Preacher fought down the impulse to lift the rifle he carried in front of him across his saddle and blaze away at the men before they could open fire. He didn’t cotton to having guns pointed at him, and his instincts wanted him to do something about it.

But he noticed that the men hadn’t cocked the pistols. Their thumbs were looped over the hammers, so they could cock and fire in a matter of a second or two if they needed to, but it seemed that gunplay wasn’t imminent.

“Hold on there!” Preacher said. “We’re peaceable men.”

The big, bearded wagon master, if that’s who he was, glared at Preacher and said in a booming voice, “You look more like highwaymen to me, mister! If you have any thoughts of robbing these poor immigrants, you’d better put them out of your head right now.”

“Highwaymen?” Uncle Dan repeated. “We’re just poor, honest fur trappers, on our way to Sant Looey.”

“That’s right,” Preacher said. It was getting harder and harder to just sit there with those guns pointed at him. It made his trigger finger itchy. “His name’s Dan Sullivan, and I’m called Preacher.”

The wagon boss shook his head. “Those names mean nothing to us. We don’t know any of the trash that currently inhabits the Rocky Mountains.”

“Trash, is it?” Preacher muttered under his breath. He was starting to like this pompous windbag less and less.

But he kept a tight rein on his temper and went on, “The only reason we rode up here is to tell you folks that there may be a Pawnee war party waitin’ up ahead for you, somewhere in the next few miles. If Uncle Dan and I spotted the dust from your wagons, you can damned well bet the Pawnees did.”

One of the other men lowered his gun slightly and said, “You hear that, Mr. Buckhalter? Savages!”

“I heard,” the barrel-chested, bearded man said. “And I told you, Donnelly, that there was a chance of encountering Indians on our way to Oregon. You knew the risk when you joined the wagon train.”

“Yeah, but shouldn’t we listen to these fellas?” the man called Donnelly asked. “They’re bound to know this part of the country. I mean, just look at ’em.”

“I know the country, too,” Buckhalter snapped. “This isn’t the first wagon train I’ve guided west. And I know that this isn’t Pawnee territory. The only Indians in these parts are friendly ones.”

Uncle Dan couldn’t stand it anymore, and Preacher understood the feeling. “Why, you tarnal idjit!” the old-timer burst out. “Half a dozen o’ them so-called friendly Injuns tried to lift our hair yesterday, and they was just scouts from a bigger war party. You keep goin’ the way you’re goin’ and they’ll jump you, sure as shootin’!”

Preacher looked along the line of wagons, which had come to a stop while he and Uncle Dan talked to the riders. “How many men do you have along with you?”

Buckhalter gave him a stony stare and didn’t answer, but Donnelly said, “Between fifty and sixty, counting the boys who are almost grown. There are thirty-eight wagons in the train.”

“Well, then, you’ve got that war party outnumbered almost three to one. Maybe they’ll see that and decide not to attack.”

“Do you think we can count on that?”

Preacher leaned over in the saddle and spat on the ground. “Mister, you can’t count on nothin’ where Indians are concerned. Just when you think you’ve got ’em all figured out, they’ll do somethin’ else to surprise you. I reckon it’s a fifty-fifty chance on whether that war party will jump you. It all depends on how they’re feelin’ at the time.”

Donnelly turned to Buckhalter and said, “I think we should do something about this.”

“What would you have us do?” Buckhalter demanded. “Turn back to St. Louis? Give up on all your hopes and dreams?”

“I didn’t say that—”

“Nothing worthwhile in this life comes without risk,” Buckhalter went on.

Preacher couldn’t argue with that sentiment. He knew it was true. But that didn’t mean a fella had to be foolish when it came to risks.

“None of you folks asked me for my advice—” he began.

“That’s right, we didn’t,” Buckhalter said.

“—but I’m gonna give it to you anyway,” Preacher went on as if he hadn’t been interrupted. “Get some scouts on fast horses well out in front of the wagons. When you make camp for the night, pull the wagons in a tight circle and get all the livestock inside. Post plenty of guards and make sure they’re hombres who can stay awake and alert. The Pawnee will slip up on a man and cut his throat before he knows what’s goin’ on if he ain’t mighty careful. Make sure everybody who can use a gun has one handy, and keep ’em loaded. They ain’t gonna do you any good otherwise, ’cause the Indians won’t wait around until you’re ready to put up a fight.”

