Blood on the Divide (21 page)

“Grand idea. Let's get gone.”

Preacher lit the makeshift fuse to one of the powder horns taken from the dead and chunked it in the direction of whispered voices. Sometimes black-powder bombs worked and sometimes they didn't. This time they didn't. It landed on an outlaw's head and knocked him to his knees and sent several outlaws screaming and racing away from the sputtering powder horn. Preacher stepped out and fired his double-shotted pistols. The four balls shrieked and howled off the rock walls of the passageways and took two of the outlaws down in a bloody sprawl, the flattened ricochets wounding them grievously. The wounded men lay on the rocky paths and screamed in pain.

“Don't be singin' no sad songs to me,” Preacher muttered as he reloaded. “I didn't tell you to ride with this bunch.”

“Bad;' Malachi whispered to Kenrick. “We got to get Valiant and Ansel and get gone from here.”

“What about the others?”

“Hell with them.”

Valiant came crawling up, his eyes wild with fear. “Preacher just shot the legs from under Hosea and Campbell. It's a turrible sight to see.”

“Go drag your brother back here, boy,” Malachi told him. “We got to get shut of this place.”

“Which brother?”

“The
live
one, you igit!”

“Oh. Right, Malachi. I'm gone.”

“I been knowin' that for years,” Kenrick muttered.

Preacher Injuned his way up on top of a huge boulder, bellied down, and had him a look-see. He smiled at the sight. Two were running across the valley. He couldn't tell who they were. Dead and dying men were sprawled all around the narrow passageways. Then he saw a Pardee slipping up to his brothers, one dead and the goofy one still out of it.

Preacher leveled his Hawken and squeezed off a ball. The ball knocked Valiant sprawling, one arm dangling useless. But he still managed to grab ahold of Ansel and pull him from under Radborne. Preacher slid off the boulder and worked his way to the north end of the death maze. That put him higher up on the slope and gave him a clear field of fire. He reloaded both rifles and started picking targets.

One of the men he'd seen back at Dirk's place got careless and it cost him his life. Preacher shot him right between the eyes and watched him slide down the slope and come to rest against a boulder.

“I surrender!” another shouted.

“The hell you do,” an outlaw said, and shot the man dead.

“Shore is a nice bunch of people down yonder,” Preacher muttered, reloading his Hawken. He watched as Malachi, Kenrick, and Valiant dragged the still-unconscious Ansel out of rifle range. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught movement on the ridges about two miles or so away. Indians, and it was a big bunch of them. He couldn't tell what tribe, but he'd bet they were Shoshoni. Preacher slipped away, made the timber, and kept right on going to his little hidden valley.

All through the afternoon he heard the sounds of shots, and come the evening, faint screaming. The next morning, he turned the horses loose and mounted up. He rode down to just above the rocks, staying in the timber, and looked down at what the Indians had left. It was not a pretty sight. He saw where the Shoshoni had ridden off to the northeast, so Preacher headed south, leaving the bodies to the varmits and the carrion birds, which were already circling above. They were patient, knowing that death comes to all living things.

Preacher picked up sign almost immediately. Eight men, all scattered out and all on foot. And they would be runnin' scared as a rabbit with a coyote after him. Preacher chuckled without humor and fell in behind one group. Some would call what he had in mind evil. Preacher called it ridding the wilderness of undesirables.

* * *

Preacher could have struck at the outlaws within hours of picking up their tracks. But he wanted some distance between himself and that roaming band of scalp-hunting Shoshonis. Odds were they probably wouldn't bother Preacher, since he got along fairly well with most Indian tribes. But he decided to play it cautious this time.

He came up on the body of an outlaw and chased off the buzzards. They didn't go far. The body had been stripped of all clothing and was naked, stiffening in the cold air. Looked like to Preacher the man's own buddies had knocked him in the head and taken his clothing for added warmth. Two of them walked away from the scene, if he was reading the sign right. Preacher left him where he lay and moved on. Somewhere Preacher had heard about honor among thieves, or something like that. Sure wasn't none of that to be found in this bunch.

He was following a creek when he suddenly reined up. Hammer's ears had pricked up and Preacher took note.

About three hundred yards ahead of him he saw three men, staggering along. Their clothing was in rags and they were clearly exhausted. But all were still armed.

