Preacher and the Mountain Caesar (21 page)

“I know that those people are simply awful, sinful and terribly vicious. But isn't it up to our army to do something about them?”

Preacher snorted. “I ain't seen a soldier-boy in nigh onto a year an' more. They keeps to their little block-house forts and ride the Santa Fe Trail to protect what folks back east call commerce. Now that Santa Fe, an' all New Mexico, is American, business is boomin'. That's what the politicians will want the soldiers to guard. I hear there's even talk of openin' a stagecoach line.
Civilization,
” he spat. “It gums up ever'thin' wherever it goes.”

Amelia smiled and patted him on the arm. “I'm not so sure. People are ... so much more tranquil in the East.”

“Controlled, you mean. I've been there. It's like one great big prison. A feller can't carry a shootin' iron down the street without being gawked at, or even arrested in some places. Folks that live like that ain't free.”

“But they are safe, and protected.”

Preacher looked long and hard at her. “Miss Amelia, I don't mean to pry, or to offend, but that makes me wonder. If that be the case, then why in tarnation did you folk come out here?”

Amelia tried to find the right tone of answer and failed. Instead, she laughed and leaned a shoulder against Preacher. “You have me there, Preacher. I could say it was our calling. Or that adventure beckoned. Truth to tell, I suppose it was to be away from the strictures of society.” She frowned and returned to her original theme. “Though, when I think of the price to be paid, the terrible things that happened to Deacon Abercrombie and the others, all the blood spilled—and more to come. It makes me question the purpose behind fighting those sick people out there.”

Preacher's voice took on an edge. “Because we're the only ones to do it, Miss Amelia. An' it dang-sure needs doing.” He bent in the silence that followed to help her pick up the picnic leavings.

Back at the trading post, Karl Kreuger nursed his bruises and aches and avoided eye contact with Preacher. He would go along, he allowed. “Because I giff my vord.”

* * *

The next day, three more mountain men straggled into the gathering. That called for another whooping, foot-stomping, powerful drinking welcome. The assorted company had hardly settled down when a lone Arapaho warrior appeared at the gate to the compound. Preacher went out to greet him.

“Yellow Hawk, it is good to see you.”

Yellow Hawk returned Preacher's sign of greeting and made the one for peace. “It is good to see you, Ghost Wolf. We have come. There are six hands of warriors from the village of Bold Pony and four hands from the village of the people who lost their braves to the Ro-mans.”

Fifty warriors, Preacher tallied. Better than he had hoped for. He nodded his acceptance. “We number nearly as many. More will be picked up on the trail. An' maybe some of my Cheyenne friends would like to get in on this.”

Yellow Hawk made a face. All was not love and roses between the Arapaho and the Cheyenne. Yet, they had fought together before and perhaps would again. He signed acceptance. Preacher read the thoughts of Yellow Hawk on his stern visage. No matter. They would get along or not. The Cheyenne could always fight alongside the mountain men.

“Bring 'em on in. You can make camp outside the stockade. We leave tomorrow at first light.”

* * *

A bit after mid-afternoon the next day, Preacher came upon a complication that left his jaw sagging a moment before he let go a low, controlled roar. “What in hell are you doin' here, boy?”

Saucy as ever, Terry Tucker stood at the side of the road, face beaming, while he waved at the man he so admired. “I want to go with you, Preacher.”

Preacher's eyes narrowed. “We've been over this before. Where's your sister?”

“I took her back, then come to find you.”

'Back? That mean the both of you runned off?“

“Yes, sir. We tried to find you north of here. Saw a lot of fellers dressed like you, but you didn't come along. Vickie got scared and tired and so I took her back. I can come along, can't I?”

“No. Not only no, but hell no.”

Terry looked as though he might cry. “I want to join the fight. I can do it, you know that. I—I'm grateful to you for helping Vickie an' me escape a life of crime, and I want to make amends. I can do odd jobs around the camp, care for the horses, that sort of thing.”

What a quandary. Preacher removed his old, slouch hat and scratched the crown of his head with a thick fingernail. “I swear I don't know what to do with you. It's more than dangerous where we're going. I've been there onecst an' it ain't no pony ride. Still . . .” he faded off, considering the alternatives. “I can't spare a man to return you. Nor can I trust you to go on your own, given your stubborn outlook. So, I reckon you'll have to come along.”

Terry's face came alive, and he gave a little jump of joy. “Really? Oh, Preacher, thank you.”

