CHAPTER 38
“Chessie!” Oliver cried. He ran toward the wagon, limping as he did so because he had sustained a wound in his right thigh during the battle with the outcasts. He had taken only a few steps, though, when Hoyt Ryker appeared in the opening at the back of the wagon, his left arm tight around Chessie’s throat and a knife held to her chest, the blade poised to plunge into her heart.
“Stay back!” Ryker yelled. “I don’t want to kill her, but I will if I have to.”
Preacher said, “You gave me your word, Ryker.”
The man grinned over Chessie’s shoulder. “You should’ve known better than to believe that, Preacher.”
“Oh, I knew better, all right,” the mountain man said. “I figured you’d double-cross us as soon as you got the chance. I didn’t figure it’d come quite this quick, but them damn outcasts gave you a pretty good distraction, didn’t they?”
“That’s right, and I’m finally going to find out why we’re all here. I want to know what’s so important about this place. Merton must have told you by now. Spill it, and I’ll let the girl live.”
“What about the rest of us?” Hawk asked. “Will we live as well?”
Ryker smirked. “Well, now, that’s going to be a little bit more of a problem . . .”
Pidge strode forward. “Hoyt, you shouldn’t be doin’ this,” he said. “I thought you was a good man, the way you treated me at first.”
“That’s your problem, you big, dumb ox.”
Pidge frowned and clenched his hamlike hands into fists. “You shouldn’t ought to talk like that to me,” he said as he took another step forward. “I don’t like it.”
“Stop right there!” Ryker ordered. “Unless you want me to gut this girl right in front of your eyes.”
“Stay back, Pidge,” Preacher told the giant. The sun still wasn’t up, but there was enough light for him to see dimly into the wagon, behind Chessie and Ryker. He had just spotted some movement there. He didn’t think any of the outcasts had made it as far as the wagons, so that left only one person who could be stirring inside the vehicle . . .
Edgar Merton stepped up behind Ryker, pressed a small pistol to the back of the man’s head, and said, “Drop that knife, Ryker . . . or I . . . I’ll blow your brains out.”
Ryker had stiffened at the unexpected touch of the gun, but now he grinned again and said, “I thought you were either out cold or dead, Merton. I sure as hell didn’t think you had the strength to get up.”
“A man can . . . find the strength . . . when he needs to.”
“The hell he can. I’ll bet you can’t even pull that trigger. You’re going to pass out before you ever get the chance—”
Ryker moved suddenly, twisting toward Merton, letting go of Chessie as he jerked away from the gun and swung the knife at Merton’s belly. Merton screamed as the blade sunk into flesh. The pistol sagged in his hand.
But it was still pointed toward Ryker’s chest when he pulled the trigger.
The close-range blast knocked Ryker back into Chessie. Both of them toppled over the tailgate, followed by Merton. All three sprawled on the ground at the rear of the wagon as Oliver cried, “Chessie! Father!” and dashed forward.
Ryker had dropped the knife when he was shot, but it was lying on the ground next to him. He reached for it, but Preacher’s boot came down first on Ryker’s wrist and pinned his hand to the ground. Blood bubbled from Ryker’s chest wound as he gazed up at Preacher. The color was draining rapidly from his face. He struggled to form words and finally gasped, “At least tell me . . . what it was all about . . .”
“Ask the Devil when you get to hell,” Preacher said, then watched without expression as the life faded from Hoyt Ryker’s eyes.
A few feet away, Chessie babbled, “I’m all right, I’m all right,” as Oliver tried to help her sit up. “See to your father!”
That wasn’t going to do any good, no matter what any of them did, Preacher knew. That slash from Ryker’s knife had opened up Edgar Merton’s belly. There was a good chance he never would have made it back to civilization alive, but now death was only moments away.
“Ol . . . Oliver,” he said, groping upward with a hand.
