A Big Sky Christmas (27 page)

The reunion was a happy one, although Jamie's pleasure at seeing the old mountain man called Preacher was tempered by Reverend Bradford's sudden and senseless death. The two veteran frontiersmen shook hands and slapped each other heartily on the back.

Almost forty years had passed since Jamie and Preacher had first met down in Texas. Since then, they had run into each other from time to time, often with years between meetings.

Jamie wasn't sure exactly how old Preacher was, but he knew the mountain man was at least a decade older than him. If anyone had asked him, he wouldn't have been sure whether Preacher was even still alive.

Obviously, Preacher had proven to be amazingly resilient. Jamie wasn't sure the gun or knife had been made that could kill the old buckskinner.

“Who's this?” Jamie asked with a nod toward the young man accompanying Preacher.

“Fella name of Smoke,” Preacher said. “Smoke Jensen. We been driftin' around together for the past few years, ever since Smoke's pa got hisself killed by some no-good polecats. Heard a rumor those varmints might be over in Idaho, so we're sort of amblin' in that direction.”

“Plan to settle the score, do you?”

“I do,” Smoke said curtly.

“Smoke's about as naturally fast on the draw as anybody I ever seen,” Preacher said with a note of pride in his voice. “That's how come I started callin' him Smoke. His real front handle is Kirby, but he don't go by it no more. I pree-dict you'll be hearin' a heap about him on down the line.”

Smoke shook his head. “I'm not looking for a reputation. Just justice.”

Preacher waved a hand toward his other two companions. “You remember Audie and Nighthawk, of course.”

“Sure.” Jamie shook hands with both men, former fur trappers who were long-time friends of Preacher. “How are you, Audie?”

“Exceedingly fine,” the short white man answered. “The fresh air and hardy life I've experienced out here on the frontier seems to have allowed me to stave off decrepitude, at least for the time being.”

Audie spoke like an educated man, which was exactly what he was. At one time, he had been a professor at a college back east before he had abandoned that stifling academic life and headed west. Although he was small in size, he had the fighting heart and spirit of a much larger man.

Jamie went on. “You're looking good, Nighthawk.”

The impassive Crow warrior nodded solemnly. “Ummm.”

“Still as talkative as ever, I see,” Jamie commented with a grin. “Fellas, this young scalawag is Bodie Cantrell. Big hombre with the beard over there is Hector Gilworth, and the fella with him is his cousin Jess Neville.” Jamie went on to introduce the other men in the rescue party.

“Who's the sky pilot who got in the way of a bullet?” Preacher asked.

“That would be Reverend Thomas Bradford,” Jamie said. “Pa to those two youngsters.”

Preacher's expressive mouth twisted in a grimace. “Tough on young'uns, seein' their pa gunned down like that.”

“Yeah. They got carried off by some of those Blackfeet, and we were trying to get 'em back when we got pinned down here. It's a mighty good thing for us you came along when you did. What did you do, pull that old trick of yours where you slip into the enemy's camp during the night and cut some throats?”

Preacher chuckled. “It does tend to shake folks up a mite to find a few of their compadres with new mouths carved in their necks. When it got light, Audie and me stampeded the ponies that belonged to each bunch, whilst Smoke and Nighthawk waded in, their hoglegs a-blazin'. Every way those redskinned varmints turned, they was either a bullet or a wild-eyed bronc waitin' to ventilate 'em or trample 'em. Didn't take much o' that to make 'em light a shuck.”

“What's left of the two bunches are liable to get together somewhere,” Jamie mused. “We'd better get on back to the wagons while we can.”

“Wagons?” Preacher repeated. “These fellas are from a wagon train?”

“That's right. Bound for Eagle Valley in Montana Territory.”

“Mighty pretty place,” Preacher said. “But in case you ain't noticed the chill in the air . . . it's December! What sort of dang fool takes a wagon train to Montana at this time o' year?”

“You're looking at him,” Jamie said.