Preacher bent toward the boy. “You'll not be thankin' me five days from now when we run into them Romans. Now, you cain't walk all the way. We got to scare up a horse for you.”

With the same coy expression, an impish light in his clear, blue eyes, Terry asked the identical question he had put to Preacher before. “Why can't I ride with you?”

Laughing, Preacher reached for the boy. “I suppose we can make an exception this one time. At least until I can scare up another mount.” He swung the boy aboard Cougar, noting that the improved victuals had added to Terry's weight.

* * *

Messengers arrived at the palace from the watch towers on a regular schedule. The one that was just shown in to Marcus Quintus brought worrisome news.

“Reporting from Watch Tower Three, First Citizen. We have observed increased movement by the red savages to the east. All appear to be men, heavily armed and moving to the south.”

Quintus scowled. That did not sound good at all. “Do you have a count of them?”

“Yes, sir. They number approximately thirty-six.”

“Not an exact figure?” Quintus goaded.

Independent service in an isolated command had loosened the reins of discipline for the messenger. “We weren't about to send someone out to parlay with them and count heads, sir.”

Anger flared for a moment in Quintus; then he regained control. “No. Of course not. Standing orders remain not to provoke the savages. I wonder where they are heading?”

21

Some ten miles out into the Great Divide Basin, Preacher's small army came upon the advance scouts of the Cheyenne party seeking them. Some grumbling ran through the Arapaho warriors at this, though the two war party leaders, Yellow Hawk and Blind Beaver, kept their men in check. Crow Killer, leader of the Cheyenne, had been a small boy when Preacher first met him. That had been over twenty years ago. He still had the sunny disposition and good sense of humor of his childhood, and greeted Preacher warmly.

“I thought you to be with the Great Spirit by now, Preacher.”

“You ain't no spring chicken yourself,” Preacher growled good-naturedly.

Crow Killer made a face. “Have you grown as mean as you have old?”

“Dang right. An' fit to wrassel a griz.” Preacher let go a big guffaw. “How'er ya doin', Crow Killer?”

“I have a wife now, and three children.”

Preacher blinked and cocked his head to one side. “Is that a fact? You had no more than thirteen summers the last time I saw you.”

“It has been a long time, Ghost Walker. I have twice that number of summers now.”

“An' three youngins. You got started early.”

Crow Killer cracked a white smile. “I went on the war trail first time the summer after you hunted buffalo with our village. I took a wife five summers later.”

Grinning, Preacher shook his head knowingly. “Ah, but it is the winters that count in catchin' babies, right?”

Grinning, the Cheyenne motioned his men into the column. “We scout for you, Preacher?”

“Yes, that would be good.”

Crow Killer's next words surprised Preacher. “We saw these people you go to fight.”

“Did you now? When was this?”

“Three suns ago. We rode past their valley of shining lodges. They make ready to take the war trail. Aha! We have known of it for some time. We did not know how evil these men are, so we left them alone. I will grow much honor fighting at your side.”

“The honor is mine,” Preacher responded modestly. “What can you tell me from what you saw?”

Crow Killer considered it. “They have built some platforms, like burial racks, put up on the ridge around their basin.”

“Watch towers. Reckon they saw you?”

“Oh, yes. We did not try to hide.”

Preacher chuckled at that. “That must have given ol' Marcus Quintus a tizzy.”

“Who? I do not know that name.”

“The he-coon that runs that strange place. Injuns make him nervous.”

Crow Killer scanned the ranks of Arapaho and his own Cheyenne. “Then he will soon be very nervous.”

Laughing together, they rode on. An hour before sundown, the column pulled into a circle, the Arapaho and Cheyenne on the outer two rings, and settled in for the night. Two of the Cheyenne scouts had taken a small elk, and the savory odor of roasting meat filled the air inside the campsite. Most of the mountain men had brought along ample supplies of stoneware jugs full of whiskey, and the mood became festive. Not so for Preacher and the more experienced among them, nor for the Indian leaders.

“We can't let any of them Arapaho or Cheyenne get a hand on that likker. We'd have us one hell of a war on our hands if they did. Keep a good watch,” Preacher advised the war leaders, Philadelphia, and Frenchie Dupres.

* * *

Early the next morning, Terry Tucker rode beside Preacher. Blind Beaver noted this and rode over. “You have a son now, also, Preacher?”

Preacher looked surprised, then embarrassed. “No. Not likely. It—it's just something that growed to me.” For all his denial, Preacher gave Terry a wink.

