Frontier America

A couple of very enjoyable days passed for Preacher as he continued his visit with his son’s family. He and Hawk roamed the forests, sometimes just the two of them and sometimes in company with Broken Pine, Big Thunder, and other old friends.

During those jaunts, Preacher saw that what he had been told was true: game was surprisingly scarce. Preacher didn’t believe there was any way that could honestly be blamed on the wagon trains coming increasingly closer, but he didn’t see any point in stirring up arguments, so he kept his mouth shut about that.

He also spent quite a bit of time with Eagle Feather, telling the boy tall tales about his adventures that occasionally had Butterfly frowning in disapproval when the stories became too lurid.

He even got his extremely shy granddaughter, Bright Moon, to be more comfortable around him and actually talk to him, telling him about her friends and the games they played and all the things Butterfly had been teaching her about the work a woman of the tribe had to do.

Preacher was having a good time here and was in no hurry to leave, but then Broken Pine sought him out and said, “Three of our men ventured out onto the plains yesterday in search of buffalo, and they saw many of the white men’s wagons traveling toward the mountains.”

“The wagons are headed this direction?”

“South of here,” Broken Pine replied, “but well north of the river white men call the Sweetwater.”

Preacher knew the Sweetwater River very well. He had trapped up and down its length many times and also traveled along it when he was on his way to the annual rendezvous fur trappers held on the Green River, a ways farther west. The stream rose near the broad, level valley known as South Pass, where most of the wagon trains had been crossing the Rockies in recent years. A wagon train moving north of there had to be aiming for a different route.

That was the way some folks were—never content to follow the established trails, to walk in the footsteps of those who had gone before them. They had to break out of the established routine and find their own path . . . even though sometimes those paths led straight to disaster.

“I’ll go talk to them and find out what their plans are,” Preacher told Broken Pine. “I really doubt that they’re much of a threat to you and your people, though.”

“When Many Pelts and those who believe as he does hear about this, they will want to confront the wagon train and make the whites go another way.”

“It’ll be your job to keep them from doing that, Broken Pine.”

“And they will do as I say. I am still chief here.”

But for how much longer, if Many Pelts continued stirring up trouble, Preacher asked himself.

Maybe he could help the situation by finding out why the wagon trains kept pushing farther and farther in the direction of the Crow village and hunting grounds.

“I will come with you, Preacher,” Hawk said.

The mountain man frowned and said, “I don’t know if that’s necessary—”

“It would be a good thing,” Broken Pine said. “Hawk That Soars is one of us. Some of our people will be more likely to listen to him than to you, Preacher, even though he is half white.”

Preacher supposed that made sense. Hawk had won over the Crow, despite his status as a half-breed, because he was such a fine warrior and good man. When it came to convincing somebody like Many Pelts to be reasonable, Hawk would have an advantage because of the Indian blood that flowed in his veins.

“All right, fine,” Preacher said. “I’m always glad to have you ridin’ with me, Hawk.”

“I will tell Butterfly, and we will leave now.”

Preacher nodded.

“I’ll go get Horse saddled up.”

They set out less than ten minutes later, with Butterfly and the two children standing in front of the lodge and solemnly watching them go. Preacher and Hawk might be back that night, but they were taking supplies with them in case they weren’t able to return until the next day.

They followed the river, which gradually curved until it flowed eastward through the foothills at the base of the great peaks. Preacher knew that once the stream reached the prairie, it would make another bend, southward this time, and eventually flow into the Sweetwater, which in turn merged with the North Platte far out on the Great Plains.

As they rode, Hawk said, “I remember what St. Louis was like when you and I went there, Preacher. Will there be cities like that out here someday? Cities with so many buildings that you can no longer even see the earth? Places where the air stinks of too many people?”

“I reckon there’s a good chance of it,” Preacher admitted. “It’s already like that all over, back east. You might find a little piece of wilderness here and there, but before you know it, you’re surrounded again.”

“I would never want to go there.”

“I don’t plan on goin’ back, unless somethin’ mighty important comes up.” Preacher paused, then said, “The good part about the whole thing is, by the time it gets that bad out here and the frontier is gone, I will be, too. Dead and gone for a long time.”

“But what about the children,” Hawk asked, “and the children’s children?”

Preacher shook his head and said, “I reckon they’ll have to find their own ways of dealin’ with it. Folks always do, because things never stay the same. There just ain’t no gettin’ around that.”

