But with the man he called Smoke, the mountain man knew what he felt must be love, for in Smoke was everything the old man would want in a son: strength, daring, courage, eager to face the unknown, willing to learn, to pit himself against the wilderness. Then, finally, the old man admitted the truth: He did not want Smoke to face the men on that list — for fear of losing him. He had been deliberately holding him back.
The rattle of sabers and the pounding of hoofs broke into Preacher’s ruminations.
“Men comin’!” he called.
The young man known but to a few white men as Smoke stepped out of the cabin. His guns, as always, belted around his waist, the right hand Colt hanging lower than the butt-forward left gun. Had there been a woman with the detachment of cavalry, she would have called the young man handsome, and her heart might have beat just a bit faster, for he was striking-looking.
“Hello!” the officer in charge called. “I was not aware this area was inhabited by white men.”
“You is now,” Preacher said shortly,
“My name is Major John Wesley Powell, United States Army.”
“I’m Preacher. This here is Smoke. An’ now that we know each other, why don’t you leave?”
The major laughed good-naturedly. “Why, sir, we’ve come to do a bit of exploring.”
His good humor was not returned by either man. “What do you want to know ’bout this country?” Preacher asked. “Just name it, and I’ll tell you — save you a mess of trouble. Then you can leave.”
“May we dismount?”
“Dismount, sit, squat, stand, or kick your heels up in the air. It don’t make no difference to me.”
Major Powell laughed openly, heartily, then dismounted, telling his sergeant to have the men dismount and stand easy. “You old mountain men never cease to amaze me. And I mean that as a compliment,” he added. His eyes turned to Kirby. “But you’re far too young to have been a mountain man. Are you men related?”
“I’m his son,” Preacher said with a straight face. “He fell in the Fountain of Youth a few years back, but he bumped his head doin’ it and now he can’t recall where it is. I’m waitin’.”
Preacher glanced at the old scout with the army and then looked away.
“I got things to tell you, Preacher,” the scout said.
“All right.”
“Well,” the major said with a smile. He cleared his throat. “Tell me, what do either of you men know about the river that flows through the canyon?”
“It’s wet,” Kirby said.
“And it ain’t no place for a pilgrim,” Preacher added.
“Then I take it that both of you have traversed the Green River?”
Preacher looked at Kirby for translation.
“Been down it,” Kirby said.
“Hell yes, I been down it,” Preacher said. “I been down it, up it, through it, crost it, and one time, back in ’39, over it.”
“The only man to ever shoot those rapids,” a young lieutenant contradicted, “was General Ashley, back in ’23 and ’24.”
“Yeah,” Kirby said. “His name’s still on the rock on the eastern side of the canyon wall. And don’t never again call Preacher a liar.”
The young officer stirred until the major called him softly down. “Stand easy, Robert.” In a lower voice, heard only by a sergeant and the young officer, he said, “This is your first tour of duty out here. Bob — you know nothing of western men. Until you learn more about the customs here, it would behoove you to curb your tongue. Calling a man a liar, or merely inferring he is one, is a shooting matter west of the Mississippi. This is not Philadelphia, so just be quiet.” He looked at Kirby. “He meant no offense, Mr. Smoke.”
“Not mister — just Smoke.”
“Unusual name,” the major remarked.
“I give it to him,” Preacher said. “After he kilt his first two men. I think he was fifteen, thereabouts.”
The young lieutenant paled slightly.
The major said, “We saw a grave coming in. The name was Jensen.”
“My father.”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“Not nearly as sorry as the men who killed him will be.”
Preacher looked at him. “You make your mind up?”
“About a half an hour ago.”
“We goin’ after ’em?”
