CHAPTER 2
“It never turns out well when I work for wages,” Preacher said a bit later as he lifted a pewter mug of beer. “I’m a trapper. I work for myself.”
“I know that,” Simon Russell said. “I also know there’s no finer fighting man anywhere west of the Mississippi.”
They were in a somewhat more upscale drinking establishment now. The mighty river was several blocks away. The whores who worked here dressed a bit more discreetly and weren’t as brazen in their behavior. The floor still had sawdust on it, but it was swept out and replaced more often.
Simon Russell wore a brown tweed suit instead of the greasy buckskins he’d sported when Preacher first met him in the mountains ten years earlier. They had seen each other at a number of rendezvous since then and had always gotten along well. Preacher considered the man a friend, although he wasn’t nearly as close to Russell as he was to, say, Audie and Nighthawk.
A thatch of lank blond hair topped Russell’s squarish head. His clean-shaven face bore the permanent tan of a man who had spent most of his life outdoors, like Preacher. They weren’t really that different, Preacher mused, although obviously Russell had taken to civilization better than Preacher ever would.
“I heard you were in town and figured I might catch up to you at Red Mike’s,” Russell went on. “I wasn’t surprised to find you in the middle of a brawl, either. Seems like you get mixed up in one every time you set foot in there. What started it?”
Preacher set his mug back on the table after taking a long swallow of beer.
“Oh, a fella was mistreatin’ a woman.”
“A whore, you mean. I doubt if a respectable woman has ever set foot in Red Mike’s.”
“She was still a woman,” Preacher snapped. His first real love had been a whore, and he had never forgotten Jenny.
“I didn’t mean any offense,” Russell said. “I know how quick you are to jump into a fracas any time you think somebody is being wronged.”
Preacher just shrugged and didn’t say anything.
“Or when the odds just aren’t fair.”
“I already thanked you for pitchin’ in,” Preacher said, “and I paid for that beer you’re drinkin’, even though anybody could tell by lookin’ at the two of us that you got a heap more money in your pockets than I do.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean for it to come out that way.”
Preacher wasn’t convinced of that, but he let it go. He sighed and asked, “What is it you want me to do, anyway?”
Russell didn’t answer the question directly. Instead he said, “You know I work for the American Fur Company now, don’t you?”
“I might’ve heard somethin’ about it,” Preacher replied with a slow nod.
The American Fur Company was the oldest and largest fur trading company in the United States. Founded by John Jacob Astor, the market it provided for beaver pelts had probably done more to promote the exploration of the continent’s western half than anything else, no matter what the historians might say about Thomas Jefferson, Lewis and Clark, and the Louisiana Purchase. Knowledge for its own sake was all well and good, but throw in the promise of some profit and a lot more people were likely to sit up and take notice.
“The company has started sending riverboats up the Missouri to the mouth of the Yellowstone so our men can buy furs directly from the trappers up there,” Russell continued. “The Yellowstone is as far as they can navigate.”
“I heard about that, too. Can’t say as I really cotton to the idea.”
“Why not?” Russell asked with a frown.
“Riverboats are smelly, smoky contraptions, and they make a hell of a racket,” Preacher said. “You’ve been all over that country out there, Simon, just like I have. You’ve seen how quiet and peaceful it is. You send riverboats up the Missouri, you’re just gonna scare all the wildlife, and you’re liable to spook the Indians, too.”
Russell leaned forward and said, “Actually, that’s exactly why I wanted to talk to you, Preacher. The last few times a boat has gone upriver, it’s run into problems. Some have been attacked by Indians, and some have been waylaid by river pirates.”
“Pirates,” Preacher repeated. “Like the Harpe brothers over on the Ohio?” He had heard plenty of stories about those bloodthirsty criminal siblings known as Big Harpe and Little Harpe.
“That’s right.”
Preacher shook his head.
“I don’t recollect hearin’ anything about pirates on the Missouri,” he told his old friend.
“That’s because there was never enough traffic upriver to make it worth their while . . . until now. The company has had boats attacked on the way up, while they were carrying the money to buy furs, and they’ve been attacked on the way back down and had a whole boatload of plews stolen. Of course the Indians aren’t interested in stealing money or furs. They just want to kill the crews and set the boats on fire so they won’t come up the river again.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Preacher said. “I can make a guess what this is leadin’ up to. You’re in charge of one of these riverboats, and you want me to come along.”
Russell clenched his right hand into a fist and lightly thumped it on the table.
“That’s exactly what I want,” he said. “You’re friends with a lot of the tribes out there, and the ones that aren’t your friends are afraid of you.”
“I don’t reckon I’d go so far as to say that.”
