With no destination in mind, Jordan followed the river toward the somber heights of the Laramie Mountains, allowing Sweet Pea to set the pace as well as select a path. With no agenda to dictate, Jordan took the time to notice the first signs of a coming spring. It appeared that winter might finally relinquish its grip on the land. Jordan welcomed the change. He was ready for a new beginning. The thought gave him pause. He tried to recall if anyone at the fort had mentioned what month it was. It had to be close to April he decided.
To be alone in the mountains would be his natural salvation. He had come to believe that ever since the death of his wife and son. It seemed like so long ago that raiders had swept down upon his modest cabin, taking away his reason to live and turning him into a wanderer. He had thought then that his life was over when he buried his little family. The mountains had provided the only peace for his tormented mind. He had ridden the vengeance trail, which led to peace for no man. Ned Booth had told him that the mountains knew all the secrets of the earth, because they were closest to the Great Mystery that controls all events. Jordan was not a religious man, but he was becoming more and more convinced that the Indians were more in tune with the spirits than the white man with his starched version of worship. And now he was told there would be war with the Sioux and their allies, the principle reason being that some of them refused to live on reservations and turn their ancestral hunting grounds over to white miners and settlers. Jordan had never spent a great deal of time questioning the morality of it. It just appeared to be the natural way of things. Progress, some called it. Manifest Destiny the politicians back east termed it. Jordan was forced to make a decision as to which side he was on or else withdraw and head for parts unknown. He firmly believed that if he were a Sioux, he would not willingly report to a reservation. Yet he knew, in the end, he would ride scout for the army. As for withdrawing from the conflict, he needed a job. It was as simple as that, and scouting was really all he was qualified to do.
Late afternoon found him at a point where a rocky stream emptied into the Laramie River. It looked to be a good place to camp. Already his mind seemed to be lighter, just from being in the mountains. He dismounted and unsaddled Sweet Pea, then turned the mare loose to graze on the tender shoots along the edge of the stream. In short order, he had a fire going. As he fed the flames with dead branches, he thought again about the Indian’s reverence for the land. According to Ned, the Indian thought that all things were alive, and that the spirit that dwelt in these things would speak to you if you were in a mental state to hear them. If an Indian can hear them, why not a white man? In his mind, there were a great many questions that he didn’t have answers for. It had never before occurred to him that there was the possibility that a man could commune with the spirits. The thought appealed to him at this point in his life.
The more he thought, the more intrigued he became with the idea. He was about to slice some bacon for his supper when he decided to wait. A Lakota man would fast for several days before going off to seek a vision. Jordan wasn’t willing to go to that extent, but he decided to try his hand at speaking to the spirits. Doing so on an empty stomach would be his compromise. He stood up and looked around him. About fifty feet above him, there was a rock ledge that jutted out over the stream. It seemed to him to be the ideal place.
He was about to climb the slope when Sweet Pea snorted nervously. Jordan picked up his rifle. Kneeling on one knee, he carefully scanned the slopes on each side, listening. Something was out there that bothered the mare, maybe a wolf or coyote. He could see nothing at first. Then he spotted the threat: a young mountain lion watching the camp from the trees that covered the lower slope. Jordan rose to his feet and walked toward the tawny cat. The mountain lion abruptly turned and disappeared into the trees. As a precaution, Jordan built the fire up. He waited a few minutes to make sure the cat was not still prowling around his camp. Then he climbed up to the ledge, seeking communion with the spirits of the mountains.
It was restful. He lay there, his eyes closed, trying to clear his mind to receive any message the spirits might have for him. But there was nothing. He found that he could not clear his mind of random thoughts of Kathleen, Ned Booth, Red Feather, and many others. I guess you have to be an Indian. He relaxed his concentration. His mind free, he immediately became drowsy. Just before drifting off, he heard the mountain lion making a return visit. Sweet Pea snorted and blew to announce its presence. It didn’t concern Jordan. The big cat wouldn’t approach the fire. There was nothing else to disturb the silence until—
“Judgment day is here.”
