be too steady on your feet yet.”
“I’ll be fine,” Preacher said.
Roland came over to join them. “Where’s this place you’re going?” he asked Preacher.
The mountain man pointed. “A block down that side street over yonder. It’s called Juanita’s. Ask folks if you can’t find it. They can tell you where to go.”
Roland nodded. “I’ll see you later, then, after I’ve made arrangements for the freight and the wagons.”
“Good luck with that,” Preacher said.
“Don’t worry about that,” Roland said with a smile. “Despite the fact that he didn’t know anything about the frontier, my father was a pretty canny businessman, and I learned from him. I’ll be able to strike a good deal.”
Preacher clapped a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “I’m sure you will. Go do your pa proud.”
He and Lorenzo walked across the plaza, not in any hurry. Preacher felt fairly steady, but he didn’t want to rush things. They went down the side street to a square adobe building where the strains of guitar music drifted out through the open front door. The cool dimness inside felt good when they walked in.
The cantina had a hard-packed dirt floor, a scattering of rough-hewn tables and chairs, and an actual hardwood bar across the back. Old Esteban, who had owned the place, had paid a pretty penny to have the bar brought up from Mexico City ten years earlier. Unfortunately for him, he had come down with a fever and died before it ever arrived. His widow Juanita, who was considerably younger than her late husband, had continued running the cantina.
Preacher had met her a few years later during one of his previous visits to Santa Fe and had heard the story of Esteban and the bar from Juanita while they were in bed together, basking in the afterglow of some vigorous lovemaking. Luckily for Preacher, the earthy, voluptuous widow had been finished with her mourning by the time he came along, and the two of them had hit it off splendidly.
She was behind the bar when Preacher and Lorenzo came in. The air was thick with the smells of pipe smoke and burning hemp, tequila and beer, perfume and unwashed human flesh. Men laughed and talked, and the pretty girls who carried drinks to the tables let out the occasional yelp as the customers got a little too friendly. In the low-cut peasant blouses and long, embroidered skirts, the nubile young women put plenty of lecherous ideas in the minds of the patrons.
Juanita set a bucket of beer on the bar to be delivered to one of the tables, then glanced at the two newcomers. Her head jerked sharply as she looked again. Her eyes widened in recognition, and a big smile appeared on her face as she hurried out from behind the bar and practically ran across the room to greet the mountain man.
“Preacher!” she said as she threw her arms around him. “
“Nope, I ain’t sick,” he assured her. “Just beat up and wore out. Reckon we could find an empty table and sit down?”
