Blood on the Divide (12 page)

“The Utes pulled out hours ago,” Preacher informed them. “Get the kinks out of your legs and saddle up.”

“My foot hurts,” Miles said.

“It'll either get better or it'll rot off,” Preacher told him. “Good Lord, man. I've hurt myself worser than that cookin' breakfast. Quit your bitchin'.”

“Are you sure the savages have gone?” George asked.

“Yeah, I'm sure.”

“It's going to be a dreadful sight, isn't it?”

“Yeah, it is,” Preacher replied, tightening the cinch on Hammer. “But if you're plannin' on stayin' out in this country, it's a sight you better get used to.”

“I could never become that callous,” Miles said, his lip still stuck out over Preacher's mild castigating.

“Then you best run on back to wherever the hell it is you come from, pilgrim. 'Cause out here, you either toughen up or you die. And that's the way it is. Now saddle up and mount up. We got some buryin' to do.”

George and Miles got the heaves as soon as they rode up to the site. Both of them staggered off a ways and fell down on the ground, coughing and gagging. Preacher prowled the still-smoking ruins.

Preacher had seen this many times. He kept his face impassive to the horrible sights around him as he looked at what was left of the men who had come west in search of gold. Preacher breathed shallow and through his mouth. The stench was terrible.

“That's poor Willie over there,” Miles said, his face pale and drawn. “He came out here for the adventure of it. We went to college together. He graduated with honors.”

“Didn't do him much good out here,” Preacher remarked. Under a torn over bundle, he found a pistol and tossed it to Miles. “Start lookin' around for things that you might could use, you two. I seen some boots over yonder. And there's a shovel. I'll start diggin' the hole.”

“You mean holes, don't you?” George asked.

“No. I mean a hole. One. Pile 'em in there together. We can't waste of whole lot of time tarryin' around here. Them damn Utes might decide to come back. You can bet they've found the ones I kilt yesterday and they'll be hoppin' mad.”

“What you're suggesting is very indecent and most unchristian,” Miles told him.

“But very practical,” Preacher responded. He'd dealt with enough pilgrims to know that most of them didn't use a lot of common sense once they got west of the Missouri. Not for a while, anyways. Then they either smartened up or got killed. “But you boys can take the time to speak some words over the grave,” he told them.

“How very kind of you,” George said.

“Think nothin' of it.” Preacher let the sarcasm roll right off of him. “I do have my good points. Start rumblin' around and stop all this jawin'.”

Preacher grabbed a shovel and started digging. “When you two get done grubbin' about in the rubble, start bringin' some rocks over here. Dump them yonder. We got to pile them on the mound so's the varmits won't dig up what's left of the bodies and eat on them.”

“That's disgusting!” Miles said.

“Not to a varmit.”

“Do you have a Bible, Preacher?” George asked.

“No. Had one. Give to me last year by a gospel shouter. I lost it somewheres.”

“I hate this savage land,” Miles said.

“Good. Glad to hear that,” Preacher said, digging in the ground. “Maybe you'll go home now.”

“We came out here for gold, and we won't leave until we have found it,” Miles said firmly.

“That means you both gonna be here forever,” Preacher muttered.

Preacher waited patiently while the two men conducted services over the large mound of earth. Sounded to him like both of them were part-time gospel shouters. They sure did praise the Lord and such. Didn't sound too bad, though; man needs a little gospel hollerin' every now and then. When the two had wound down and he got them back in the saddle, he headed them toward the wagon train. Preacher damn sure didn't want to be stuck with them out here all by his lonesome. Although he had to admit, they showed some spunk all trussed up and kickin' that buck down. It helped, for a fact, it did.

Windy was scouting far ahead of the train and whoaed up when he saw Preacher and the pilgrims. He eyeballed the two men, questions in his eyes.

“Gold hunters,” Preacher told him.

“In
this
part of the country? There ain't no gold around here.”

“A what-ologist told them they was. They had them a streak of bad luck by runnin' into a Ute war party not too many miles up ahead.”

“Do you have a physician with your party?” Miles questioned.

Windy blinked.

“He means a doctor,” Preacher said.

“I ain't scoutin' for no hospital,” Windy told Miles. “You sick?”

“I have a horribly burned foot. I was tortured savagely by those filthy wild red Indians.”

“Do tell? Lookin' at you, I'd have to say that you stood up to it right well.”

“The Utes stuck his foot in the fire one time,” Preacher said. “Stick a poultice on it when you get these lost sheep to the train, Windy. I'm gone.” Preacher wheeled his horse and rode out without looking back.

“We certainly owe that person our very lives,” George said. “But I have to say that he is the most irritable-behaving man I have ever encountered.”

Windy smiled. He knew some mountain men that would make Preacher look like a cross between Solomon and Moses. “Come on, children,” he said, lifting the reins. “Let's get you back to your own kind.”

“And what kind is that, sir?” Miles inquired.

“Igits,” Windy told him, and rode off.