The old mountain man snorted. “I stand by that dang fool business.”

“I'm not arguing the point. But we're here, and I'm bound and determined to get those pilgrims where they're going by Christmas.” An idea occurred to Jamie. “Why don't the four of you come along with us?”

“Told you, we're headed for Idaho,” Preacher said with a frown.

“And that's the general direction we're going,” Jamie pointed out. “I wouldn't mind visiting with you for a while, Preacher . . . and having four more good men along for the rest of the trip wouldn't exactly make me unhappy, either.”

Preacher scratched his grizzled jaw in thought and looked at Smoke. “What do you think, youngster? It's your pa we're goin' to settle the score for.”

Smoke pondered the question for a moment, then said in his grave manner, “Chances are some of the passes where we need to go in Idaho are already closed, Preacher. We knew we might have to winter somewhere. I reckon it might as well be with these folks.”

“There's your answer, Jamie,” Preacher told the big frontiersman. “We'll come with you.”

Jamie nodded in satisfaction.

Quickly, he got everyone mounted. Reverend Bradford's body was draped over his saddle and lashed in place. Several other men had been wounded in the fighting during the night, but none of the injuries were bad enough to keep them from riding. Bradford was the group's only casualty.

To Alexander and Abigail, though, it was a big loss. The two youngsters were orphans now. The only good thing about the situation was that Jamie was sure one of the families with the wagon train would be willing to take them in.

Jamie and Preacher took the point, and as the two old pioneers rode together, they talked about the things they had been doing since they had seen each other last.

“I was mighty sorry to hear about what happened to your woman, Jamie,” Preacher said. “Heard tell you went after the sorry bunch responsible for her dyin' and rained down hellfire and brimstone on their heads.”

“I settled the score for Kate as best I could,” Jamie said, his face and voice grim. “It wasn't enough.”

“No, I don't 'spect it was. I've lost folks I loved, too, and no matter how much vengeance you get, it ain't never enough 'cause it don't bring back them you lost. Nothin' does.”

“But that doesn't stop us from trying.”

“Nope. Reckon we wouldn't be human if we didn't want to even things up, so we try even though we know it won't really put our hearts at ease.”

A chuckle came from Jamie. “Preacher, you're getting profound in your old age.”

“Reckon it comes from bein' around Audie too much. That fella goes on and on about philosophy and such-like. And who in blazes are you callin' old?”

By midday, the rescue party, along with its newest additions, came in sight of the wagons parked next to the creek. Several men led by Jake galloped out to meet them and escorted them on in. Everyone gathered around to celebrate the safe return of Alexander and Abigail.

The immigrants were sobered by the death of Reverend Bradford. After his body was laid out on the ground, Moses covered it with a blanket and took his hat off, holding it over his heart. “The reverend might not want the likes of me praying over him, but I feel like I have to do it anyway.”

“I don't reckon all those disagreements mean a blasted thing now,” Jamie said. “The fella's dead, and I hope his soul is at peace.”

“So do I,” Moses murmured. “So do I. If it's all right with everyone, I'll conduct the funeral.”

“I don't think anybody's going to object. You've got a lot of friends on this wagon train, Moses. Your faith may be different, but after what you did during that outbreak of fever and all the other ways you've pitched in, if these folks have a spiritual leader now . . . it's you.”

Moses swallowed and nodded. “I'll try to live up to that.”

Jamie nodded. “What we need to figure out now is who's going to take care of those kids.”

A voice spoke up from behind him. “That's not going to be a problem, Mr. MacCallister.”

Jamie and Moses turned to see Savannah standing there. She had her arms around the shoulders of Alexander and Abigail, whose pale, tear-streaked faces testified to their grief. They huddled against Savannah's skirts, obviously taking comfort from her presence.

“I'm going to take care of them,” Savannah went on. “I can handle their wagon and see to it that they have everything they need.”

