The First Mountain Man (13 page)

“I'll take my bath in private, thankee,” Preacher told her. “Now be off with you.”

“Move,” she told him.

Preacher noticed there was a wicked look in her eyes. He really got nervous when Melody appeared in the group, holding a towel and a bar of strong lye soap. She smiled at him.

“Git away from me,” Preacher warned them all.

About nine hundred pounds of determined female, and in most cases, dubious pulchritude moved closer.

“You're a rake and a reprobate,” one lady told him. “And most likely those terms are mild, but you are going to take a bath, and take it now.”

“You'll play hell givin' me one.”

Four of the larger ladies moved in and grabbed him by legs and arms and bodily lifted him off the ground and toted him inside the walls of the fort.

“Unhand me, goddammit!” Preacher roared.

“Right down to the buff,” Melody said, then started laughing.

13

“Them women took my damn clothes!” Greybull roared as he sat in a wooden tub filled with hot water. The water had already turned black. “I ain't got nary a stitch on.”

“Well, what the hell do you think they done to me!” Preacher bellered. “I ain't sittin' in this tub with no suit of clothes on myself.”

“That big fat one wanted to know if I needed some help in awashin' myself! Damn women is shore gettin' pushy nowadays. Next thing you know they'll have the vote, too!”

“That'll never happen,” Preacher said, finding the bar of soap and working up a lather.

Melody walked up behind him and dumped a bucket of hot water on his head. Preacher jumped up with a roar.

Melody eyeballed him from knees to neck. “My, my!” she said approvingly.

“You brazen hussy!” Preacher hollered. “You 'bout as much a missionary as I is President of the U-nited States.”

Laughing, she strolled away, humming and swinging the bucket. Among other things.

“That women's got her bonnet cocked your way, Preacher,” Greybull warned. “You bes' make tracks quicker'n a 'coon can wash his supper. At least as soon as you get your clothes back. And sit down. You ain't no sight to behold in your altogether.”

When a nearby gaggle of women started pointing at him and giggling, Preacher sat back down in the tub. He was red with embarrassment from his nose to his toes.

“I reckon I was some dirty,” Greybull said, looking down at the dark water which had dead fleas floating in it. Lye soap was hell on bugs.

“I ain't never knowed you when you wasn't.”

“Preacher?”

“What?”

“When I come out here, feller by the name of Jim Madison was President. Who is now, you reckon?”

“Last I heard, when I was in St. Louis four or five winters ago, it was a man name of Jackson. I reckon he still is. But I can't rightly say.”

“That woman that's got her eye on you—she really a missionary?”

“I don't much think so. I never seen no Bible-thumper that sassy. Where in the hell is our clothes?”

“The burned 'em,” Greybull said mournfully.

“Burned 'em! Why didn't they just boil 'em good? I ain't had them clothes on more'n a month.”

“I'd had them skins of mine on considerable more than that,” Greybull admitted. “I reckon they was kinda greasy. You feel all right, Preacher?”

“Oh, hell, yes, Bull. I'm fine. I'm sittin' here nekked as a jaybird, a gaggle of females done burned my clothes, and a half-crazy woman is makin' improper advances toward me. I never felt better.”

“That ain't what I meant.”

“Oh. Yeah, I'm all right. I wasn't even scratched the last time I was around the pox and I didn't catch it. I reckon oncest you got it two or three times you can't take it no more. I just want to get gone from this place. If you got any sense, you'll come with me.”

“I made my mark on a company paper. I signed on to scout for the Army. I think the lieutenant is gonna ask you to help out with the wagon train, Preacher. That foolish wagonmaster was kilt last night.”

“The lieutenant can go kiss a buffalo. Lord God in heaven and all his angels, man! You think I wanna lead them pilgrim-people through the wilderness? Do I look like an Israelite? I'd be a stark ravin' lunatic 'fore we got there.” Preacher threw back is head and roared, “Where's my gawddamn clothes?”

* * *

The trapper with the busted shoulder had a brand new set of buckskins a Mandan woman had made for him. He gladly gave them to Preacher to shut him up. Said all that bellerin' was causin' his shoulder to ache.