* * *

Preacher snared him a big fat rabbit for supper, and after eating every scrap of meat and sucking the marrow from the bones, he carefully buried the remains, put out his fire, and moved on another couple of miles before he found a good spot to bed down for the night. He checked his guns carefully. That Ute war party would have long since found the six dead young braves and they would be angry and looking for revenge. And Preacher didn't think the ones who attacked Miles and George and the others was the main party – more like a splinter band. Right about now, they would be all linked up and there would be a whole passel of them whoopin' and hollerin' and singin' their songs and workin' themselves up into a killing frenzy.

Whether they would attack the wagon train was something he could only guess at. But if the main bunch was fifty or more, they'd try it.

But a man alone would be easy pickin's for them, so he'd ride careful come the morning. Not that he didn't always ... but a little extra caution never hurt.

It sure paid off. Preacher had not ridden two miles from where he'd camped when he smelled dust. A lot of dust. Then from a draw, he spotted the Utes. And this was no small party. Preacher figured at least seventy-five strong. He pulled back off and walked Hammer slowly to an upthrusting of rocks and got behind the huge natural barricade.

“Now, Hammer,” he told the big horse. “This ain't no time for conversin' with some long-lost cousin of yours. Since you with me, them Utes just might decide to eat you!”

Hammer looked at him mournfully.

“That's a fact, horse. So you just be quiet now. Be real quiet.”

The Utes were riding with a purpose in mind, and did not have many outriders flanking them or none ahead of them that Preacher could spot. He thought that strange, but then the Utes probably figured they were in safe enough territory. As soon as they had passed by, Preacher headed back for the wagon train, since that was the direction the Utes were taking. He stayed several miles to the east of the war party. This bunch was going to hit the wagons, Preacher would bet his hat on that. And they just might do it at night. It was a myth that all Indians never attacked at night. It all depended on whether or not they felt their medicine was strong enough. Preacher had once opined, over a jug of whiskey, that a man ought to be always careful at night, 'cause supposin' you run up on a whole bunch of atheist Indians who didn't believe in no kind of afterlife. Man would be in a real pickle then.

Preacher rode hard, pushing Hammer, until he was sure he was ahead of the Utes; then he cut toward the train. They had just circled for the evening's camp when Preacher rode in and tossed the reins to Caleb.

“War party of Utes not more'n two, three hours away,” he told Weller and the mountain men. 'Comin' down from the north and they ridin' with a purpose. I think it's the main bunch of that smaller party that hit Cason and Martin's friends.”

“I was told that the savages never attacked at night,” Weller said, then noticed all the mountain men smiling at his words. “Obviously, I was misinformed.”

“Yeah, you was,” Preacher said. “Best double the guard tonight. And have ever' man charge ever' weapon they got and keep them close by. Check powder and shot, too. Have the women break out the molds and get some lead heated up for balls.”

When Weller had gone, Rimrock asked, “How many did you see, Preacher?”

“At least seventy-five, maybe a few more or less than that. Only a few of 'em armed with rifles, I'd say.”

“Well, they'll hit us for sure,” Caleb said. “There ain't nothin' out here
'ceptin'
us.”

“Did you ever make the spot where these pilgrims want to light?” Windy asked.

“I come close enough to it to know that it don't look like no farmin' country I ever seen and there sure as hell ain't gonna be no town there no time soon.” He told him what he suspicioned about the Pardees and Sutherlin and also what he had Weasel Tail's braves doing.

“Sounds right to me,” Rimrock said. “You musta really put your head to workin', Preacher. This Sutherlin feller, he's shapin' up to be a real blackheart.”

“He'll stop bein' when I put a ball through it,” Preacher replied.

* * *

Preacher grabbed him a short snooze – 'cause he didn't figure on dozin' none that night – and then ate a plate of stew that Betina brought to him. She sat on the ground beside him all google-eyed and watched him eat every bite. Made Preacher nervous. Female had marriage on the brain. He knew from experience. He had a squaw follow him around one time, actin' just like Betina was doin'. Preacher finally pulled out of that Cheyenne village in the damn dead of winter just to get shut her.

“I can hardly contain myself,” Betina said. “I am so anxious to get our new town established. We'll have us a fine schoolhouse, too. I'll see to that.”

“Betina – ”

“Do you remember your school days, Preacher? Oh, my, but I certainly do.”

“Ma mostly taught me writin' and readin' and figurin'. Betina, about this here town – ”

“Schools are so dismal,” she prattled on. “But ours won't be. I attended a great barn of a school. Sometimes, when the winters were very harsh, we would be dismissed because of the lack of proper heating. But that won't be the case with my school. We must educate our children and see to their comforts while doing so. Don't you agree?”

“Yeah. Sure.” She had stressed
our
and that sent shivers up and down Preacher's spine. “Betina,” he tried again, “you gotta understand something about this town – ”

“And I want to give each student some personal attention. I think that is very important, don't you, Preacher?”