“I would,” Russell declared. “They don’t call you Ghost Killer for no reason.”
Preacher inclined his head in acknowledgment of that point. In the past he had made war against the Blackfeet, the Absaroka, the Arikaras, and several of the other tribes.
The Blackfeet especially hated him. Russell was right about them fearing him, too. More than once he had crept into an enemy camp under cover of darkness with no one seeing or hearing him, slit the throats of several warriors, and departed just as stealthily, so the deaths weren’t discovered until morning. It was a very effective way to demoralize an enemy.
It also made legends grow up around him, which wasn’t something that Preacher necessarily wanted, although he had been known to take advantage of the fact.
“And if we run into any of those pirates,” Russell went on, “there’s nobody I’d rather have around to help me run them off than you. Anyway, if word was to get around that Preacher was on that boat, they might decide to leave it alone.”
Preacher grunted.
“You’re countin’ an awful lot on my reputation,” he said.
“Well, of course I am. You’re the most famous mountain man since Colter and Bridger.”
“The day of the mountain man is comin’ to an end, you know,” Preacher said gloomily. “Another five or ten years, there won’t be any of us left.”
“I don’t believe that. There’ll always be a mountain man or two around, as long as there are mountains.”
Preacher drained the last of the beer in his mug and wiped the back of his hand across his lips to get rid of the drops that clung to his drooping mustache.
“I hope you’re right,” he said.
“What about the job?” Russell prodded. “Will you take it?”
“I was plannin’ to reoutfit and head back to the mountains for another round of trappin’ before winter sets in.”
“The Sentinel can get you there faster.”
“That’s the boat?” Preacher asked.
“Yep. Finest vessel on the Missouri River.” Russell laughed. “Of course, the company only has three or four of them, so that doesn’t necessarily mean a whole lot. But I’d rather be traveling on the best boat than the worst one.”
Preacher couldn’t argue with that logic. He said, “What about Horse?”
“That big ugly stallion of yours? Bring him along. There’ll be room for him on the boat.” Russell frowned and went on, “Wait a minute. Is that the same mount you had when I met you ten years ago, or a different one?”
“Does it matter?” Preacher said.
“No, I suppose not. I assume Dog’s still with you, too.”
Preacher just shrugged.
“You can bring Horse, Dog, and as many supplies as you want. The company will pay for them and provide cargo space on the boat for them. In addition we’ll pay a fee for your help and a bonus if the boat makes it to the mouth of the Yellowstone without any trouble. Plus I can promise you top dollar for your pelts next time you sell a load of them.”
“You said some of the boats had been attacked on their way back downriver,” Preacher reminded his old friend. “Even if you talk me into ridin’ upriver with you, I ain’t sure there’s enough money in the world to pay me to turn right around and come back here to this hellhole.”
“Hey, St. Louis isn’t that bad,” Russell protested. “I’ve kind of gotten used to it here. But while I’d certainly like for you to make the round trip with us, I’ll take what I can get. Chances are that if we have trouble, it’ll be on the first half of the trip.”
Preacher was torn. He liked Simon Russell, and the man had pitched in to help him during that fight at Red Mike’s.
That wasn’t the first time the two of them had fought side by side against a common enemy, either. They had been in more than one battle together against the Indians, out there on the frontier.
It was true as well that traveling as far as the mouth of the Yellowstone on the riverboat would get him back to the mountains considerably quicker than if he loaded a couple of pack animals and started out there on horseback.
On the other hand, he wasn’t in any big hurry to get anywhere. That was one of the good things about being a trapper and working for himself. He didn’t have to worry about sticking to somebody else’s schedule.
And the thought of spending several weeks smelling the smoke spewing from the boat’s stacks and listening to the roar of its engine and the clatter of its paddle wheel didn’t appeal to him, either.
“Preacher?” Russell said.
“I’m thinkin’, I’m thinkin’.”
“Normally I wouldn’t press you for an answer, but the Sentinel is leaving tomorrow morning. I didn’t even hear you were in St. Louis until late this afternoon. So time is short. Honestly, I won’t hold it against you if you say no. I understand you’re not that fond of riverboats, and Lord knows you’ve saved my hide more times over the years than I’ve saved yours. We’re more than square when it comes to that.”
Russell really seemed to mean that, Preacher thought. It wasn’t just a subtle ploy.
When Preacher still didn’t say anything, Russell added, “If it’s a matter of more money—”
Preacher held up a hand to stop him.
“I might haggle with you over the price of a load of pelts,” the mountain man said, “but not about somethin’ like this. I’ll just say yea or nay.” He drew in a breath. “And I’ll say yea. I’ll go up the river with you on that damned rattletrap steamboat.”