“Are you sure about that?” Jamie asked with a frown. “You being an unmarried woman and all?”

“They were being raised by the reverend alone since his wife passed on,” Savannah pointed out. “The children and I have become close, and this is something I'd really like to do.”

“Well . . . if that's what all of you want . . . I don't reckon it's my place to say no.”

“I'm sure everyone in the group will pitch in to help if need be.” Moses paused. “Did you happen to ask Bodie what he thought about this idea?”

“It's not Bodie's decision to make,” Savannah replied. “It's mine.”

“Sounds to me like it's settled, then.” Jamie looked at Alexander and Abigail. “You two have been mighty brave all through this. Miss Savannah's going to need you to keep on being brave. Reckon you can do that?”

Alexander nodded. He used the back of his hand to wipe away a stray tear. “This is all our fault. If we hadn't wandered off and let those Indians grab us, our pa would still be alive.”

Jamie shook his head. “There are too many things going on in the world to say something like that for sure. Too many turning points where everything could turn out different. Might as well blame me for not keeping a closer eye on your pa, so that he couldn't step out there in the open where the Blackfeet could get a shot at him. Things happen, and I reckon we just have to tell ourselves that there's a reason for the way they do, and then we go on from there.”

“That's right,” Moses said. “On to your new homes in Eagle Valley. When do you think we'll get there, Jamie?”

“By Christmas, like I've been saying all along.”

When the wagon train had left Kansas City, Jamie had worried that he might not have enough scouts. With the addition of Preacher, Smoke Jensen, Audie, and Nighthawk, he almost had too many.

On the other hand, he also had four more first-class fighting men to help out in case of trouble. He knew from experience that Preacher, Audie, and Nighthawk were hell on wheels in a ruckus, and it didn't take much time to realize that Smoke Jensen might well be the deadliest of them all.

During one of the wagon train's midday halts a few days after the rescue of the Bradford children, Preacher urged Smoke to get in a little practice with his guns. The old mountain man pointed out a fallen aspen about fifty feet away. “See if you can pick off some of them branches that are stickin' up.”

Jamie was close by and heard what Preacher said. He looked at the fallen tree and saw that the branches weren't much more than twigs maybe half an inch wide. They were barely visible. Jamie figured he could have hit those branches with a rifle, if he'd had time to draw a bead on them.

Smoke swept out one of his .44s and started firing in less than the blink of an eye. He didn't shoot from the hip, but rather thrust the gun out at the end of his arm, taking no more than a split second to aim before the Colt began to roar.

He triggered off five shots. Even with having to cock the single-action Colt each time, the reports sounded so close together they formed one continuous peal of gun-thunder. To Jamie's amazement, five of the aspen branches leaped into the air as Smoke's bullets smashed through them.

Moses had wandered up in time to witness the display. He let out a shrill whistle of admiration and awe. “I never saw such shooting!”

“Taught the younker everything he knows,” Preacher said with a proud grin.

Smoke smiled faintly as he reloaded the expended chambers.

Preacher shrugged. “Of course, the boy had some natural talent to begin with.”

Moses said, “Mr. Preacher, do you think you could teach me to shoot?”

“Hold on a minute,” Jamie told him. “Moses, you never said anything to me about wanting to learn how to shoot.”

“Well, it just seems so foreign to me. But the longer we stay out here on the frontier, the more it seems like maybe it's something I should learn how to do.”

“Why, sure, I'd be glad to give you a few leetle pointers,” Preacher said. “Don't go to thinkin' you'll ever be as good with a hogleg as Smoke is, though. To that boy, usin' a gun is just as natural as breathin'.”

“I just want to be able to protect people who need to be protected,” Moses said.

“That there's an honorable goal. There's a heap of bad folks in this world, and it falls to them who have good hearts to stand up to those varmints and do what's right. You got a gun?”

“Well . . . no.”

Drawn by the shooting, Bodie walked up in time to hear most of the conversation. He grinned and unbuckled his gun belt. “You can borrow mine, Moses.”

