Preacher's Assault

bullwhips and the curses of the bullwhackers filled the cool, early morning air.

The oxen pulling the wagons never got in any hurry. The massive beasts simply weren’t capable of speed. Men on horseback who accompanied wagon trains had to hold their mounts to a slow walk to keep from drawing too far ahead. Preacher knew that creeping along like that was going to chafe at him and make him impatient, but in the long run, it was safer for Lorenzo and Casey to travel with the wagons.

If he had been alone, he would have struck out for Nuevo Mexico as fast as the rangy gray horse under him could carry him.

Dog roamed far ahead, but Preacher didn’t worry about the big cur getting lost. He and Dog could always find each other. They had been trail partners for many years and an almost supernatural connection existed between them. The same was true of Preacher and Horse. At times it was like they could read each other’s minds.

Preacher moved up alongside the Bartletts. The sun was completely above the horizon, an orange ball that cast its garish light over the plains ahead of them.

“We’ve made a good start, don’t you think, Mr. Preacher?” Bartlett asked.

Preacher glanced over his shoulder and said, “Well, considerin’ that you can still see Independence back there about half a mile away, it’s sort of early to say. And you can forget about that mister business. The handle’s just Preacher.”

“What about Miss Casey?” Roland asked. “What’s her last name?”

Preacher ran a thumbnail down his jawline. “You know, I never asked her, and she never offered it,” he mused. “I reckon it just never seemed important enough to bother about.”

“I’ll ask her sometime.”

“You do that,” Preacher said dryly.

“Tell us more about the journey we’re facing,” Bartlett urged. “Have you traveled the Santa Fe Trail numerous times?”

“Half a dozen, maybe. Most of my time in the mountains has been spent farther north, up around the Grand Tetons. But I’ve done some trappin’ down in the Sangre de Cristos. Last time I was in Santa Fe was a couple years ago.”

He didn’t mention the trouble he had run into on that visit. Since trouble seemed to dog his trail just about everywhere he went, it didn’t really seem worth going into.

“They say that Santa Fe is quite some town.”

Preacher nodded. “It’s a nice enough place, I reckon, if you don’t mind the fact that the streets are a mite loco and run ever’ which way. Folks say it’s like they were laid out by a drunk man on a blind mule. Or was it a blind man on a drunk mule? Anyway, once you learn your way around, it ain’t bad.” He grinned. “Lots of pretty senoritas, that’s for sure.”

“Yes, well, I’m not interested in that, and my son doesn’t have time for such things,” Bartlett said.

Preacher thought the old man ought to let his son speak for himself, because from what he had seen so far, Roland had plenty of time to make calf eyes at Casey.

The wagons rolled on through the morning. The flat, grassy prairie was so featureless, it was hard to tell if they were making any progress. For all the difference in the landscape, they might have gone five miles or five hundred yards. It was all the same.

The sun was what marked time, rising higher in the sky until it reached its zenith. When it did, the wagons halted so the teams could rest and the men could eat lunch.

While the caravan was stopped, Bartlett asked Preacher, “Is there any need to send a man ahead to scout the trail?”

“This close to Independence, you’re not liable to run into any trouble,” Preacher said, “but it never hurts to have a look at where you’re goin’. Why don’t you let me and Dog do that?”

“You don’t mind?”

“Nope.” To tell the truth, Preacher was glad for the excuse to get away from the slow-moving wagon train for a while. It would also give Horse a chance to stretch his legs.

Bartlett said, “You know, we agreed to travel together, but we never did discuss the matter of wages.”

“You don’t have to pay me anything,” Preacher told him. “We’ll be usin’ some of your supplies. That’s enough.”

“But I’m taking advantage of your expertise.”

“And I’m takin’ advantage of the extra guns if we happen to run into trouble,” Preacher pointed out. “I reckon we’ll come out square enough.”

“Well, if that’s the way you feel, I won’t argue with you.”

“It is.”

Preacher went to mount up. Casey followed him. “I’ll come with you, Preacher.”

Preacher saw the frown that suddenly appeared on the face of Roland Bartlett. He shook his head and said, “Naw, you should just stay with the wagons. I’m not gonna be doin’ anything all that interestin’.”

She frowned, too, but her expression was a little offended. “Preacher . . .”

“Maybe next time,” he told her.

He didn’t want to hurt Casey’s feelings. She was a good-hearted gal, no doubt about it, and smart and brave, too. She had proven that during the trouble back in St. Louis. But he couldn’t have her getting ideas in her head about him. Roland seemed like a decent youngster, just wet behind the ears. Casey would be better off with him, or at least someone like him.