snow-covered meadow that separated Preacher’s cabin from the woods. The man was wearing a buffalo robe and a fur cap, and as he crossed the meadow he left a long, dark smear in the pristine white snow behind him.
No doubt, this was the one who had attempted to poach on Preacher’s territory. Preacher had left his weapons inside. However, there was a hatchet nearby. Preacher felt a sense of security in believing that if need be, he could arm himself.
Before the man was halfway across the meadow, Preacher recognized him as Henri Mouchette. Preacher not only recognized him, he wasn’t surprised that this was the man who had so blatantly violated the trappers’ code. Mouchette had the reputation of being someone who was very hard to get along with. He was even suspected of stealing from other traps, though as no one had ever actually caught him doing it, the accusation had never been brought before the trappers’ court.
“Hello, Mouchette,” Preacher greeted him. “What brings you by?” Preacher knew full well why Mouchette was here, but he decided to play the game.
Mouchette stopped a few feet away from Preacher. He was breathing rather hard from the effort, both climbing and having to cut a trail through the snow. Clouds of vapor surrounded his head.
“You son of a bitch, you stole my traps,” Mouchette said.
“I haven’t stolen them, Mouchette,” Preacher replied. He pointed to the traps, hanging his front wall. “As you can see, they are hanging right here, in clear sight.”
“They’re here now, but you took them from the stream,” Mouchette said.
“Oh, yes, siree, I did that, all right,“ Preacher said easily. “As a matter of fact, I took them right after you took mine from the stream.”
“That is my place,” Mouchette insisted, pointing to himself with his thumb.
“And what makes you think that is your place, seein’ as I was there first?” Preacher asked.
“I been trappin’ that stream for years. Hell, I was trappin’ it when you was a pup,” Mouchette said.
“You know as well as I do that the first person to arrive at a stream has the right to put out his own traps. I didn’t see any traps there when I arrived.”
“I laid off a couple of years because I didn’t want the stream to be over-trapped,” Mouchette said. “I quit trapping so it could recover. Then, I went back to it, I seen your traps there. I didn’t figure that to be right, so I took ’em out.”
“Are you saying you were trapping there two years ago?” Preacher asked.
“Yeah, that’s what I’m saying. Two years ago, I trapped the stream. Then I let it be for two years.”
“Well, now, that’s where the mistake is,” Preacher said. “You must have your streams mixed up. I have been trapping this same stream for five years now, so you couldn’t have been here two years ago.”
“I ain’t the one that made the mistake. It was you,” Mouchette insisted. “By all that’s right, that stream belongs to me.”
“Not now, it doesn’t. Put your traps somewhere else.”
“I aim to put my traps right back where I had them,” Mouchette insisted. “And I plan to get your traps out of there.”
Preacher’s eyes narrowed. “Well now, Mr. Mouchette, I would strongly advise you against doing that,” he said.
Mouchette glared at Preacher for a long moment. Then, without another word, he took his traps and trekked back into the woods, once more leaving his footprints in the snow behind him. Preacher noted, with some satisfaction, that he wasn’t heading toward the stream in question.
Preacher waited four days before he returned to the stream. Evidently, Mouchette had paid heed to Preacher’s warning, because Preacher’s traps were still in place.
It was nearly three weeks after his encounter with Mouchette when the shot came. Preacher was gathering his first crop of beaver pelt. The traps were full, and the beaver were prime with rich coats. He had bent over to check something when a ball whizzed by, right where his head had been. Had the shot been fired half a second earlier, Preacher’s blood and brains would have decorated the tree beside him. Instead, there was just a streak of green wood in the tree, where the bullet had chewed off a limb and stripped away some of the bark.
Preacher dove to the ground, burrowed into the snow, and turned to look in the direction from which the shot had come. Just below a snow-bearing pine bough, he saw a puff of smoke hanging in the cold, still air. This was where the shot had come from.
Wriggling through the snow on his belly, Preacher returned to his kit. Grabbing his rifle, he rolled onto his back and began loading it. He poured powder into the barrel, then used his ramrod to tamp the wad down. All the while he was loading his rifle, he kept his eyes toward the tree line from which the shot had come. He knew that whoever shot at him would also be reloading, and his assailant had a head start.
Just a Preacher was dropping in the ball, he saw a rifle barrel protrude from the trees, not where the smoke of the first shot was, but from some distance away. His assailant had cleverly changed positions after the first shot.
Preacher rolled hard to the right, just as a flash of fire erupted from the end of the protruding rifle barrel. The ball crashed into the snow where Preacher had been.
“Now, you son of a bitch! You’re empty and I’m loaded,” Preacher said. Standing, he moved quickly toward the puff of smoke.
But Preacher had miscalculated, because another barrel suddenly appeared, not a rifle, but a pistol. Preacher realized, too late, that his assailant had loaded his pistol as well and was holding it in reserve.
Once again, Preacher had to throw himself to the ground in order to avoid being shot, and once again, the ball came so close to him that he could hear it whizzing by his ear. When Preacher hit the ground this time, he felt himself tumbling, slipping, and sliding down the side of a long hill. When he finally stopped, he was more than one hundred feet below where he started.