Preacher sat his horse and watched them until they were out of sight. He felt no pity for the outlaws. Preacher was a hard man in a harsh land. As far as distance went, the men were not that far away from a trading post. But the Cascades lay between some vestiges of civilization and them. The Whitman Mission lay a couple of hundred miles to the south – they would never make that.

Preacher lifted the reins and cut east of the trio, following the Columbia south toward the mission.

Son, Dirk, and the Pardees had fared much better than their men ... in a manner of speaking. They had come up on a band of friendly Yakima Indians, men and women who were moving to winter campsites, and brutally murdered them all, taking their horses and robes. The outlaws had their way with the women, and then strangled them. Preacher came upon the awful sight just as another band of Yakima warriors reached the site.

It got real chancy there for a few moments.

“I'm trailin' the men who done this,” Preacher told the war chief. “But if you find them 'fore I do, you're welcome to them.”

The Yakima looked at Preacher through steely eyes. Preacher was known to his people as a fair man who loved the land and coveted no Indian territory for his own. The war chief slowly nodded his head. “You have names?”

“The Pardee brothers, a man called Son, and an Englishman named Dirk. Dirk ran a trading post north of here.”

“I know the men. They are evil.”

A young brave said something and the war chief shook his head. He looked at Preacher. “Leave now, Preacher. We must bury our own.”

Preacher left without another word. The Yakimas were killing mad and some of the younger braves looked like they'd as soon kill him as anyone else. He resisted an urge to glance over his shoulder, knowing that would be considered a sign of weakness on his part. He began to breathe easier a couple of miles later.

He couldn't figure out where the gang was heading. It looked like they might be going into the Rattlesnake Range or the Horse Heaven Hills; but he had serious doubts about that. That was rough country, and as far as he knew, they wasn't a livin' soul down there. Then their trail cut due west and Preacher knew they were heading for Fort Vancouver, which some folks was already calling the New York of the Pacific. A regular little city it was, by western standards. Preacher figured they'd waylay some trappers or movers, steal their clothing to get duded up better, and then travel on to the fort.

Preacher swung down from the saddle and built a hat-sized fire for coffee while he ruminated some.

Snow had dusted the land again, thicker and heavier, and the nights were turning bitterly cold. His horses were rough looking in their winter coats and Preacher knew he was rough looking ... and rough smelling, too. He hadn't shaved in several weeks and he'd been in his clothing for longer than that.

He drank his coffee and made up his mind. He'd head for the mission to see about the movers. He'd catch up with the Pardees and their ilk sooner or later. But for now, he'd be content with the knowledge that he'd pretty much pulled their stingers out. Come the spring, he'd start tracking again.

* * *

What was left of the gang had found several old abandoned Indian winter homes: semiunderground earth houses that many of the Northwest tribes used during the harsh winter season. Along the way, they had killed any trapper they found and seized the supplies, including precious powder and shot and coffee. Their existence this winter would be bleak, but they would make it. At least, they figured, they had succeeded in shaking Preacher off their trail.

Malachi had set Ansel's busted jaw and tied a rag around his head to immobilize it. But the jaw was healing crooked and the blow to the head had addled Ansel even more. Now he was just plain crazy as a bessy bug. He had trouble speaking and hardly anyone could understand a word he tried to say.

Dirk had fallen sullen and silent; he stayed alone and contented himself with cursing Preacher. He did not think he had ever despised a man as much as he did Preacher.

Son passed the long days and bitter nights by dreaming of torturing and killing Preacher in all sorts of ways.

Malachi would look at what remained of the family and shake his head in sorrow.

Edward Sutherlin and his party had made the fort on the Laramie River and settled in to winter there. Along the way he had picked up four more toughs and come the spring he would make his move to settle Preacher's hash.

On a bitterly cold early winter's day, Preacher rode onto the grounds of the Whitman Mission.

“Ol' hoss,” Caleb told him, “you look as mangy as a bear come out of hibernation.”

“Feel like it, too,” Preacher said, climbing wearily out of the saddle and handing the reins to a mover boy. “I got fleas and ticks and spiders and mites all over me. Is there a place to take a bath?”

“We built us a cabin,” Windy said. “Come on. It's snug.”

“Get me over there 'fore Betina sees me,” Preacher replied, looking all around him.

“She's with Miss Narcissa,” Rimrock said. “They's ed-ecatin' the Injun children.”

“Good. Maybe she'll leave me be then. Stoke up the fire and heat the water. I got things
crawlin'
on me!”