The conversation made both of them a little melancholy, and so they rode in silence for quite a while.

It was the middle of the afternoon before Preacher and Hawk spotted the long line of wagons up ahead. The arching canvas covers over the backs of the large vehicles gleamed in the sunlight. Preacher and Hawk urged their mounts to a faster pace, and Dog bounded ahead.

Someone with the wagon train must have seen them coming. Four men on horseback broke away from the caravan and rode out to meet them.

Preacher had the Sharps with him, of course, as well as the brace of Colt Dragoons. He reached down to the guns and made sure each revolver slid smoothly in its holster.

Hawk noticed that and asked, “Do you expect trouble from these men, Preacher?”

“Nope, not at all,” the mountain man replied. “But it’s always a good idea to be ready for it, whether you expect it or not.”

Hawk didn’t say anything in response to that, but he touched the knife and tomahawk stuck behind the belt at his waist.

One of the men approaching them wore buckskins and a coonskin cap. Two had on rough work clothes. All three of those riders carried rifles across their saddles in front of them.

The fourth man, who led the little group, was dressed in a sober black suit and hat and collarless white shirt. He looked more like a minister than a wagonmaster, but he rode with an unmistakable air of command about him. At first glance he didn’t appear to be armed, but as they came closer, Preacher spotted the handle of a big knife, probably an Arkansas Toothpick, sticking out from under the man’s coat.

The leader of the welcoming party reined in and raised a hand in a signal for the others to stop. Preacher and Hawk slowed their mounts and walked them forward until only fifteen feet separated the two groups. Dog had come to a halt, as well, and stood there stiff-legged, with the fur on the back of his neck ruffled up a little.

“I’m guessing that’s not actually a wolf, since he seems to be traveling with you two fellows,” the man in the black suit greeted them.

“Oh, he’s probably part wolf,” Preacher drawled, “but I reckon he’s mostly dog. That’s what I call him, in fact. Dog.”

“We won’t shoot him, then,” the man said.

“Best you don’t,” Preacher said.

The man in the black suit was burly, with a barrel chest and powerful-looking shoulders. A thatch of white hair stuck out from under his hat, and a thick white mustache bristled under his prominent nose. Bushy side whiskers framed the deeply tanned face of a man who had spent most of his life outdoors.

“I’m Major Frank Powell,” he introduced himself, “the wagonmaster of this here immigrant train. My scouts”—he inclined his head toward the other three men—“Jethro Haines, Tom Nolan, and George Ogden.”

Each of the men nodded in turn as Powell said his name. Gray-bearded Jethro Haines was the one in buckskins. Preacher thought he looked vaguely familiar and figured they had crossed trails sometime in the past. Haines hadn’t made any threatening moves with the flintlock rifle he held, though, so Preacher didn’t reach for his guns.

Haines had something to say, though. He drawled, “A white man and a Injun travelin’ together . . . That ain’t somethin’ you see ever’day. That redskin your slave, mister?”

Hawk bristled, but Preacher gave him a glance that told him to control the reaction. Then the mountain man said, “This man is my son, Hawk That Soars. And folks call me Preacher.”

Haines knew the name, and so did the other two scouts, Nolan and Ogden. Preacher could tell that by looking at them. Powell seemed to recognize the name, too. He confirmed that by saying, “I’ve heard a lot about you, sir. I didn’t know if you were still alive.”

“And kickin’,” said Preacher. “What are you folks doin’ this far north of South Pass?”

“Why, we’re headed for the Oregon Territory, of course. Those intrepid pioneers in the wagons behind us have engaged my services to lead them there.”

“Then they won’t be happy when they have to backtrack for a week or more because you’ve taken them astray.”

Powell sat up straighter in the saddle and glared at Preacher as he said, “I don’t appreciate that comment, sir. I know what I’m doing here.”

“You couldn’t prove it by me. You need to turn around now and head back to South Pass. It’ll save you some time in the long run.”

“You’re wrong,” Powell insisted. “We plan to cross the mountains by way of Churchill Pass.” The man pointed to the peaks visible in the distance. “There.”

“Churchill Pass?” Preacher repeated with a frown. “I never heard tell of it.”

“That’s probably because Edward Churchill, who discovered the pass and laid out the new route, didn’t do so until this past year. It’s been the talk of St. Louis and Independence, Missouri, in recent months, especially since Mr. Churchill’s book has come out—”

“Hold on just a minute,” Preacher broke in. “You say this fella Churchill wrote a book?”

