Preacher's Journey by William W. Johnstone Page B

adults fixed breakfast and got ready to travel again.
    Preacher shadowed Mart Hawley as Hawley tended to his horses. “You don’t have to watch me so blasted close,” the man snapped. “I ain’t gonna cause any trouble. I told you, pullin’ a gun was Ed’s idea, not mine.”
    â€œIndulge me,” Preacher said dryly. “I’ll feel a mite easier if I keep an eye on you, Hawley. What do you plan to do with your partner?” Preacher inclined his head toward Watson’s body.
    â€œFind a ravine, I reckon, and pile some rocks on him after I dump him. Unless you want to help me dig a grave for him.”
    â€œNot likely,” Preacher said.
    Hawley glared at him. “Ain’t you got a ounce o’ human compassion in you? Sure, he lost his head and got hisself kilt, but he really weren’t that bad a feller.”
    â€œI’ll take your word for it.”
    â€œWhen do I get my guns back?”
    â€œWe’ll leave ’em a half mile or so up the trail after we’ve pulled out. Just follow the wagon tracks in the snow and you’ll find ’em. I’ll even wrap ’em up in some cloth to protect ’em from the weather.”
    â€œWhat if I need to shoot somethin’ before then?”
    â€œMy advice would be not to need to,” Preacher said. “You wait until we’re gone and well out of sight before you leave here. And I sure won’t take it kindly if you decide to come after us.”
    â€œWell, damn it, what if we just happen to be goin’ the same direction? I still thought I might try to winter at Garvey’s place.”
    â€œJust don’t come ridin’ up our backside. If I see you betwixt here and there, I plan on shootin’ first and askin’ questions later.”
    â€œYou’re mighty damned touchy,” Hawley muttered.
    â€œI get that way when folks try to kill me.”
    Preacher went back to the wagons. Roger and Peter had built up the fire until it was blazing brightly again, and Jonathan was cooking breakfast. Preacher said to Roger, “How’s your wife this mornin’?”
    â€œA little better, I think,” Roger replied. A haunted look in the young man’s eyes told Preacher that he wasn’t really convinced of what he was saying, however. Maybe he was trying to make himself believe it.
    â€œNo baby yet, though,” said Preacher.
    Roger shook his head. “No. No baby.”
    Preacher could do a lot of things, but he couldn’t make a baby be born when it wasn’t good and ready. He put a hand on Roger’s shoulder for a moment and gave him a reassuring nod. That was about all he could do.
    A short time later, after everyone had eaten breakfast—except for Hawley, who would have to make do now with the jerky and pemmican he already had—and the wagons had been hitched up, Preacher said, “Climb up there and let’s get movin’, folks. Got a lot of ground to cover today.”
    He swung up into the dun’s saddle and rode out of the hollow. Dog went with him and then bounded ahead, kicking up snow with his paws as he ran. He looked more like a wolf than ever in these surroundings. Preacher reined in and turned to watch as the wagons climbed out of the hollow and began rolling across the relatively level ground to the east. There were still some more hills to cross before they would reach the actual plains, but the going would get a little easier with each mile they put behind them.
    Hawley stood near the cliff with his horses. Ed Watson’s corpse lay nearby. Preacher remembered how the first man he had been forced to kill had haunted him for a long time. He had seen the face of that river pirate in his dreams, and even sometimes when he was awake. Now, so many violent years had rolled past that he could no longer even make an accurate estimate of the number of men who had gone down to death at his hands. But he had never