Preacher's Journey Read Online Free Page A

here anyway, Preacher thought.
    Roger went on. “But I’m sure she’ll be fine. Women always scream when they’re giving birth.”
    â€œYou’d know that if you’d ever been around any civilized women,” Peter added.
    Preacher’s jaw tightened in irritation. “I been around civilized women,” he snapped. Jennie had been a prostitute, but nobody could say she wasn’t civilized. And he’d had a mother, of course, although truth to tell, Preacher barely remembered her. Most of the women he’d been around while they were giving birth were Indians, and the men of the tribe stayed far away while that was going on, leaving the process in the capable hands of the squaws. So Preacher supposed Peter Galloway had a point, whether he wanted to admit it or not.
    He turned away from the others, saying, “I better do something about them bodies.”
    â€œWe can help you,” one of the older men said. He was stout, with white hair and a mustache. He stuck out a hand and introduced himself. “I’m Jonathan.”
    â€œAnd I’m Geoffrey,” the other old-timer said as Preacher and Jonathan shook hands. He was shorter and slighter than his brother, clean-shaven, with wispy gray hair under a broad-brimmed hat. All of them wore functional homespun, leather, and whipcord garments, no doubt purchased back in St. Louis or wherever they had started from. At least they had the sense not to sport their fancy Eastern duds out here. They weren’t totally unfamiliar with firearms either, although they had burned quite a bit of powder during the fracas with the Indians and hadn’t done any significant damage. They might not be completely hopeless, Preacher told himself.
    With Geoffrey and Jonathan trailing him, he walked back to where the bodies of the warriors lay scattered. For the first time, he had a chance to really study the way they wore their hair, the markings on their faces, and the decorations on their buckskins. What he saw made him grunt in surprise.
    â€œWhat is it?” Jonathan asked. “They’re all dead, aren’t they?”
    â€œThey’ve gone under, all right,” Preacher said. “I’m just a mite surprised to see that they’re Arikara.”
    â€œThat’s the tribe they belong to, you mean?” Geoffrey said.
    Preacher nodded. “See them bits of horn in their hair, stickin’ up like they was real horns? That’s a sure sign of them bein’ ’Rees, which is what some folks call ’em. They call themselves the Sahnish.”
    â€œI thought all Indians were pretty much the same,” Jonathan said. “They’re all savages, aren’t they?”
    â€œNot hardly. Some tribes are right friendly to white folks, even though we came into their part of the country without an invite. And it goes deeper than that. Every tribe has its own way of doin’ things, its own beliefs. I reckon a fella could spend a whole lifetime out here and not get to know everything there is to know about Injuns.”
    â€œYou sound almost like you like them,” Jonathan said in amazement.
    â€œI do. Some of ’em anyway. Never had much use for Blackfeet or Pawnee, though.”
    Geoffrey gestured toward the sprawled bodies. “Surely these creatures are from one of the more warlike tribes.”
    Preacher scratched his bearded jaw and then shook his head. “That’s what’s got me a mite puzzled. The Arikaras can be fierce when they want to be, but most of the time, if they’re let alone, they let folks alone in turn. A few years back, there was a spell when they were on the warpath because some idjits traded ’em bad whiskey for beaver plews. I was mixed up in that little dustup myself. But they got over it, except for one warrior who stayed so mad at the whites he went over to the Blackfeet and called himself a Blackfoot, just so’s he could still make