Preacher, clean from the top of his head to his toes, thought he'd best save the skins for the trail. He put on some homespuns the ladies gave him to wear for what time he would remain in the fort. And that wasn't going to be very long if Preacher had anything to say about it.

Everybody was breathing as shallowly as possible, for the stench of death was still very strong around the fort. Workers kept the funeral fires blazing throughout the night. Lieutenant Maxwell-Smith and the sergeant stayed busy recording the names of the pioneers who died in the fight, and any addresses of relatives back east.

The next day, Preacher and Greybull went out to gather up the loose stock and drive them back to the fort, while the survivors set about trying to piece together wagons from the wreckage. Of the more than fifty odd wagons that had been gathered around the fort, the men managed to put together twenty wagons that looked like they might be able to stand the trek westward to Oregon Territory.

Maxwell-Smith called Preacher into his office and asked him to have a chair.

“Don't want one,” Preacher said with a straight face. “Ain't got no reason to tote one around.”

“Sit, sir!”

Preacher sat.

“Tea?” Maxwell-Smith offered.

“Whiskey'd be better. But I reckon coffee will do. I ain't never developed no real taste for tea.”

“As you wish.” The officer asked his orderly to bring them refreshments. He and Preacher sat and stared at one another until the coffee was poured and the tea was steeping.

“What you got on your mind, Lieutenant?”

“You are aware, sir, that you are in British-held territory.”

“The land's in dispute. I reckon it'll soon be in American hands.”

“Don't count on that, sir. You colonists might have a fight on your hands.”

“Y'all tried that a couple of times, as I recall. Seems like you'd learn after awhile.”

The lieutenant's smile was very thin, indeed. “Be that as it may, sir, I am in command here. Solely in command. I give the orders, to both civilian and military personnel who are at this fort.”

Preacher stood up. “I'll be gone 'fore you can blink.”

“Preacher, sit down, please.”

Preacher sat.

“I need your help, Preacher.”

“I ain't guidin' no damn wagon train”

Maxwell-Smith leaned back in his chair and smiled. “I can promise you more pay than any guide ever received before you.”

Preacher slowly shook is head. “I ain't got no use for riches. What am I gonna spent 'em on? Hell, man, I know where they's gold nuggets big as your toe. I got a sackful out there in my possibles bag. They's enough gold in that bag to last me the rest of my years. I ain't got the patience to guide no bunch of hollerin', squallin' runny-noised kids and whinin' complainin' women, and foolish men. You got Greybull on the payroll. Give the job to him.”

“We have to keep him here. What is that man's Christian name?”

“I ain't got no idea. He got his name cause he nearly drowned in the Greybull just west of the Bighorns.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Twenty year or more ago. 'Round '15 or '16, I think it was. He got drunk and fell off his horse. He's been called Greybull ever since. Names ain't very important out here, Lieutenant. It's what's inside a man that counts.”

“By that you mean personal courage, the keeping of one's word when given, never shirking one's duty, and of course, helping those in need.” The last was spoken with a slight smile.

“Ah ... yeah, something like that.” Preacher had the feeling he was being pushed into a box canyon. This young officer might not know doodly-squat about the wilderness, but he sure was good with words.

“
I
am in need, Preacher. Those poor pioneers out there are in need.”

Preacher held up a hand. “Whoa, now. Just back up. I didn't tell them folks out yonder to head west. They done that all by theyself. Didn't nobody force them to do nothin'. Them folks ain't my responsibility. And the truth be known, they ain't yours, neither.”

“So you would just have me send them off westward, into a large unexplored land that is fraught with danger. A land that no man knows—”

“I know the damn country!” Preacher exploded. “Unexplored? Why hell, they's been trappers and traders and the like all over that country for years now. Why I—” He closed his mouth.
Just diggin'your hold deeper ever'time you flap your gums,
he thought.

“Precisely, Preacher!” Maxwell-Smith said
“You
know the country they have to travel through. You're the best. You're a legend, Preacher. I marveled about your exploits in England. You—”

“All right!” Preacher said. “That's enough grease. You slop anymore lard on me and I'll be so slippery I won't be able to sit a saddle. I'll guide your damn wagon train.” He shook his head. “Lord have mercy on a poor mountain boy like me.”

