“
“It damned shore ain’t Jedediah Smith,” the old man said drily. “We lost him back in ’35, I think it was. Either that or he got married. One and the same if’n you’s to ask me.”
Buck ran toward Preacher and grabbed him in a bear hug, spinning around and around with the old mountain man.
“Great Gawd Amighty!” Preacher hollered. “Put me down, you ox!”
Buck dropped the old man to the ground. His big hands on Preacher’s shoulders, Buck said, “I can’t believe it. I thought you were dead!”
“I damn near was, boy! Took this old body a long time to recover. Now if’n you’re all done a-slobberin’ all over me, we got to make some plans.”
“How’d you find me, Preacher?”
“Hell’s fire, boy! I just followed the bodies! Cain’t you keep them guns of yourn in leather?”
“Come on, Preacher! Tell the truth. I know you’d rather lie, but try real hard.”
“You see how unrespectful he is, Missy?” Preacher looked at Sally. “Cain’t a purty thang lak you do no better than the laks of this gunslick?”
“I’m going to change him,” Sally said primly. She was not certain just how to take this disreputable-looking old man, all dressed in buckskins and looking like death warmed over.
“Uh-huh,” Preacher said. “That’s whut that white wife of mine said, too.”
“White wife!” Buck looked at him. “You never had no wife except squaws!”
“That’s all you know, you pup. I married up with me a white woman that was purtier than Simone Jules Dumont’s mustache.”
“Heavens!” Sally muttered.
Simone Jules Dumont, also known as Madame Mustache, was either from France or a Creole from the Mississippi Delta region—it had never been proven one way or the other. She’d showed up in California during the 1849 gold rush and had soon been named head roulette croupier at the Bella Union in San Francisco. Eventually, Simone had moved on to a livelier occupation: running a gambling saloon/whorehouse at Bannack, Montana. It was there she is rumored to have taught the finer points of card dealing to Calamity Jane. And her mustache continued to grow, as did her reputation. She killed what is thought to be her first husband—a man named Carruthers—after he conned her out of a sizable amount of money. She moved on to Bodie, California, mustache in full bloom, and killed another man there when he and another footpadder tried to rob her one night. She lost most of her money in a card game on the night of September 6, 1879, and passed on through the Pearlies that same night after drinking hydrocyanic acid.
“Did you have any children from that union, Mister Preacher?” Sally asked.
“Durned if’n I know, Missy. I lit a shuck out of there one night. Walls was a-closin’ in on me. I heard she took up with a minister and went back east. I teamed up with John Liver-Eatin’ Johnston for a time. He lost his old woman back in ’47 and went plumb crazy for a time. Called him Crow Killer. He kilt about three hundred Crows and et the livers out of ’em.”
Sally turned a little green around the mouth. Buck had heard the story; he yawned.
“I didn’t think crows were good to eat, Mister Preacher,” Sally said.
“Not the bird, Missy,” Preacher corrected. “The Indian tribe. You see, it was a bunch of Crows on the warpath that kilt Johnston’s old woman. John never did lak Crows after that. Et a bunch of ’em.”
“You mean he was a…
“Only as fer as the liver went,” Preacher said blandly. “He got to lookin’ at me one night while we’s a-camped in the Bitterroot. Right hongry look in his eyes. I took off. Ain’t seen him since. Last I heard, old Crow Killer was a scout for the U.S. Army, over on the North Plains.”
Sally sat back on the bank, averting her eyes, mumbling to herself.
“I wish you had gotten word to me that you were still alive, you old coot,” Buck said.
“Couldn’t. I were plumb out of it for a couple of months. By the time I could ride out of that Injun camp, Nicole and the baby was dead and buried and you was gone. I’m right sorry about Nicole and the boy, Smoke.”
Buck nodded. “Better get use to calling me Buck, Preacher. You might slip up in town and that would be the end of it.”
“I ain’t goin’ into town. Not until you git ready to make your move, that is. You wanna git a message to me, Smoke, they’ll be a miserable-looking old Injun in town named Hunts-Long. Flathead. Wears a derby hat. He’ll git word to me. Me and the boys was spotted last yesterday, so we’ll be changin’ locations.” He told Buck where. “I’s tole you met up with Audie.” That was said with a grin.
“I thought I was seeing things. I thought he was an elf.”
“He’s the furrtherest thang from an elf. That little man will kill you faster than you can spit. Yessir, Smoke, you got some backup that’ll be wrote up strong when they writes about the buryin’ of Bury. Got Tenneysee, Audie, Phew, Nighthawk, Dupre, Deadlead, Powder Pete, Greybull, Beartooth, and Lobo. And me. ’Course I’m a better man than all them combined,” Preacher said, in his usual modest manner. “And Matt.”
“Phew?” Sally said. “Why in Heaven’s name would you call a man that?”
“’Cause he stinks, Missy.”
“I know Matt. The negro.”
“That’s him. Ol’ one-eye.” Preacher stuck out his hand. “Be lookin’ at you, Smoke. You take care, now.” He whistled for his pony and the spotted horse trotted over. Preacher jumped onto the mustang’s back and was
