Preacher smiled and pulled another Henry repeating rifle from his pack. Unpredictable as mountain men were, he tossed the second Henry to Emmett, along with a sack of cartridges.
“Now we be friends,” Preacher said. He laughed, exposing tobacco-stained stubs of teeth.
“I’ll pay you for this,” Emmett said, running his hands over the sleek barrel.
“Ain’t necessary,” Preacher replied. “I won both of ’em in a contest outside Westport Landing. Kansas City to you. ’Sides, somebody’s got to look out for the two of you. Ya’ll liable to wander ’round out here and get hurt. ’Pears to me don’t neither of you know tit from tat ’bout stayin’ alive in Injun country.”
“You may be right,” Emmett admitted. He loaded the Henry. “So thank you kindly.”
Preacher looked at Kirby. “Boy, you heeled — so you gonna get in this fight, or not?”
“Sir?”
“Heeled. Means you carryin’ a gun, so that makes you a man. Ain’t you got no rifle ’cept that muzzle loader?”
“No, sir.”
“Take your daddy’s Sharps, then. You seen him load it, you know how. Take that tin box of tubes, too. You watch out for our backs. Them Pawnees — and they is Pawnees — likely to come ’crost that crick. You in wild country boy … you may as well get bloodied.”
“Do it, Kirby,” his father said. “And watch yourself. Don’t hesitate a second to shoot. Those savages won’t show you any mercy, so you do the same to them.”
Kirby, a little pale around the mouth, took up the heavy Sharps and the box of tubes, reloaded the rifle, and made himself as comfortable as possible on the rear slope of the slight incline, overlooking the creek.
“Not there, boy.” Preacher corrected Kirby’s position. “Your back is open to the front line of fire. Get behind that tree ’twixt us and you. That way, you won’t catch no lead or arrow in the back.”
The boy did as he was told, feeling a bit foolish that he had not thought about his back. Hadn’t he read enough dime novels to know that? he chastised himself. Nervous sweat dripped from his forehead as he waited.
He had to go to the bathroom something awful.
A half hour passed, the only action the always moving Kansas winds chasing tumbleweeds, the southward moving waters of the creek, and an occasional slap of a fish.
“What are they waiting for?” Emmett asked the question without taking his eyes from the ridge.
“For us to get careless,” Preacher said. “Don’t you fret none … they still out there. I been livin’ in and ’round Injuns the better part of fifty year. I know ’em better — or at least as good — as any livin’ white man. They’ll try to wait us out. They got nothing but time, boys.”
“No way we can talk to them?” Emmett asked, and immediately regretted saying it as Preacher laughed.
“Why, shore, Emmett,” the mountain man said. “You just stand up, put your hands in the air, and tell ’em you want to palaver some. They’ll probably let you walk right up to ’em. Odds are, they’ll even let you speak your piece; they polite like that. A white man can ride right into nearabouts any Injun village. They’ll feed you, sign-talk to you, and give you a place a sleep. Course … gettin’
“They ain’t like us, Emmett. They don’t come close to thinkin’ like us. What is fun to them is torture to us. They call it testin’ a man’s bravery. Ifn a man dies good — that is, don’t holler a lot — they make it last as long as possible. Then they’ll sing songs about you, praise you for dyin’ good. Lots of white folks condemn ’em for that, but it’s just they way of life.
“They got all sorts of ways to test a man’s bravery and strength. They might — dependin’ on the tribe — strip you, stake you out over a big anthill, then pour honey over you. Then they’ll squat back and watch, see how well you die.”
Kirby felt sick at his stomach.
“Or they might bury you up to your neck in the ground, slit your eyelids so you can’t close ’em, and let the sun blind you. Then, after your eyes is burnt blind, they’ll dig you up and turn you loose naked out in the wild … trail you for days, seein’ how well you die.”
Kirby positioned himself better behind the tree and quietly went to the bathroom. If a bean is a bean, the boy thought, what’s a pea? A relief.
Preacher just wouldn’t shut up about it. “Out in the deserts, now, them Injuns get downright mean with they fun. They’ll cut out your eyes, cut off your privates, then slit the tendons in your ankles so’s you can’t do nothin’ but flop around on the sand. They get a big laugh out of that. Or they might hang you upside down over a little fire. The ’Paches like to see hair burn. They a little strange ’bout that.
“Or, if they like you, they might put you through what they call the run of the arrow. I lived through that … once. But I was some younger. Damned ifn I want to do it agin at my age. Want me to tell you ’bout that little game?”
“No!” Emmett said quickly. “I get your point.”
“Figured you would. Point is, don’t let ’em ever take you alive. Kirby, now, they’d probably keep for work or trade. But that’s chancy, he being nearabout a man growed.” The mountain man tensed a bit, then said, “Look alive, boy, and stay that way. Here they come.” He winked at Kirby.
“How do you know that, Preacher?” Kirby asked. “I don’t see anything.”
“Wind just shifted. Smelled ’em. They close, been easin’ up through the grass. Get ready.”
Kirby wondered how the old man could smell anything over the fumes from his own body.
Emmett, a veteran of four years of continuous war, could not believe an enemy could slip up on him in open daylight. At the sound of Preacher jacking back the hammer of his Henry .44, Emmett shifted his eyes from his perimeter for just a second. When he again looked back at his field of fire, a big, painted-up buck was almost on top
