Preacher grunted. “Reckon until it sort of evens out, I’ll have to paint my face like an Injun. I ought to be able to make some paint to darken that part of it.”
He did, using berries and mud. It wasn’t a perfect solution, but he thought it would do. He wouldn’t wear his hat during the two days he’d have to wait for Uncle Dan to get back, and that much exposure to the sun might help a little, too.
He used the razor to cut his hair, and when he was done, he looked at Dog and asked, “What do you think?”
The big cur stared at him as if puzzled, and after a moment a deep, rumbling growl came from the dog’s throat.
“What the hell!” Preacher exclaimed. “Don’t you know me?”
Dog stopped growling and came forward tentatively to sniff at Preacher’s hand. The mountain man laughed.
“I reckon if I can fool you, Dog, I can fool Shad Beaumont and his men.”
Preacher was camped in a grove of trees not far from the river. He laid low when the occasional rider or wagon came by. Two days passed without incident, but Preacher was glad when Uncle Dan rode in on the second evening. Sitting around and doing nothing gnawed at his guts. Always had and, he supposed, always would. He was the sort of man who liked to stay busy.
Soon he would be busy, all right . . . figuring out the best way to kill Shad Beaumont.
Uncle Dan had a paper-wrapped bundle tied onto the horse behind him. He swung down from the saddle and cut the bundle loose, then tossed it to Preacher.
“Here you go,” the old-timer said. “You’re gonna look like you’re from back east, Preacher.”
“You didn’t get duds that’ll make me look like some sort of city fella, did you?” Preacher asked as he untied the cord holding the paper around the bundle.
“Nope. You said you wanted to look like a farm boy, so that’s what I got.”
Preacher unwrapped the bundle and found a pair of brown corduroy work trousers, a butternut shirt of linsey- woolsey, a pair of lace-up boots, and a funny-looking hat with a rounded crown. He frowned at the hat and asked, “What the hell is this?”
“Fella at the store where I bought the duds called it a quaker hat. He said farmers back in Pennsylvania wear ’em.”
“Stupid-lookin’ thing, if you ask me.” Preacher put it on his head and looked at Uncle Dan. “What do you think?”
The old-timer’s mouth worked under the white beard, and after a moment Preacher realized that Uncle Dan was trying hard not to bust out laughing. He managed to say, “I reckon with that hat and the rest o’ the getup, and with those cheeks o’ yours bein’ as smooth as a baby’s bee-hind, there ain’t no way in Hades that Beaumont or his men ought to recognize you, Preacher.”
“Good.” Preacher tapped the quaker hat. “That’s just what I want.”
“What’re you gonna call yourself? You’re gonna need a different name, ain’t you?”
Preacher frowned as he pondered that. He thought about calling himself Arthur or Art, since that was actually his name. He had even gone by Art for a while, during the early days of his fur-trapping career in the Rockies. He had been dubbed Preacher after he’d been captured by the Blackfeet and had to start preaching for hours on end, the way he had once seen a fella do in St. Louis, to convince the Indians that he was crazy so they would spare his life. After the story got around, he had been called Preacher ever since.
It was just barely possible somebody might remember that the man called Preacher had once been known as Art, so it would be better not to use that, he decided.
“Reckon I’ll call myself Jim,” he said after a minute. “That’s simple and easy to remember. Jim Donnelly, maybe, after those folks we met with the wagon train.”
“All right, Jim Donnelly.” Uncle Dan grinned. “Pleased to meetcha.”
“Shad Beaumont will be, too . . . at first.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I’ve been thinkin’ about it the whole time you were gone. And here’s what we’re gonna do . . .”
Chapter 10
A few days later, Preacher rode up to a ferry landing on the east bank of the Mississippi and looked across the broad, majestically flowing river at the settlement on the other side. St. Louis had grown into a sprawling, perpetually busy city in the seventy or so years since the fur traders Pierre Liguest and Rene Chouteau had founded it.
Preacher had heard it said that six or seven thousand people lived there now. It seemed hard to believe there were that many people in the world, let alone that many crowded into one town. Smoke rose from hundreds of chimneys over there, putting a stink in the air. At least, it stunk as far as Preacher was concerned. He was used to the crisp, clean air of the high country.
The old man who ran the ferry emerged from his shack on the riverbank and asked, “You lookin’ to get across to St. Louis, son?”
Preacher nodded. “That’s right. I don’t see the ferry boat, though.”
“That’s ’cause it’s on the other side. Be back soon, and it’ll be crossin’ again prob’ly in an hour or so. You in a big hurry?”
“Nope,” Preacher replied with a shake of his head.