Blind Beaver beamed. “I have two. One is five summers, the other one. The other is a girl. And she is beautiful.”

“I'm sure she is.” Preacher gave Blind Beaver a hard, direct look. “When we make camp tonight, we will hold council. I want to paint a word picture of how we will attack these bad men.”

Grunting in agreement, Blind Beaver made his thoughts known. “It is good. Are they truly Moon Children?”

Preacher considered it. “I don't think so. Ol' Marcus Quintus might be a lot tetched, but he's sane enough to know right from wrong. So do the others. I figger it this way. They're just lettin' themselves go. The pleasures evil can offer can be mighty temptin'.”

“Most true,
mon ami,”
Frenchie Dupres agreed from the other side.

“Tell me about this boy,” Blind Beaver urged Preacher.

Preacher reached out and ruffled Terry's white hair. “He's a stray. Attached himself to me a while back an' I found a home for him and his sister. Now he's run off to help me in this fight.”

“You are young for your first war party,” Blind Beaver told Terry in Arapaho, with Preacher translating.

“I'm twelve,” Terry responded sharply, with only a hint of his usual defiance.

“When I had twelve summers, I still used a boy's bow and hunted rabbits.”

“It was meant as a compliment,” Preacher added to his translation.

Terry surprised Preacher yet again with his depth of diplomacy. “I'd really rather be.”

“You are brave. You will do well,” Blind Beaver told the boy. Then, to Preacher he added, “1 will go forward, see what has been found.”

What the Cheyenne scouts had found would astonish all of them.

* * *

Only the day before, one century of Varras' cavalry (actually only fifty-seven men, not one hundred) had at last discovered the tracks left by the fleeing missionaries. They followed it to the southeast now, hungering for contact. Shouted jests as to what they would do to the survivors flew through the air, flung from their mouths by a quick canter. Their concentration so centered on the anticipated targets, they failed to take note of an eagle feather that seemed to flutter incongruously from the center of a large sage bush.

A close study of that out-of-place object would have informed them that the tip had been dyed red. So had the white goose fletchings on the arrows the watcher carried, the shafts of which bore two red bands of paint and one yellow. The watcher's cousins, the Sioux, called them
Sahiela
—which translates loosely into English as “they-come-red”—and the white men called them Cheyenne.

Red Hand had been scouting ahead for hours, and had only swung directly back onto the trail a short while ago. He lived, as did all his brothers, by “Indian time” which took no notice of seconds, minutes, or hours, only of day and night, before high sun and after, of suns (days) and moons (months). So he had no exact idea how long he had ridden forward before his keen hearing picked up the rumble of many mounted men. Alerted, he guided his pony off the trail and dismounted.

His experience quickly led him to the large clump of sage, and he concealed himself there. A hundred heartbeats later, these strange men rode into view. Were they contraries? What odd clothing. That bright red cloth could be seen for miles. And only four hands of them carried bows. What sort of warriors were they? He waited until they had ridden far beyond his hiding place. Then he came out of the brush, gathered dry sticks, and clumps of green grass.

Quickly Red Hand built a small fire. When it went well, he weighted two corners of a blanket with stones, threw the greenery on the blaze and covered it with the square of cloth. He counted heartbeats, then quickly raised the blanket. A large ball of smoke formed and drifted lazily upward. He waited, fed the fire, then repeated the process twice. Crow Killer would soon know.

* * *

Crow Killer returned to the mixed column of mountain men and Indians at a gallop. His pony snorted and stamped hooves in excitement at the run when the Cheyenne war leader reined in. He had plenty to tell.

“You weren't gone long,” Preacher dryly observed.

“You saw the smokes?”

Preacher nodded.

“There are many. I watched them. Two of my scouts are behind them, to give warning if more come.”

Preacher nodded again and spat a blade of grass from his mouth. “That is wise. I'd as leave have half our men behind them, catch 'em in a box. How many?”

“Five two-hands and a hand more and two.”

Pursing his lips, Preacher thought on that. “Sure it's the Romans?”

“Yes. All on ponies.”

Preacher planned quickly. “Chances one or two will get away from the fight that's sure to come. Wouldn't do for them to know us boys was out here. I hate to turn down a battle with those devils first off, but it's best if they think it's only Injuns. Bold Pony has some good men with the rifle. How about you?”

“I have three hands who are good at it.”