* * *

Preacher took two baths before he felt clean. Carl Lippett came over to say hello, took one look at what was going on, and hit the air, saying he was going out for game. He'd be back when all that damn hot water and soap was gone.

Preacher trimmed his beard but left the face hair on as some protection against the cold. He'd shave come the spring. Then he walked over to the community building to see if he could bum something to eat. The movers had done themselves up right proud in the getting ready for winter. They'd built log floors under the beds of the wagons for more room and secured the sides with canvas and what lumber they could mill. When the Cayuses had learned the movers were not going to stay on permanently, they helped the movers get ready for winter. All in all, it was a fairly snug camp. But they would suffer come the long months of winter, Preacher had no illusions about that.

Betina was rather stiff and formal when she saw Preacher, which was fine with him. He didn't want to hurt her feelin's no more than he already had, but his life had no room in it for a female ... especially an eastern female with settlin' down on the brain. Maybe she was finally gettin' that through her head. Preacher hoped so.

“Was your mission successful, Preacher?” Betina asked coolly, after introducing him to Narcissa Whitman.

“I reckon you'd call it that. I killed ten or twelve of them.”

“Ten or twelve of what, Mr., ah, Preacher?” Narcissa asked.

“Men. You got anything to eat?”

“Men!”
Narcissa cried, horrified.

“Sorry lot they was, too. World's better off without them. Is that stew over yonder?”

“I'll pray for you, sir,” Narcissa said.

“Thanks. I probably need it.” Preacher walked over to the fireplace and ladled out a heaping plate of stew from the big blackened iron pot. He grabbed up a fresh loaf of bread and fell to eating.

“Did they receive a proper burial?” one of the mission's helpers asked.

“Buzzards seen to that,” Preacher said.

“My word!” the missionary said.

“They was gonna hit the wagon train come this spring,” Preacher explained. “Kill all the men, violate the women and girls, and sell the youngsters into slavery and bondage and whorin'. They wasn't very nice people.”

“We must bring law and order to this land,” the missionary said.

“In about fifty years, maybe,” Preacher said, after swallowing a mouthful of stew. It needed salt but he wasn't going to complain.

Miles Cason and George Martin came in, and Miles went immediately to Betina's side. Preacher noticed that and hid a smile.

“Did you track down those miserable excuses for men, Preacher?” George asked.

“That I did. Two or three Pardees got clear of me, and I think Son and Dirk did too. But I left them terrible short of a gang. What I didn't get a band of Shoshonis did.” He looked over at Miles. “You two sparkin', I see.”

“Sir!” Miles protested, as Betina flushed and fanned herself vigorously with a little hankie.

“Ain't nothin' to get all worked up about. You two make a mighty handsome couple. Hee, hee, hee!” he chuckled at their red-faced expressions.

“We must get back to work, Betina,” Narcissa said, smoothly getting her off the hook.

“Yes, quite,” Betina said, and the two women left the room.

Preacher finished his stew, sopped out the plate with a hunk of bread, then refilled his coffee cup. “Place looks pretty good,” he remarked. “Y'all done a bang-up job in gettin' ready for the winter.”

“Thank you,” Miles said. “Might I have a word with you, Preacher?”

“Have two or three. They're free.”

George and the missionary left the room and Miles sat down at the long table. “Betina and I have been taking a more than casual interest in one another, Preacher.”

“Thought so. Good. Y'all get married and have babies. I give you my blessin'.”

“You're not upset?”

“Hell no!”

“Her feelings toward the young man back East have faded considerably.”

“He's there and she's here. 'Sides, she showed more nerve than him in comin' out here. Pioneer stock needs to breed together. Is George sparkin' Coretine?”

“Yes.”

“Then it 'pears to me that everything is gonna work out all right, ain't it?”

Miles fiddled with his coffee cup for a moment. “I was on a fool's mission in my quest for gold. Those ideas are gone. Betina and I have agreed that we shall push on come the spring and settle in the new land and farm.”

“Regular city over 'crost the Cascades now. Y'all will do well.”

“And your plans, Preacher?”

Preacher smiled at the younger man. “You don't want me around here, do you, Miles?”

“I ... I don't know, Preacher. Part of me does. We all owe you our lives. I can't – won't – forget all that you and the other mountain men have done for us, and are continuing to do for us. We all feel somewhat sorry for you men.”