“Oh, yeah,” Preacher said wearily. “ 'Specially with a good strong board when they act up.”

“Oh, I don't believe in corporal punishment, Preacher. I believe that is the wrong approach.”

“Wished I'd been in your school,” he muttered. The brief times he had attended a regular school he got a lickin' damn near every day. And another one from his pa when he got home. He smiled. He had deserved every one of them and more.

“What are you smiling about, Preacher?”

“The hidin's and the knucklin's I got when I did go to a regular school.”

“Was it horrible for you?”

“Hell no. I deserved twice that many for the stunts I pulled and didn't get caught doin'.”

“They're out there, Preacher,” Windy called softly. “And workin' their way in.”

“I'm scared, Preacher,” Betina admitted. “I've been prattling on like a magpie because I am scared to death. I don't want to go through this again.”

“It'll be all right,” he assured her. “You get into the center barricade with the others and try to keep the kids calm. Go on, now.”

The livestock had been pulled inside the huge circle and several wagons placed there for the children and for those women who would take care of them. Brush and logs had been hurriedly pulled in to fill in the large gaps between wagons. Betina ran for protection and Preacher took up a position by the rear wheel of a wagon. He had four pistols and two rifles, all freshly charged. He had shoved his war axe behind his sash.

The women had good reason to be afraid, for it was Ute custom to repeatedly rape all women they took captive. They might let them go afterward, but the women would have a rough time of it while in Ute hands.

Preacher also felt that the party he'd seen earlier was only part of a larger bunch. The Utes were a little north of the usual territory, so that meant they had declared war against another tribe. The wagon train was just an added pleasure for them, and a chance to take more scalps and women prisoners.

Preacher also felt that many of the bunch he'd seen were made up of the highly skilled warrior society of the Ute tribe. They were fierce fighters and did not give up easily.

Weller came up to Preacher's side, moving quietly in the early night. He carried a rifle and had two pistols behind his belt. “We came this far without experiencing a speck of trouble with the savages. Now we may well be fighting for our lives at the next blink of an eye.”

“We sure will be doing that,” Preacher agreed. “In about two, three more minutes. And these Utes are tough. Believe it. Now let me tell you the real bad news. You've led these people into what might be a death trap.”

Weller opened his mouth to speak and Preacher cut him off and shut him up.

“Shut up and listen to me, Weller. It's about time you listened to somebody. You and your damn town in the promised land. That's crap, Weller. Puredee crap. We're in trouble, man. We're cut off. Alone. There will be no help comin' our way. None. Do you understand all that? Injuns are the most patient people on the face of the earth. Especially Utes. I know. A band of Utes kept me and four other men pinned down tight for days when we was furrin' south of here. We had ample powder and shot and just wore 'em down. But we was in the mountains, Weller. In good cover. Not stuck out here on the flats like we are now. We're gonna lose some men, Weller. Women and some kids, too, probably.”

Weller stood silent for a moment, his gaze shifting from Preacher to the unknown that lay waiting in the darkness outside the ringed wagons. When he spoke, his voice was filled with resignation. “I was told that the trail west would soon move to the north – to the area we hoped to settle. I was assured of that move.”

“Why should the trail move north?” Preacher softly questioned. “It's been used for years right where it's at. Further on, it's the only logical way through the Rockies.”

“Mr. Sutherlin – ”

“I knew it!” Preacher said hotly. “I knowed it had to be him. I was right. I'll tell you later. If we live through this night, that is.” Weller again opened his mouth and Preacher shushed him. “Go on back to your post, Weller. They're about to rush us. Move, man.”

Weller was learning, for he asked no questions. He vanished into the canvas-ringed circle of night, moving swiftly back to his post. Preacher turned all his attentions to the vast expanse of dark that lay before him.

The Utes would be very close now. They'd had several hours of darkness to creep close, sometimes moving no more than an inch or two at a time. Preacher was just glad they were not Apaches. They were the best at making the most out of every scrap of cover. Or no cover at all.

Preacher had briefly spoken with most of the men in the wagon train. None of them had much experience when it came to fighting, for most of them came from the cities and towns back East. There were a few who came from rural areas, and knew something about fighting. A couple had actual combat experience, having fought with Jackson in the War of 1812. But fightin' Injuns was a tad different from fightin' the British, who for the most part just stood all in a line and let you cut 'em down. And the U.S. Army wasn't much better. Dumbest damn way of fightin' Preacher had ever seen. Injuns was a whole lot smarter when it came to fighting. And Preacher and the other mountain men had quickly adapted to their ways of stealth and ambush.

Then Preacher saw a bush that hadn't been in that spot a couple of minutes back. He lifted his rifle to his shoulder and sighted in. The bush moved a few inches and Preacher put a ball right through it, about six inches off the ground. A scream ripped the night and the bush flew up into the air as a mortally wounded brave reared up on one knee, a hideous wound pouring blood from his neck. He fell forward and was still just as other Utes charged the wagons.