He and Uncle Dan heeled their horses into motion and rode toward the wagon train. The four riders leading the way brought their mounts to a halt, evidently waiting for Preacher and Uncle Dan to get there. As they came closer, Preacher saw that one man was sitting his saddle slightly ahead of the other three. He was a barrel-chested hombre wearing a flat-crowned hat. A brown beard came halfway down his chest. Preacher pegged him for the boss of the wagon train.
As they came up and brought their horses to a stop again, Preacher lifted his right hand, palm out, in the universal sign that said their intentions were peaceful.
Those fellas with the wagon train must not have known that, though, because the one with the beard snapped, “Now!” and the other three suddenly jerked pistols from their belts and leveled the weapons at Preacher and Uncle Dan.
Chapter 3
Preacher fought down the impulse to lift the rifle he carried in front of him across his saddle and blaze away at the men before they could open fire. He didn’t cotton to having guns pointed at him, and his instincts wanted him to do something about it.
But he noticed that the men hadn’t cocked the pistols. Their thumbs were looped over the hammers, so they could cock and fire in a matter of a second or two if they needed to, but it seemed that gunplay wasn’t imminent.
“Hold on there!” Preacher said. “We’re peaceable men.”
The big, bearded wagon master, if that’s who he was, glared at Preacher and said in a booming voice, “You look more like highwaymen to me, mister! If you have any thoughts of robbing these poor immigrants, you’d better put them out of your head right now.”
“Highwaymen?” Uncle Dan repeated. “We’re just poor, honest fur trappers, on our way to Sant Looey.”
“That’s right,” Preacher said. It was getting harder and harder to just sit there with those guns pointed at him. It made his trigger finger itchy. “His name’s Dan Sullivan, and I’m called Preacher.”
The wagon boss shook his head. “Those names mean nothing to us. We don’t know any of the trash that currently inhabits the Rocky Mountains.”
“Trash, is it?” Preacher muttered under his breath. He was starting to like this pompous windbag less and less.
But he kept a tight rein on his temper and went on, “The only reason we rode up here is to tell you folks that there may be a Pawnee war party waitin’ up ahead for you, somewhere in the next few miles. If Uncle Dan and I spotted the dust from your wagons, you can damned well bet the Pawnees did.”
One of the other men lowered his gun slightly and said, “You hear that, Mr. Buckhalter? Savages!”
“I heard,” the barrel-chested, bearded man said. “And I told you, Donnelly, that there was a chance of encountering Indians on our way to Oregon. You knew the risk when you joined the wagon train.”
“Yeah, but shouldn’t we listen to these fellas?” the man called Donnelly asked. “They’re bound to know this part of the country. I mean, just look at ’em.”
“I know the country, too,” Buckhalter snapped. “This isn’t the first wagon train I’ve guided west. And I know that this isn’t Pawnee territory. The only Indians in these parts are friendly ones.”
Uncle Dan couldn’t stand it anymore, and Preacher understood the feeling. “Why, you tarnal idjit!” the old-timer burst out. “Half a dozen o’ them so-called friendly Injuns tried to lift our hair yesterday, and they was just scouts from a bigger war party. You keep goin’ the way you’re goin’ and they’ll jump you, sure as shootin’!”
Preacher looked along the line of wagons, which had come to a stop while he and Uncle Dan talked to the riders. “How many men do you have along with you?”
Buckhalter gave him a stony stare and didn’t answer, but Donnelly said, “Between fifty and sixty, counting the boys who are almost grown. There are thirty-eight wagons in the train.”
“Well, then, you’ve got that war party outnumbered almost three to one. Maybe they’ll see that and decide not to attack.”
“Do you think we can count on that?”
Preacher leaned over in the saddle and spat on the ground. “Mister, you can’t count on
Donnelly turned to Buckhalter and said, “I think we should do something about this.”
“What would you have us do?” Buckhalter demanded. “Turn back to St. Louis? Give up on all your hopes and dreams?”
“I didn’t say that—”
“Nothing worthwhile in this life comes without risk,” Buckhalter went on.
Preacher couldn’t argue with that sentiment. He knew it was true. But that didn’t mean a fella had to be foolish when it came to risks.
“None of you folks asked me for my advice—” he began.
“That’s right, we didn’t,” Buckhalter said.
“—but I’m gonna give it to you anyway,” Preacher went on as if he hadn’t been interrupted. “Get some scouts on fast horses well out in front of the wagons. When you make camp for the night, pull the wagons in a tight circle and get all the livestock inside. Post plenty of guards and make sure they’re hombres who can stay awake and alert. The Pawnee will slip up on a man and cut his throat before he knows what’s goin’ on if he ain’t mighty careful. Make sure everybody who can use a gun has one handy, and keep ’em loaded. They ain’t gonna do you any good otherwise, ’cause the Indians won’t wait around until you’re ready to put up a fight.”