Jordan awoke with a start, thinking at first he was dreaming. The voice seemed to have come from directly over him. Deep and ominous, it reverberated with the promise of doom. His eyes blinked open to reveal a dark shadow cast by the menacing bulk that was Preacher Rix. Every muscle in Jordan’s body tensed.
“Well, Mr. Jordan Gray, you’ve led me on a right merry chase, but now I reckon it’s time for you to know the vengeance of the Lord.”
Trapped like a damn fool. The angry thought flashed through Jordan’s mind as he looked up at Preacher’s rifle barrel pointed directly at him. Sweet Pea had tried to warn him, but he had been too damn busy trying to commune with the mountains. There was absolutely no doubt that he was about to solve the great mystery that all men were destined to know. But I ain’t that anxious to find out. He made a slight motion with his hand toward the Winchester at his side.
“Go ahead and reach for it,” Preacher gloated, “if you think you can get it before I put a bullet in you.” His lips curled in a sinister smile. “Maybe I’ll just put one in your shoulder, like this one you put in me. How’d that be?” His smile froze upon his grizzled features when he remembered the wound that had forced him to retreat before. “I thought you had crippled me for good, but the Lord made me whole again so I could call down His vengeance upon you. You have been a pox on my life. You killed both my two sons, but I knew the Lord would cause you to lie before me to beg for mercy.”
Jordan wasn’t in a begging mood. He was angry at himself for being so lax as to let the menacing brute slip up on him. If this was to be his final moment on earth, so be it. But he was damned if he was going to grovel before this miserable mistake of God’s. “If you’re waitin’ for me to beg, you might as well pull that trigger, ’cause it ain’t gonna happen.”
“Ain’t you the sassy one?” Preacher chortled. “You ain’t gonna get off that easy. No, you’re gonna die slow, a little bit at a time, and I’m gonna watch you suffer.” He took a step backward in case Jordan had any ideas about making a desperate lunge at his feet. “Now get up on your feet, real easy-like, and we’re gonna climb down off this ledge.”
Jordan couldn’t see much sense in obeying the man’s orders if he was going to get shot anyway, but he liked his odds better if he was on his feet, so he did as he was told.
“Now kick that fancy Winchester over here,” Preacher ordered, being careful to stay away from the edge of the ledge himself. “I’ve been wantin’ that rifle.”
“Go to hell,” Jordan snarled and kicked his rifle off the ledge. It clattered against the rocks as it dropped fifty feet to the base of the slope, almost landing on Sweet Pea. The mare kicked up her hind legs and jumped to avoid the bouncing weapon.
Infuriated, Preacher stepped forward and struck Jordan on the back of the head with his rifle barrel. Jordan staggered, his senses reeling, but he didn’t go down. With one giant hand, Preacher grabbed the back of Jordan’s collar and shoved him toward the path they had climbed up to reach the ledge. Preacher had coveted Jordan’s Winchester since the first time the two had met. “If that there rifle’s broke,” Preacher promised, “I’m gonna see just how much pain you can stand before you die.”
Struggling just to stay on his feet, Jordan grabbed a pine limb as he fought to clear his senses. Staggered again by a blow across his shoulders, he lurched forward, the steepness of the path causing him to stumble and slide on the loose shale. Finally his momentum caused him to tumble, and he went rolling and crashing down to the bottom, almost landing under Sweet Pea’s hooves. The mare quickly sidestepped to avoid the tumbling body.
Cautiously watching Jordan’s wild descent down the path, Preacher followed, stepping carefully so as not to duplicate it, his rifle trained upon the plummeting man. When Jordan finally came to rest at the foot of the slope, Preacher hurried to gain a position to cover him in case Jordan was game enough to try to make a run for it. A wide grin spread across his face when he saw that Jordan had gained nothing from his fall but an assortment of cuts and bruises. “Now we’ll see how tough—”
That was as far as he got before the twilight air was shattered by the angry scream of the mountain lion from the ledge they had just left. Startled, Preacher turned, losing his balance and lurching against Jordan’s horse in the process. Sweet Pea had had enough of the sudden surprises. She expressed her dissatisfaction by kicking up her back legs. The well-aimed hooves caught Preacher solidly in the stomach, knocking him to the ground, doubled over in pain.
