together with pitch, cut through the water.
Preacher heard the dull boom of a shot at the same time as he saw the lead ball
Some son of a buck had just taken a shot at him!
Come pretty damned close, too, considering the range. Preacher’s long-barreled flintlock rifle lay across the canoe slats in front of him. He put the paddle down and snatched up the weapon. It was already loaded and primed—an unloaded weapon wouldn’t do a fella a lot of good if trouble came at him unexpectedly—so all he had to do was lift it to his shoulder and ear back the hammer. He figured the bushwhacker on the riverbank would have moved as soon as he fired that first shot. Question was, had he gone right or left?
One guess was just as likely to be correct as the other, so Preacher followed his gut and aimed just to the left of where he’d seen that puff of powder smoke. He pressed the trigger. The rifle roared and kicked back against his shoulder.
He didn’t know if he hit the bushwhacker or not, but a moment later he heard the faint drumming of hoofbeats and saw a haze of dust rising in the air. Somebody was taking off for the tall and uncut over yonder, and Preacher figured it was the varmint who had tried to shoot him.
“Damn pirate,” he said as his eyes narrowed with disgust. He figured the bushwhacker had a canoe hidden over there on the bank somewhere, and if the man had succeeded in killing him, he would have paddled out, tied a line to Preacher’s canoe, and towed it back into shore with its load of furs.
Preacher couldn’t even begin to understand why a man would rather steal and even kill than work for a living, but he knew that a lot of folks were that way.
He reloaded the rifle and placed it back in the bottom of the canoe, in easy reach in case he needed it again. Then he picked up the paddle and started back in with it—right, left, right, left, on down the river to St. Louis.
A number of keelboats and steamboats were tied up at the docks extending into the Mississippi from the settlement’s waterfront. Not being fond of crowds, Preacher headed for shore before he reached that point. He found a place at the edge of town where he could pull the canoe out of the water and put in there. A chunky boy about ten years old, wearing a coonskin cap, watched with great interest as the tall, rawboned, buckskin-clad man dragged the canoe full of pelts onto the shore.
Preacher turned and grinned at the youngster. “Howdy, son,” he said.
In an awestruck voice, the boy asked, “Are you a mountain man, mister?”
“You betcha,” Preacher replied, still grinning.
The boy pointed at the rifle in Preacher’s hands and the pair of flintlock pistols bucked behind his wide belt. “Are them guns loaded?”
“They sure are. Wouldn’t do me much good if they weren’t, happen I should need ’em, now would they?”
“No, I reckon not. You ever shoot any Injuns?”
Preacher nodded, his expression solemn now. “Been known to,” he said. “But only when they didn’t give me no other choice. And I been good friends with a whole heap o’ redskins, too.”
“My pa says all Injuns are bad. He says they’re all heathen savages.”
“I reckon that’s because he ain’t never met the right ones. Indians is like any other kind o’ folks. Some are the best friends you’ll ever find, and some are just low-down skunks. You’d do well to remember that, younker.”
The boy nodded.
“You know a gent name of Joel Larson?” Preacher went on. Larson worked for one of the fur companies here in St. Louis, and Preacher had done business with him on several occasions in the past. Larson was honest and could be counted on to give him a fair price for his pelts.
“I know who he is,” the boy said. “My pa works in the fur warehouses.”
Preacher nodded. “Would you do me a favor?”
The boy’s eyes widened. “Sure!”
“Go down to the docks and find Mr. Larson for me. Tell him that Preacher’s waitin’ up here with a load o’ plews to sell to him.”
The youngster’s eyes bugged out even more. “You’re the fella they call Preacher?”
“Yep. Last time I looked anyway.” Preacher dug in one of the pockets of his buckskins and brought out an elk’s tooth. “Here you go,” he said as he tossed the tooth to the boy. “That’s for helpin’ me out.”
The boy had plucked the tooth out of the air and now stood there for a second, staring at it in awe. Not only was the famous mountain man known as Preacher asking him for help, but Preacher was even willing to give him an elk’s tooth as payment. Everybody knew that elk’s teeth were good luck.
“Run along now.”
“Yes, sir!” Clutching the lucky token in his pudgy hand, the youngster turned around and ran toward the docks and warehouses along the waterfront.
Preacher sat on a tree stump and waited. A short time later, the boy returned, and following him was a dark- haired, mustachioed man in a swallowtail coat and beaver hat. The man smiled at Preacher and said, “I didn’t expect to see you for a few weeks yet.”
“Trappin’ was good,” Preacher explained as he shook hands with Joel Larson. Then he waved a hand toward the canoe full of pelts and added, “Reckon you can see that for yourself.”
“Indeed I can. I’ll look the furs over and make you an offer.” Larson glanced over at the boy and went on. “Thank you for fetching me, Jake. Nobody brings in better pelts than Preacher.”
“I was glad to, Mr. Larson,” the boy piped up. “If you need me to do anything else, Mr. Preacher, sir, you just let me know.”
