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THE FIRST MOUNTAIN MAN
THE FIRST MOUNTAIN MAN
PREACHER’S FURY
WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE
with J. A. Johnstone
CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 1
The trading post was called Blind Pete’s Place. The proprietor wasn’t blind, and his name wasn’t really Pete. He was a German named Horst Gruenwald.
But he preferred to be called Pete, and since he was more than six feet tall and almost two hundred and fifty pounds of pure muscle, folks didn’t argue with him.
His eyes were his only weakness, and the thick spectacles he wore allowed him to see well enough to crack a troublemaker’s head open with a ham-like fist if he needed to.
Preacher wasn’t the given name of the man riding down a pine-covered hill toward the trading post, either, but it was what he had been called for a number of years, ever since he had saved himself from torture and death at the hands of his Blackfoot captors by preaching constantly for days and nights on end, thereby making them think he was crazy. Most Indians wouldn’t kill a crazy person for fear that his spirit would return to haunt them, and the Blackfeet were no different.
Preacher was still young enough to be a vital, active man, but old enough that strands of silver had begun to appear in his thick black hair and beard. Years of exposure to the elements had tanned his visible skin to the color of old saddle leather. A hard life as a fur trapper in the Rocky Mountains had left him with a lean, muscular body under his buckskin shirt and trousers.
He balanced a long-barreled flintlock rifle across the saddle in front of him, and tucked behind his belt were a pair of loaded and charged pistols. Another brace of pistols rode in sheaths strapped to his saddle. In addition to the guns he carried a razor-sharp hunting knife.
Preacher was widely regarded as one of the most dangerous men in these mountains. He could kill a man in any number of ways, including with his bare hands.
Some of the tribes knew him as White Wolf, because he resembled a dangerous lobo, while others called him Ghost Killer because of his almost supernatural ability to slip into a camp, slit the throats of his enemies, and get back out again without anyone even knowing he was there until it was too late to help his victims.
At the moment, however, Preacher didn’t feel like killing anybody. He was tired and thirsty. He wanted a drink, maybe some hot food, and then he would find himself a place to camp near the trading post. Recently he had spent several months down in Santa Fe, recuperating from some injuries, so he’d had plenty of having a roof over his head for a while.
A big, shaggy, wolf-like cur padded alongside the rangy gray stallion Preacher rode. He called the dog Dog and the horse Horse. Simple was best, in Preacher’s book.
When Dog looked back over his shoulder and whined, Preacher said, “Go ahead, you varmint. I know you’re itchin’ to get there and say howdy to your sweethearts.”
Tongue lolling happily, Dog bounded on down the hill ahead of Preacher and Horse. Blind Pete had a couple of wolfhound bitches, and Dog was eager to get reacquainted with them.
Preacher didn’t feel the same need for female companionship right now. Having a woman around was like having a roof over his head. He’d had plenty of that while he was in Santa Fe. A pretty señorita named Juanita had nursed him back to health, and she’d had it in her mind that Preacher would spend the winter with her.
When the wild geese began to fly, though, he knew it was time to head north. The mountains called to him.
“You been to this place before?”
Preacher looked over at the small, elderly black man who rode beside him. He nodded to Lorenzo and said, “Yeah, a heap of times.”
“Folks around here got anything against colored fellas?”
Preacher grunted disdainfully.
“You could be colored green or blue and it wouldn’t make a lick of difference. Out here in the mountains we judge folks by what they do, not what they look like.”
“Well, that’s the way it oughta be, I reckon. But that ain’t always how it is.”
“I wouldn’t worry,” Preacher said.
“I’ll take your word for it.”
Preacher had met Lorenzo back in St. Louis, where he had gone to settle a score with an old enemy. They had been traveling together ever since. Lorenzo had never been West before, and he was enjoying the journey.
The two riders reached the bottom of the hill and started across a stretch of open ground toward the trading post, which was built near a fast-flowing creek. It was a sturdy, sprawling log building with a stockade fence around it that also enclosed a barn and corral. Watchtowers rose at each corner of the fence. The place was laid out with defense against attack in mind.
Preacher recalled that there had been a few skirmishes between Pete and the Indians in the early days after the German had established the trading post, but for the most part the tribes left him alone now. As a young man, Horst Gruenwald had been a Hessian mercenary and served as a cannoneer in the Revolutionary War, fighting in the employ of the British.
When it became obvious to Horst that he was on the side destined to lose, he had taken off for the tall and uncut and declared himself an American. Years later, when he decided to go West and see the frontier, he had somehow gotten hold of a three-pounder and hauled it out here with him.
After a few war parties had been shredded by canister rounds from that cannon, the rest of the Indians in the area had gotten the idea that it might be wise to avoid Blind Pete’s.
Things were peaceful enough these days that the gate in the fence stood wide open. Dog was already inside the stockade. Preacher and Lorenzo followed, trailing the pack horses behind them. Preacher lifted a hand in a lazy wave to a man lounging in one of the guard towers.
Preacher