Preacher's Fire

“Is that all?” Buckhalter asked coldly. “Or would you like to insult our intelligence some more?”

“Mister, what the hell is wrong with you?” Uncle Dan said. “Preacher and me are just tryin’ to help you, and you go outta your way to insult us.”

Preacher lifted a hand and said, “Forget it, Uncle Dan. Some fellas just don’t like havin’ their authority challenged. I reckon Buckhalter’s the boss here, and what he says, goes.”

Buckhalter sniffed and then jerked his head in a nod, as if to reinforce what Preacher had just said.

“That means the blood of all them folks in the wagons will be on his head if somethin’ goes wrong,” Preacher continued. “It ain’t none of our business.”

He started to turn Horse away, but before he could do so, Donnelly prodded his mount ahead of the others and said, “Wait a minute.”

When Preacher looked back at him, Donnelly went on, “I don’t know if you’re right about the Pawnee or not. Mr. Buckhalter hasn’t given us any reason to doubt his experience. But I’d like for you to make camp with us tonight so that everybody can hear what you have to say.”

Wearing an angry expression on his bearded face, Buckhalter moved his horse alongside Donnelly’s and said, “I’m the chief guide and wagon master of this train, Mr. Donnelly, and I don’t appreciate you casting doubt on me by listening to these tramps. We all agreed that I’m in charge here.”

“I mean no offense,” Donnelly said, “and it’s true you’re the wagon master, Mr. Buckhalter. But those folks elected me their captain before we left St. Louis, and I feel a great deal of responsibility for them. I don’t think it’ll hurt any of us to listen to these men.”

“We’ve heard them already,” Buckhalter said. “And I say they’re mistaken.”

“Hard to be mistaken about six dead warriors,” Preacher drawled. “And one of ’em, a fella called Bent Stick, talked before he died. He told us about a chief named Standin’ Elk leadin’ a war party through these parts. Uncle Dan and I crossed their trail earlier today, back yonder a ways. They number at least twenty men, and they were headin’ for the river. Like I said, you’ve got ’em outnumbered . . . but chances are, most, if not all, of those fellas are seasoned killers. That means they’re more dangerous than a bunch of immigrants.”

“Ride with us, and make camp with us tonight,” Donnelly urged. “You’ll have a chance to speak your piece, Mister . . . Preacher, was it?”

“Just Preacher. No mister.”

“You can speak your piece,” Donnelly said again, “and I promise that we’ll all listen.”

Buckhalter snorted and shook his head, but he didn’t say anything else.

Uncle Dan ran his fingers through his beard. “I was just tellin’ Preacher earlier that it’d be mighty nice to eat a woman-cooked meal again. And the strings on my fiddle are just achin’ to have a bow scraped across them.”

“We have some pretty good fiddle players among us,” Donnelly said with a smile. “We have music almost every evening, and I’m sure they wouldn’t mind if you joined in.”

“All right,” Preacher said. He agreed almost as much to annoy Buckhalter as anything else. He felt an instinctive dislike for the hombre.

Donnelly turned to Buckhalter. “It’s fairly late in the afternoon. Should we go ahead and start looking for a place to make camp?”

Buckhalter jutted his beard toward Preacher and said, “Why don’t you ask him?”

Then he turned his horse and rode toward the wagons.

“Didn’t mean to cause trouble betwixt you and your wagon boss,” Uncle Dan said. “We just wanted to let you know about them Injuns.”

Donnelly shook his head. He was a middle-aged, solemn-faced man with graying hair who looked like he might have been a storekeeper or a lawyer back east.

“He’s been touchy the entire trip,” Donnelly said. “He’ll get over it. I think he’s just a very proud man who doesn’t like having his judgment questioned.”

Preacher said, “It’s a good thing for a man to take pride in himself . . . just not so much that he can’t listen to what other folks have to say.”

The men turned their horses and rode toward the wagons. Donnelly gestured toward his two companions and said, “This is Mike Moran and Pete Stallworth, two more of our scouts and guides.”

“How many scouts are out now?” Preacher asked.

“Two. Fred Jennings and Liam MacKenzie. Don’t worry, they’re good men.”

Preacher figured he’d reserve judgment on that. Not that it was his place to be passing judgment on any of these folks, he reminded himself. He didn’t like it when people did that to him.

Moran was a tall, burly gent with a face that looked like it had been hacked out of the side of a granite mountain. Stallworth was short and stocky, with thick blond hair sticking out from under a hat pushed back on his head. Preacher said to them, “You fellas work for Buckhalter?”

“He’s the wagon master,” Stallworth replied with a friendly grin. “It was Mr. Donnelly here who hired us, though, and him and the rest of those pilgrims who’re payin’ us.”

“So there are five guides, countin’ Buckhalter?”

“That’s right.”

“Been to the mountains much?”

“I trapped out there a couple of seasons,” Stallworth said. “Know my way around pretty good, I reckon.”