“I figured as much.”
“Thought you would have. I took no allegiance to the federal government after Lee surrendered. But I did swear to kill three men and get back as much of the Confederate gold they stole as possible. I’ll do it, too.”
“War’s over,” the old man observed. “Who you gonna give the gold to?”
“I might give it to Kirby. Maybe I’ll just toss it in the river. Don’t know. It’s tainted.” He looked at Preacher. “You’ll take care of my boy?”
“You know that without askin’.”
“Teach him what you know?”
“That’s my plan. But they’s more to this than you’re sayin’. You had that cough long?”
“You’re pretty sharp, Preacher.”
“Don’t know about that. Just keep my eyes and ears open, that’s all.”
“I caught a ball through the lung. Laid me flat on my back for weeks. Got infected. Then lung fever hit the other lung. Maybe — just maybe — if I stayed in a dry climate, I might make it, according to the doctors. But they didn’t sound hopeful. I can’t do that. I swore I’d find those men.”
“Who are they?”
“Wiley Potter, Josh Richards, and a man named Stratton. They turned traitor and robbed some gold meant to keep the Confederacy going a while longer. That was bad enough, but they killed several men while stealing the gold. One of the men killed was my son, Luke.”
Preacher grunted. “Smoke know about that?”
“No. He thinks his brother was killed fighting with Lee, in the wilderness. If I don’t come back from this, you tell him the truth, all right?”
“Done.”
“I’ll be pulling out after I stock up with some supplies in Pueblo. I’ll tell Kirby all I think he needs to know.”
Kirby stood in front of the trading post at dawn, watching his father ride out, pack horse trailing. Emmett had taken only a few of the gold coins, leaving the rest with Kirby. The young man was conscious of the weight of the coins in the leather bag around his neck. His father stopped, spun his horse, and waved at his son. Kirby returned the wave, then his Pa was gone, dipping out of sight, over the rise of a small hill.
Preacher sat on the porch of the trading post, watching, saying nothing. Kirby turned, looking at the man who was to become his mentor.
“Will he be back?” The boy’s voice was shaky.
“Ifn he can.” Preacher spat on the dusty ground. “Some things, Smoke, a man’s just gotta do ’fore his time on earth slips away. Your Pa has things to do. Smoke, ifn you wanna cry — and they ain’t no shame in a man cryin’ — best go ’round back and do it. Get it over with.”
Kirby squared his shoulders. “I’m a man,” he said, his voice firming. “I lived alone and worked the land and paid the taxes — all by myself. I haven’t cried since Ma died.”
Lot of weight on a boy’s shoulders, Preacher thought. “Well, then, we’d best buy some salt and flour and beans and sich. Get you outfitted. Then we’ll ride on outta here.”
“Where will we meet up with Pa?”
“Brown’s Hole — ifn he’s lucky. Next year. Year after. He’ll get word to us.”
Kirby put a foot on the steps. “Let’s get outfitted.”
The man behind the counter at the trading post had given the boy ten dollars for the scalps in his war bag, winking at Preacher as he did so. Kirby had not seen the wink.
Kirby pointed to a shiny new Henry repeating rifle on the rack. “I want one of those,” he told the man. “And a hundred rounds of .44s.” He took a few coins from the leather bag. “For the Henry, I’ll trade you this Spencer and pay the difference. Whatever is fair.”
Man and boy haggled for fifteen minutes, the man finally throwing up his arms in an exaggerated gesture of surrender. The transaction was done.
Kirby bought an extra cylinder for his left-hand .36, and a sack full of powder and shot.
They rode out.
Preacher told him he knew of a friendly band of Injuns up north of the post a ways. He’d see to it that Smoke got hisself a pair of moccasins and leggings and a buckskin jacket — fancy beaded.
“I ain’t got that kind of money to waste, Preacher.”
“Ain’t gonna cost you nothin’. I know the lady who’ll make ’em.”
“She must like you pretty well.”
Preacher smiled. “She’s my daughter.”
September, 1865
The pair rode easily but carefully through the towering mountains and lush timber. They had once again crossed the Arkansas and were now almost directly between Mt. Elbert to the north, and Mt. Harvard to the south. They had nooned and nighted just outside a small trading post on the banks of the Arkansas — which would later become the town of Buena Vista — and picked up bacon and beans and coffee. They had left before dawn, both of them seeking the solitude of the high lonesome. It had not taken Kirby long to fall prey to the lure of the lonesome. The country was wild and beautiful, and except for Indians, sparsely populated.
“Where’re we headin’?” Kirby asked.
“In a round ’bout way, to one of my cabins. On the North Fork. We’ll have to winter there. It’s gonna be a bad one, too.”