Oliver scrambled over and caught hold of it. “I’m here, Father,” he said, struggling to hold back sobs. “Hang on—”
“Oh no,” Merton whispered. “I’m not . . . going to make it. But at least . . . I can die knowing . . . you found . . . two treasures . . . the gold . . . and that . . . young woman . . .”
The long, rattling sigh that came from Merton’s throat told Preacher the man was gone.
Oliver bent over his father’s body and cried unashamedly. Chessie knelt beside him and put an arm around his shoulders to comfort him. Preacher, Hawk, and Pidge stood well aside so as not to intrude on the young man’s grief.
“I believe I am glad that Chessie made the decision she did,” Hawk said quietly to Preacher. “Oliver needs her more than I ever will. I have what I need.”
“What’s that?” Preacher said.
Hawk lifted a hand and made a small but eloquent gesture to indicate the Black Hills that surrounded them. “The frontier,” he said. “My home.”
* * *
By the middle of the day, they had laid Edgar Merton to rest here in this valley that had haunted his hopes and dreams ever since his first visit many years earlier. Pidge insisted that they bury Hoyt Ryker as well.
“He was a bad man,” Pidge said with the simplicity Preacher had come to appreciate, “but there were times when he was good to me.”
“And that’s reason enough,” Preacher agreed.
The outcasts would lie where they had fallen, and in time it would be as if they had never brought their madness into this lush wilderness.
Preacher, Hawk, and Pidge had taken down the barricade as well, so the wagons could be driven out of here. As they were getting ready to go, Oliver came over to Preacher and held out his hand.
“I found this in my father’s belongings, like he said.”
Preacher looked down at the object lying in Oliver’s palm, a rough, mostly dull chunk of rock with brighter streaks in it. He grunted in surprise.
“It’s gold, isn’t it?” Oliver said.
“Well . . . in a way,” the mountain man replied. “That there is a chunk of what some folks call fool’s gold, ’cause people look at it and mistake it for the real thing.”
Oliver stared at him for several seconds before asking, “You mean it’s worthless?”
“Pretty much.”
Oliver looked like he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He settled for laughing, but there was pain in his voice as he said, “That means this whole horrible business was for nothing, doesn’t it? My father spent years dreaming a dream that was false.”
“He made a mistake,” Preacher said. “Everybody does. But at least he died thinkin’ he’d done a good thing, and that’s somethin’ to be thankful for.” He looked over to the wagon where Chessie was petting one of the mules and talking to Pidge. As the girl laughed, Preacher said, “Anyway, your pa told you you had two treasures now, and he was half-right. That’s pretty good, considerin’ some folks never find even one.”
A short time later, when they were ready to pull out, Preacher suddenly lifted his head and said to Hawk, “Listen.”
“To what?” the young warrior asked.
“Thought I heard a horse . . .”
A gray, rangy form came high-stepping out of the trees on the other side of the creek, lifted his head, and whinnied a greeting. Dog barked and bounded across the stream to run around and around his old friend, who had been lost for days now.
“Horse!” Preacher said. “He must’ve been trailin’ Ryker and the others the whole way.” He hurried across the creek and rubbed Horse’s neck while the stallion bumped his nose against the mountain man’s shoulder. It was a touching reunion for the three trail partners.
When what was left of the expedition headed south, Preacher was mounted on Horse again, with Hawk riding beside him and Oliver, Chessie, and Pidge driving the wagons. All of the men had suffered minor wounds in the final battle with the outcasts, but nothing that would keep them from putting these dark, bloody hills behind them as soon as possible.
“I think I have seen enough of the white man’s world,” Hawk said as they rode ahead of the wagons. “We brought it back with us from St. Louis, and it fouled this land. Next time you go there, you go without me.”
“Your choice,” Preacher told him. “Anyway, we got to hunt up White Buffalo. I’m sure he’d be happy to have you around for a while.”
“So there is no gold in the Black Hills,” Hawk said, looking around. “Only the gold of fools.”
“Well,” Preacher replied, “I didn’t exactly say that.”