Preacher's Fire

Came a time, though, late that afternoon, when Uncle Dan pointed to the northeast, toward the river, and said, “Look at that dust up yonder.”

Preacher nodded. “Saw it ten minutes ago.”

“Well, why in blazes didn’t you say somethin’ about it then?”

“Wanted to see how long it’d take you to notice it,” Preacher replied with a grin.

“Uh-huh. And if you hadn’t spotted it first, you wouldn’t admit it, would you? Let a feeble old man beat you to it.”

“You’re about as feeble as a grizzly bear. You are old, though.”

“You will be, too, one o’ these days, if you live long enough. Which means you better stop mouthin’ off to your elders. Now, what’re we gonna do about that dust?”

“Why do we have to do anything about it?” Preacher asked as he shrugged his shoulders. “Probably just some buffs driftin’ along the river.”

“You know better’n that,” Uncle Dan said. “Buffler move too slow to raise a cloud o’ dust except when they’re stampedin’, and if that was the case, there’d be even more of it in the air. No, I seen dust like that before. It comes from ox hooves and wagon wheels.”

“A wagon train, in other words.”

“Damn right.”

Preacher sighed. The same thought had occurred to him, but he had pushed it out of his head. He didn’t want anything else interfering with the mission that was taking him back east to St. Louis.

Now that Uncle Dan had put the problem into words, though, Preacher knew he couldn’t very well ignore it.

“And you know what them pilgrims may be headed right into,” Uncle Dan went on. “They keep movin’ upriver, they’re liable to run smack-dab into Standin’ Elk and that Pawnee war party.”

“They’re bound to know they might encounter hostiles. You said it your own self this mornin’, Uncle Dan. Anybody who’s gonna come out here on the frontier needs to keep his eyes open and his powder dry.”

The old-timer ran his fingers through his beard and scratched at his jaw. “Yeah, I did say that, didn’t I? But I was thinkin’ more o’ fur trappers and river men. Fellas who can take care o’ themselves. There’s liable to be women n’ kids with that wagon train.”

Preacher figured it was a safe bet there would be women and children with the wagon train. He had seen it happening all too often in recent years. With the population growing back east, folks were starting to get crowded out. They wanted to come west to find new land and new opportunities. He supposed he couldn’t blame them all that much. He had done pretty much the same thing himself, after all.

But he hadn’t dragged a wife and a passel of young’uns with him when he lit out for the tall and uncut. In fact, he’d been nothing but a youngster himself, with no one else to be responsible for. He couldn’t imagine a man packing up his family and bringing them out here.

These days, a lot of men did just that, though. Preacher didn’t figure the trend would stop any time soon, either. Once it had started, trying to stop it was like standing in front of an avalanche and hollering, “Whoa!”

“You think we ought to go warn ’em,” he said now to Uncle Dan. “Tell ’em to be on the lookout for Standin’ Elk.”

“Seems like the neighborly thing to do.”

“I don’t recollect askin’ a bunch of immigrants to be my neighbors,” Preacher pointed out. “Fact of the matter is, I wish they’d all stayed back east where they belong.”

“Wishin’ that’s like tryin’ to push water back up a waterfall,” Uncle Dan said, which worked just as well as thinking of the tide of immigration as an avalanche, Preacher decided. “We won’t have to go all that far out of our way, and it won’t take that long. We can just tell ’em about them Pawnee and then go on our way.” Uncle Dan paused. “Or they might invite us to stay the night with ’em. Might be nice to eat a woman-cooked meal for a change, or unlimber that fiddle o’ mine and play a few tunes with some other fellas.”

Preacher had to admit that didn’t sound so bad. At most, detouring to warn the wagon train about the war party wouldn’t cost him and Uncle Dan more than part of a day. And that wouldn’t make a bit of difference in the long run.

“All right,” he said. “Let’s go see if we can head ’em off.”

They turned their horses and rode due north toward the river. That would put them in front of the wagon train. Fifteen minutes later, they came to the broad valley of the Missouri. The Big Muddy had some size to it here. In fact, it wasn’t even muddy at the moment. It was a wide, pretty blue stream that flowed between green, grassy banks. Preacher and Uncle Dan rode down to the edge of the river and reined in.

Dog ran at some ducks floating around at the edge of the stream and barked enthusiastically at them. The ducks continued paddling around regally, ignoring the big cur until Dog couldn’t stand the temptation anymore and splashed out into the water. Then the ducks squawked and took flight, rising above the water. Preacher had to laugh as Dog emerged from the water, dripping wet, and then shook off sheepishly.

“Yeah, you showed them ducks who’s boss, all right,” Preacher told him.

“Yonder come the wagons,” Uncle Dan said.

Preacher looked along the stream. The wagon train was on the same side of the river he and Uncle Dan were. Several men rode out in front of it on horseback, about fifty yards ahead of the lead wagon. They ought to have at least one scout farther ahead than that, Preacher thought, and wondered if the man had already gone past this spot. Behind the outriders came the wagons themselves, a line of canvas-covered prairie schooners so long that Preacher couldn’t see the end of it, each wagon being pulled by a team of either four or six oxen.

“Fella in charge is probably one of those out in front there,” Preacher said. “Let’s go talk to him.”