Jordan was quick to act. Preacher tried to turn the rifle on him, but Jordan was upon him before he could bring the weapon to bear. A desperate struggle to gain control of the rifle ensued between the two powerful men. Jordan strained with all his might to wrest the rifle away from the huge man, but his efforts were useless against Preacher’s superior strength. It was all Jordan could do to prevent Preacher from ripping the rifle from his hands. Finally Preacher’s strength prevailed, and he snatched the weapon free. Roaring in triumph, his face a mask of fury, he raised the rifle over his head, preparing to use it as a club to strike Jordan down. His hands free, Jordan drew the long skinning knife from his belt and, with one quick step, moved up under Preacher’s arms and sank the blade deep into the huge man’s gut.
Shocked, Preacher backed away and stared down at the handle of the knife in stunned disbelief. Wasting no time, Jordan dived to the ground, rolling under Sweet Pea’s belly, and scrambled for the Winchester lying in the rocks. The one thought racing through his brain was that, if the rifle was busted, he was a dead man.
Dazed by the burning pain in his innards, and fumbling in confusion, Preacher sought to kill his tormentor. But the horse blocked his aim, and to make things even more difficult for him, the mare started bucking when Jordan rolled under her belly. Staggering backward, the desperate man, mindful also of the mountain lion above him on the ledge, lost precious seconds when he looked in that direction before turning back to search for Jordan. When he tried to walk around the frantic horse, the pain in his gut became so intense that it caused him to falter. Oblivious for the moment of the man desperately searching for his rifle among the rocks, Preacher reached down and grabbed the knife to rid his belly of the pain. He bellowed like a wounded grizzly when the blade withdrew and a flood of blood soaked his shirt. The sight of his lifeblood flowing out of his body prompted him to roar out in righteous anger. With one blow on Sweet Pea’s rump with his rifle barrel, he chased the excited mare out of his way, only to find himself looking down the barrel of Jordan’s Winchester.
In his agitated state, Preacher’s reactions were still quick, but not fast enough to level his rifle before Jordan’s bullet smashed into his breastbone. Mortally wounded, the huge man sank to his knees, his rifle slipping from his hands. Through dazed eyes, he saw the blurry image of the man he had hunted, now rising to his feet and cautiously approaching.
“You’ve kilt me,” Preacher mumbled, coughing to keep from choking on the blood now filling his throat.
“I reckon,” Jordan replied.
“Damn you!” Preacher spat, a spark of anger flashing in his dull eyes for just a moment. Then his eyes glazed over and seemed to focus on a faraway object. Still on his knees, he gasped, “Zeb! Quincy! I’ll be comin’ to join you in God’s paradise.”
“Tell ’em I said hello,” Jordan said and pumped another round into Preacher’s chest. He felt no sympathy for the man who had preyed upon so many innocent lives. “But I doubt if you’ll find ’em in Heaven.” He reached down and removed the rifle at Preacher’s knees, then turned to look up at the ledge above him. “I guess the shooting scared him away,” he said to himself, for there was no sign of the mountain lion. He wondered for a moment if he had just imagined the fearsome beast. If that were true, Preacher had imagined it as well. He turned back then to see Preacher slowly keel over on his side.
The dying man mumbled for several minutes before his final breath escaped him. Jordan stood watching him until there was no longer any doubt that the self-proclaimed messenger of God was dead. Only then did he take inventory of the cuts and bruises he had suffered in his fall down the slope.
He was overcome with a feeling of peace when he realized that there was no longer a threat to his safety. There was the matter of clearing his name in Deadwood, but he knew of no way to prove his innocence. Still, it bothered his mind. I might have to go back there one day soon. Looking once more at Preacher’s huge body, he thought, I was damn lucky to come out alive on this one. But I guess I made it with the help of a mountain lion and a coyote-looking horse. He looked over at Sweet Pea and grinned. “Coyote luck, I reckon.”