“Oh . . . all right. Thanks.” Moses took the belt and rather awkwardly strapped it around his hips.

“Hitch that belt up a mite,” Preacher told him. “Your holster's too low. You want the gun butt about halfway betwixt your wrist and your elbow, so when you raise your arm your hand'll hit it natural-like. Yeah, that's right,” he went on as Moses adjusted the belt. “You saw that log Smoke was a-shootin' at. Pull that hogleg and see if you can hit it.”

Moses faced the log, squared his shoulders, and took a deep breath. He made what he probably thought was a quick grab at the gun, although the move seemed painfully slow to Jamie's eyes.

The gun came clear of the holster, and Moses immediately exclaimed, “Whoa!” He grabbed it with his other hand to keep from dropping it. “It's heavy!”

“You'll get used to it,” Preacher said. “It's a dang good thing that log ain't gonna be shootin' back at you. Now burn some powder, son!”

Moses pointed the revolver at the fallen tree. The barrel wobbled back and forth violently. He grunted as he tried to pull the trigger, but nothing happened.

Bodie said, “You've got to cock it. Pull the hammer back until it locks into place. Then pull the trigger.”

“Oh,” Moses said. “I didn't notice Smoke doing that—”

“That's because he does it too fast for the eye to follow. But you can take your time, Moses.”

“All right.” Moses looped his right thumb over the hammer and pulled it back. The effort caused the barrel to point upward.

“Straighten it back down,” Preacher said.

Still using both hands, Moses pointed the gun at the log. It was still pretty shaky. Seconds stretched out as Moses tried to get the barrel to stop jumping around enough that he could aim.

“Any time now,” Preacher drawled.

Moses jerked the trigger.

The Colt boomed. The recoil forced the gun up, and Moses obviously wasn't ready for it. He yelled as the revolver flew out of his hands.

“Duck, boys!” Preacher shouted.

Jamie stepped forward and caught the gun before it could fall to the ground.

Moses had his hands clapped over his ears. “That was so
loud
. It sounds even louder when you're holding the gun.”

“Here you go,” Jamie said as he handed the weapon back to Moses. Quickly he pushed the barrel down toward the ground. “Don't point it at me or anybody else. Not unless it's somebody who needs shooting.”

Moses squinted at the log. “Did I hit it?”

“You didn't even come close,” Preacher said. “Your bullet went ten or twelve feet over it, I reckon. Try again.”

By now quite a crowd was gathering. Savannah, with Alexander and Abigail, was one of the spectators. She called, “You can do it, Moses!”

“Yeah!” Alexander added.

“I appreciate the vote of confidence,” Moses said, “but I'm beginning to have my doubts.”

“A man never knows until he tries,” Jamie said. “Sometimes he has to try a bunch of times.”

“You're right, of course.” Moses took a deep breath and aimed at the fallen aspen again.

Fifteen minutes later, he had emptied the Colt, Bodie had reloaded it, and Moses had emptied it again. He had dropped the gun four times, nearly shot himself in the foot twice, and hadn't hit the log even once.

“Moses, ol' son, I hate to tell you this,” Preacher drawled, “but you ain't cut out to be a pistoleer. I reckon if you was to find yourself in a gunfight, you'd be more of a danger to them who was on your side instead of the hombres you're supposed to ventilate.”

Moses sighed and nodded. “I think you're right, Mr. Preacher.” He unbuckled the gun belt. “I need to be a good sport about it, though. Not everyone can be good at everything.”

“That's all right,” Bodie told him as he took the Colt back. “You just leave the shooting to the rest of us.”

Moses brightened and suggested, “Maybe I could learn how to use a rifle. Or a shotgun.”

Jamie felt a shiver of apprehension go through him at the thought of Moses Danzig with a scattergun in his hands. “Not today. Back to your wagons, folks. It's time for us to be rolling again!”