“Yes, about his explorations of the Rocky Mountains. It not only details his discovery of the pass, it also mentions that there are a whole series of passes to the north, some more rugged than others, but all of them capable of having wagons travel through them. The area needs more extensive mapping . . .” Powell’s voice trailed off as he saw the grin spreading across Preacher’s rugged face. “What do you find so amusing, sir?”

“A fella writes a book and makes all these wild claims, and folks just believe him without ever settin’ eyes on what he’s talkin’ about?”

“I don’t see why Mr. Churchill would lie about such things,” Powell said stiffly.

“He’s a writer, ain’t he? A fella who’ll write a book will do damn near anything to get folks to buy it, even if it means spewin’ out a pack of lies!”

Powell stared angrily at Preacher. The three scouts didn’t look happy, either, but they weren’t as visibly upset as their boss. They had just been following Powell’s orders; their reputation as scouts and frontiersmen wasn’t at stake.

Preacher figured it wouldn’t hurt anything to try to soothe Powell’s ruffled feathers. He asked, “How many wagon trains have you led west . . . Major, was it?”

“That’s right.”

“You’re in the army now?”

“Well . . . no. I served in the Mexican War and retained my rank.”

In other words, he just called himself a major, thought Preacher.

“And to answer your other question, I’ve led four immigrant trains from Independence to the Oregon Territory, and before that I took charge of more than a dozen such caravans from my home state of Pennsylvania out to Missouri. I have an excellent reputation, and frankly, I’m surprised you haven’t heard of me.”

“Well, I don’t get back east that often,” Preacher said. “Listen, Major, I don’t mean to put a burr under your saddle, but I know these mountains, and I don’t care what some fancy pants book writer says, there ain’t no good passes in the direction you’re goin’.”

“But why—” Powell stopped short. “Never mind. You’ve already given me your answer to that question. And I suppose there’s a faint possibility you may be right about Mr. Edward Churchill. But there’s also a chance you’re wrong. You can’t know every foot of this country.”

Jethro Haines drawled, “I wouldn’t be so sure about that if I was you, Major. This is Preacher we’re talkin’ about. He’s been out here longer than just about anybody, and there can’t be many places west of the Mississipp’ where he ain’t set foot.”

The other two scouts muttered their agreement with Haines. Powell didn’t like hearing it, but there was nothing he could do except swallow it.

“We’re near the foothills,” he said. “We’ll push on that far and make camp for the night, and then we can discuss this further. I’ll need to talk to Mr. Dawlish and get his opinion on the matter.”

Preacher asked, “Who’s this fella Dawlish?”

“The settlers elected him the captain of the wagon train,” Powell explained. “I’m in charge, but I need to consult him before any decisions are made.”

“I’d be glad to talk to him, tell him what I know about the mountains west of here.”

Powell jerked his head in a curt nod and said, “Of course. You and your, ah, son are welcome to spend the night in our camp, as late in the day as it is.”

“We’re obliged to you for your hospitality.”

Powell wheeled his horse around and barked orders at the scouts. All four men rode back toward the wagons, which had come to a halt by now while the conference was going on.

Preacher crossed his hands on the saddlehorn, leaned forward, and said to Hawk, “At least we know now why the wagon trains have been comin’ farther and farther in this direction. They’re all lookin’ for a pass that ain’t there.”

“How can we stop them?” Hawk asked.

“I don’t know, short of goin’ back east and writin’ a book about how this fella Churchill is a windbag who don’t have any idea what he’s talkin’ about.” Preacher laughed. “And I don’t reckon that’s gonna happen. But once enough wagon trains have to turn around and go back down to South Pass, word will get back to Independence sooner or later and folks will stop puttin’ any stock in Churchill’s lies. Many Pelts and the rest of the Crow who agree with him will just have to put up with things the way they are for a while.”

“That will not be easy to do as long as the hunting is bad.”

“I’ll have a talk with Haines,” Preacher said. “He seems to have a pretty good idea what’s goin’ on. If he can keep any huntin’ parties close to the wagons and not let them go too far into the foothills, it shouldn’t be a problem. Of course, the best thing would be if those wagons turn around in the mornin’ and head back the other way. Maybe I can help get that idea through Powell’s head.”

He lifted Horse’s reins and nudged the stallion into an easy lope. Hawk rode beside him as they headed toward the slowly rolling wagons.