settlement there. I come up on ’em time a two. They notional folk, don’t believe like we do. Don’t never talk religion with ’em — mess up your mind. I try to keep shy of ’em.”
“What happened to the people who tried to settle there?” Kirby asked.
“Don’t rightly know. I come back through there — me and Rattlesnake Williams — oh … I reckon it were ’52 or ’53, and we didn’t see hide nor hair of ’em. I heared tell they went up north, back to Utah. Don’t get me wrong; they good folk. Help you out ifn you need a hand. But you best know what you’re doin’ ifn you plan on tradin’ with ’em. They good traders. And don’t mess with they wimmin folk. They get real touchy ’bout they females.”
The only thing Kirby knew about females was that they were different from men. Just exactly how they were different was still a mystery to him. He had asked his Pa a time or two, but Emmett got all red in the face and cleared his throat a lot. Said he’d tell Kirby when the time came. So far, the time had not yet come.
Kirby remembered the time, three years back, when a carnival came through his part of Missouri. One of the girls, just about his own age, had made a bunch of eyes at him. She’d cornered Kirby at the edge of the lot and told him for two dollars she’d make a man out of him. Then she reached down with her hand and grabbed Kirby.
Kirby had never told anybody about that.
“Where’s Utah?” Kirby asked.
“West of us. You’ll see it one of these days, Smoke.”
They pulled up to rest and Kirby’s bay began tugging at the reins, trying to head off east. Kirby finally had to brutally jerk the reins to settle the animal.
“Smells water,” Preacher told him. He pointed to a small water hole. “But that’s bad water. Pisen. Horse sometimes ain’t got no sense when it comes to water. Injuns call that water wau-nee-chee. Means no good.”
Kirby rolled that word around his tongue, memorizing it. “How can you tell if water is no good?”
“Look for bones of small animals and birds close by. Can’t always go by smell or taste.” He swung his spotted pony. “You’ll learn, Smoke. I’ll teach you.”
Emmett finally asked the question that had been on his mind for days. “Why, Preacher?”
“Gettin’ old,” the mountain man said simply and softly. “Like to leave something of what I know behind when I go see the elephant. Got no one else to leave it with.”
“You were never married?”
Preacher laughed. “Hell’s fire, yes! Five — no, six times. Injun ceremonies. I got twelve-fifteen younguns runnin’ ’round out here. Half-breeds. But most of ’em don’t know me for what I am, and I don’t know them. That weren’t the way I planned it; it just worked out that way. Wouldn’t know most of ’em ifn I saw ’em. I’m just ’nother white man. They’d soon shoot me and take my hair as look at me. Probably rather shoot me than look at me, ifn the truth be told.”
“Why?” Emmett asked.
“They breeds, that’s why. Some tribes don’t look with much favor on breeds. Then they’s them that being a breed don’t make no difference. Injuns ain’t all alike, Smoke. They just as different in thinkin’ as white men, and just as quarrelsome, too — with other tribes. Ifn the Injun would ever try to git along and unite agin us, the white man would have never got past Kansas. I think Injuns is the greatest fighters the world’ll ever know. But they just can’t get together agin us. Something I’m right thankful for,” he added.
They took their time getting to Pueblo, with Kirby learning more from the old mountain man each day. And he was eager to learn, retaining all the old man told him. The weeks on the trail had begun the transformation of the boy into the edge of manhood.
Sixteen, Emmett mused as they rode, and already killed half a dozen men. His son’s quickness and ease with the Navy Colts had stuck in the man’s mind. The father had handled guns all his life. Before taking up farming, he had been marshal of a small town in Missouri, on the Kansas border, and had killed two men during his tenure in office. God alone knew how many men he had killed in the war. But Kirby handled the Colts like they were an extension of his arms. And fast — God, the boy was fast.
Kirby practiced an hour each day drawing and dry-firing the Colts. In only a matter of weeks, his draw had become a blur — too fast for the eye to follow. And he was deadly accurate.
Well, Emmett mused, making up his mind, he was glad they had run into Preacher, and he was glad the mountain man had taken such an interest in Kirby. Smoke, he amended that. He was also glad the boy could take care of himself in a bad situation. For, although the father had not told the son, the move westward had not been pure impulse. Even had his wife not been dead, Emmett would have moved westward … he had given his word to Mosby.
If it took him forever, Emmett had sworn to Mosby, he would find and kill three men: Stratton, Potter, and Richards.
And he was sure Preacher had guessed there was a mission to fulfill in the back of the elder Jensen’s mind.
Preacher was no fool — he was sharp. Emmett would have to confide in the old man — soon. For the three traitors and murderers, Potter, Stratton, and Richards, had said many times they were going to the place called Idaho when the war ended. And with the stolen Confederate gold, they would have ample funds to start a business. Ranches, more than likely, although one of them had expressed a desire to open a trading post.
Emmett knew, if he found the men at all, it might take months, even years. But he also knew he didn’t have years. But he had to find them. Had to kill them.
Or be killed, he reflected morosely.
While Kirby rode on ahead, his bay prancing, the boy taking to the new land like a colt to a field of clover, Preacher hung back to speak with Emmett, both of them keeping one eye on the boy.
“You got a burr under your saddle, Emmett,” Preacher said. “Wanna talk about it?”
“I got things to do. And it might take me some time to do them.”
