Blood on the Divide Read Online Free Page A

sold ever’thing they couldn’t pile on them wagons and they can’t go back. They got nothin’ to go back to. And they got only misery ahead of them. Goddamnit, Jack, they’re merchants and clerks and coin counters and the like.”
    â€œYou’re just upset ’cause the fur’s gone and you can’t abide crowds noway.”
    â€œThat’s part of it, yeah. But it’s too soon for these folks, Jack. They got no protection from the government. A bunch of that territory’s in dispute ’tween England and America. I snooped around, Jack. Them pilgrims just barely got enough shot and powder for their personal needs. What are you gonna do if you’re attacked?”
    â€œYou know the odds of Injuns attackin’ a wagon train of this size is slim, Preacher,” Jack said stubbornly.
    â€œMayhaps you be right, Jack. Mayhaps you can get them movers ’crost the Rockies. But like I said: what happens after you get there and leave them? You know damn well good as me that’s when the Injuns will hit them.”
    But the scout’s jaw was set in determination.
    â€œYou know what would be smart on the mover’s part, Jack? Huh? If you was to take these pilgrims about twenty-five miles from this post and settle them. Then the next bunch go twenty-five more miles past that, and so forth. Then you’d have, sooner or later, a supply line that ran all the way to the blue waters. But this way, Jack, is dumb!”
    Jack stood up and looked down at his old friend. “We’ll be leavin’ at first light, Preacher. Feel free to tag along. The grub is better than passable.”
    Preacher shook his head. “No, thanks, Jack. But I’ll wish you luck.” ’Cause you’re damn sure gonna need all you can get, he silently added.
    The next morning, Preacher stood with several other trappers and watched the long line of wagons stretch out. No one spoke for a long time. Finally, a long, lanky drink of water all dressed in buckskins said, “I got me a bad feelin’ about those folks yonder, boys.”
    Preacher looked at the man. “So do I, Caleb. So do I.”
    The men turned as one and headed for the store. Preacher wanted to get him a jug and get rip-roarin’ drunk and try not to think about those pilgrims heading into the raw and dangerous wilderness.
    * * *
    On a bright and clear spring morning, Preacher rolled out of his blankets and stretched the kinks from his joints and muscles. He was about two days’ ride from the post and the whiskey he’d consumed was clear of his system. He had stayed in an alcoholic fog for near’bouts a week. He and Caleb and the other mountain men gathered at the post had swapped lies, jugs, thrown axes and knives at targets, and in general had them a high ol’ time. Then, without anyone putting it into words, the men had drifted away, each hearing the silent call of the wilderness beckoning them back to the High Lonesome.
    After carefully looking all around him and listening intently for several minutes, to the birds singing and the squirrels chattering, Preacher decided there were no Injuns about and shucked out of his clothes and jumped into a pool created by a cold, clear creek. He washed quickly, before he turned blue, and jumped out, running around the camp naked as a jaybird until he was dry. Then he put on fresh longhandles he’d bought at the post and slipped into buckskins a Mandan squaw had made for him. He fixed coffee over a smokeless fire and set about figuring just what he was going to do with himself and where he wanted to go.
    Problem was, he’d been damn near everywhere there was to go in the wilderness. Preacher had been born restless, and in his more than two decades in the Big Empty, he had gained a reputation as not only a fierce and respected warrior, but also as scout and explorer, helping to guide many a government team through the seemingly impassable