* * *

“It's the pox!” Luke reported back to Bum. He had not entered the fort, only watched from far off and talked to some Mandans he met on the trail. “The Blackfeet took the disease and then attacked the fort. They died by the hundreds. But not 'fore they kilt more'n half of them movers and tore up a whole bunch of wagons. Them folks is busy piecin' together wagons, so they gonna keep on their journey.”

“Did you see Preacher?”

“Yeah. And the missionaries. They made it through and is all right, 'pears to me. What's Red Hand say about this plan of yourn?”

“He's thinkin' about it. Gone back to his camp to talk it over with his bunch.” He eyeballed Luke suspiciously. “You didn't bring nothin' back with you, did you?”

“Huh? Oh! No. I never got close enough to catch nothin'. And them Mandans I talked to had already been scratched for the pox.” He looked over at the new men that had joined the group since he'd left. “I know Burke and Dipper. I figured they'd hook up with us. Who's them others?”

“Jennings and Penn rode with the Hawkins' gang up in the northern territories. They're good boys. Halsey and Wilson busted out of jail back in St. Louie in the winter. Olson's a farm boy from back east. He's wanted for murder.”

“Who'd he kill?”

“His parents. I think he's a good man.”

“Sounds like it. I got more news. They's another wagon train comin' in later this month. The commandin' officer at the fort sent some of his men to make sure it got in all right. They's some talk about the guide a-fixin' to quit the train. What's left of the pilgrims at the fort is gonna wait and hook up with this new train.”

“Who'll be guidin' it?”

“Don't know. But Greybull's there. I seen him. Hard to miss a man his size.”

“Greybull's scoutin' for the Army. I know that to be true. Trappin's about played out.” Bum smiled. “Preacher. Has to be Preacher.”

“Doin' what?”

“Guidin' the damn train, idiot! Ever'thing is workin' out just right. We'll get the gold, the women, and have Preacher to torture.”

“So we'll just stay right here and keep low and by the time the trains link up and get ready to pull out, the boys will be healed up for the most part.”

Bum looked at him. “Sometimes you can make sense, Luke. Not often. But sometimes.”

Luke grinned like a fool.

* * *

Preacher carefully inspected each wagon. If he found something wrong, he ordered it fixed. From Fort Hall to Fort Vancouver was a long, hard, dangerous pull, with Indians being only a part of the problem. There were rivers and streams to cross, and many of them would be running over their banks this time of the year. There would be broken bones and sprained limbs and squabbles among the movers.

And Bum Kelley and his gang.

There would be wagon breakdowns, wheels would come loose and have to be repaired. Tongues would break and harnesses would rip. Kids would get sick and probably one or two would get lost in the woods. A couple of these silly females were pregnant and that meant they would probably birth along the trail.

And Bum Kelley and his boys would surely be cookin' up something unpleasant to spring somewheres along the way.

He would have to see that additional canvas was brought along 'cause sure as shootin' some pilgrim wouldn't have his lashed down proper and come a high wind it'd go sailin' off to China. Better lay in a stock of nails and shoes for the animals and make damn sure there was plenty of powder and shot and lead and copper caps and spare bullet molds. There would be weapons aplenty, what with the ones taken from the dead pioneers.

And he wished he knowed where Bum Kelley was plannin' on stagin' his little surprises; and whether he had throwed in with that damn no-good Red Hand.

Preacher paced the lines of wagons and went over them again. The men and women and children watched him in silence, the kids big-eyed. He knew what he looked like to them, all dressed out in skins, from his feet to his jacket. He looked like some grim-faced wild man, with pistols and knives ahangin' all over him as he prowled up one side of the line and down the other, never speaking to anyone.

He stopped when he came to Richard and Edmond's wagon. The wagon was loaded with new supplies but none of the quartet was anywhere around. One of the teenage boys in the train was sitting on the seat. “What you doin' up there, tadpole?”

The boy, maybe fourteen at the most, red hair and freckle-faced, grinned at Preacher. “Mister Richard employed me to drive the wagon through the wilderness, sir.”

“Did he now?”

“Yes, sir, he did. And the money will come in handy when we get through the wilderness and start to homesteading.”

“J reckon so. Your parents don't object to you doin' this, do they?”

“Oh, no sir. Not a bit”