“Fine, fifteen more rifles will sure help. I'll get the Arapaho ready, and you set up your warriors. Have 'em try to pot the leaders first off. This ain't for honor, it's for revenge.”

Crow Killer's face indicated he didn't think much of that, though he readily agreed. “That is how it will be done.”

“Good. Remember, no individual challenges or fights until the leaders are knocked out of the saddle.”

After explaining his plan to Bold Pony, Preacher set about convincing the throng of mountain men. “I know this won't sit well with a lot of you. But we've got to keep our intentions hidden from any of the Romans who get away.”

Karl Kreuger seized on that. “Vhat are you talking about?”

“There's about fifty-five, sixty Roman cavalry on their way. The Injuns are gonna take them on. Chances are some will get away. They can't take it back to New Rome that we have this large a force. Plain an' simple. We hide over that ridge behind us until the thing is done. No exceptions.”

“Who appointed you general?” Kreuger growled.

“I did,” Preacher answered simply. “Now, we'd best be moving. Them boys in the red capotes is not far away.”

* * *

Preacher watched the Roman cavalry approach through his long, brass spyglass. First to appear over the ridge that masked off the swale they had so recently occupied came the horsehair-plumed helmets and tossing heads of the mounts. The men showed next. They rode at a canter, uphill. Stupid, Preacher thought.

When the Romans reached the bottom of the reverse slope, the centurion in charge raised his hand in the universal signal to halt. Changing his field of view, Preacher saw the reason why. A dozen Cheyenne warriors had risen out of the tall grass, as though sprang new from the earth itself. They held drawn bows, the arrowheads angled high, to reach for the enemy.
Clever,
Preacher thought.

Sounding like nothing more than the cry of a shrike, the centurion issued his command, echoed by the sergeants. Swords hissed out of scabbards and made pillars of brightness in the sunlight. Another birdlike command and the sergeants separated their squads from the square formation they had traveled in so far. It also identified all of the leaders to the patient Cheyenne.
Idiotic,
Preacher thought.

From hidden locations on the flanks, puffs of smoke rose from the grass. There followed a fraction of a second, and the four sergeants went off their horses, dead before they struck the ground. The crack of discharging rifles followed Preacher's ears. The centurion wavered in his saddle, shot through the breastplate.
Brilliant,
Preacher thought.

Left in confusion, the soldiers milled about, their horses made fractious by the smell of blood. Then they were given something to concentrate upon. The meadow came alive with Cheyenne and Arapaho warriors. Their horses snorted as they rolled upright and came to their hooves. Another volley sounded from the hidden marksmen. Arrows flew from the twelve on foot. Swiftly the Indians mounted their ponies. Before the cavalry soldiers realized it, they found themselves the target of a whooping, hooting, lance-waving Indian charge.
Magnificent,
Preacher thought.

Since the advent of the horse, standard tactics for most plains tribes consisted of swift, powerful charges to ring the wagons of white settlers, or an enemy village, then close the diameter with a gradual inward spiral. Or of individual challenges and man-to-man, vicious hand-to-hand combat. Indians, Preacher had ample reason to know, rarely fought in organized, disciplined ranks. Almost anything could end the fighting: victory, or a perception of bad medicine, or omens like an owl flying in daylight, to a sudden chill wind. Pity the poor pilgrims coming after him, Preacher thought, if this fight today changed all that.

It didn't appear that it would, Preacher acknowledged as he watched, telescope at his side now, while the cavalry formation disintegrated through attrition and the Arapaho and Cheyenne braves picked out individuals to challenge. One by one, the kilted fighting men of New Rome met death at the hands of the Indians. Only seven of them managed to keep their wits long enough to make an escape. One of those lost his chance to a long-range rifle shot. Their commander fared even worse.

Frightfully wounded, he much preferred the peace of the grave to the torture and torment that capture meant. He had heard the stories, of course, and chose the only sensible alternative. He removed his cuirass, reversed his
gladius
and pressed the pommel to the ground, then fell on his sword.

Blind Beaver appeared at Preacher's side. “In the end, he was a woman,” he stated scornfully of the centurion. Preacher thought that made a good sum-up of the entire battle, which had not lasted fifteen minutes by his big Hambleton turnip watch.

* * *

During the next two days, seventeen more denizens of the High Lonesome wandered in. The word had spread far and wide. Duke Morrison was among them. As was Bunny Tilit-son and Haymaker Norris. The Duke approached Preacher during the nooning rest.