“Is that all?” Buckhalter asked coldly. “Or would you like to insult our intelligence some more?”

“Mister, what the hell is wrong with you?” Uncle Dan said. “Preacher and me are just tryin’ to help you, and you go outta your way to insult us.”

Preacher lifted a hand and said, “Forget it, Uncle Dan. Some fellas just don’t like havin’ their authority challenged. I reckon Buckhalter’s the boss here, and what he says, goes.”

Buckhalter sniffed and then jerked his head in a nod, as if to reinforce what Preacher had just said.

“That means the blood of all them folks in the wagons will be on his head if somethin’ goes wrong,” Preacher continued. “It ain’t none of our business.”

He started to turn Horse away, but before he could do so, Donnelly prodded his mount ahead of the others and said, “Wait a minute.”

When Preacher looked back at him, Donnelly went on, “I don’t know if you’re right about the Pawnee or not. Mr. Buckhalter hasn’t given us any reason to doubt his experience. But I’d like for you to make camp with us tonight so that everybody can hear what you have to say.”

Wearing an angry expression on his bearded face, Buckhalter moved his horse alongside Donnelly’s and said, “I’m the chief guide and wagon master of this train, Mr. Donnelly, and I don’t appreciate you casting doubt on me by listening to these tramps. We all agreed that I’m in charge here.”

“I mean no offense,” Donnelly said, “and it’s true you’re the wagon master, Mr. Buckhalter. But those folks elected me their captain before we left St. Louis, and I feel a great deal of responsibility for them. I don’t think it’ll hurt any of us to listen to these men.”

“We’ve heard them already,” Buckhalter said. “And I say they’re mistaken.”

“Hard to be mistaken about six dead warriors,” Preacher drawled. “And one of ’em, a fella called Bent Stick, talked before he died. He told us about a chief named Standin’ Elk leadin’ a war party through these parts. Uncle Dan and I crossed their trail earlier today, back yonder a ways. They number at least twenty men, and they were headin’ for the river. Like I said, you’ve got ’em outnumbered . . . but chances are, most, if not all, of those fellas are seasoned killers. That means they’re more dangerous than a bunch of immigrants.”

“Ride with us, and make camp with us tonight,” Donnelly urged. “You’ll have a chance to speak your piece, Mister . . . Preacher, was it?”

“Just Preacher. No mister.”

“You can speak your piece,” Donnelly said again, “and I promise that we’ll all listen.”

Buckhalter snorted and shook his head, but he didn’t say anything else.

Uncle Dan ran his fingers through his beard. “I was just tellin’ Preacher earlier that it’d be mighty nice to eat a woman-cooked meal again. And the strings on my fiddle are just achin’ to have a bow scraped across them.”

“We have some pretty good fiddle players among us,” Donnelly said with a smile. “We have music almost every evening, and I’m sure they wouldn’t mind if you joined in.”

“All right,” Preacher said. He agreed almost as much to annoy Buckhalter as anything else. He felt an instinctive dislike for the hombre.

Donnelly turned to Buckhalter. “It’s fairly late in the afternoon. Should we go ahead and start looking for a place to make camp?”

Buckhalter jutted his beard toward Preacher and said, “Why don’t you ask him?”

Then he turned his horse and rode toward the wagons.

“Didn’t mean to cause trouble betwixt you and your wagon boss,” Uncle Dan said. “We just wanted to let you know about them Injuns.”

Donnelly shook his head. He was a middle-aged, solemn-faced man with graying hair who looked like he might have been a storekeeper or a lawyer back east.

“He’s been touchy the entire trip,” Donnelly said. “He’ll get over it. I think he’s just a very proud man who doesn’t like having his judgment questioned.”

Preacher said, “It’s a good thing for a man to take pride in himself . . . just not so much that he can’t listen to what other folks have to say.”

The men turned their horses and rode toward the wagons. Donnelly gestured toward his two companions and said, “This is Mike Moran and Pete Stallworth, two more of our scouts and guides.”

“How many scouts are out now?” Preacher asked.

“Two. Fred Jennings and Liam MacKenzie. Don’t worry, they’re good men.”

Preacher figured he’d reserve judgment on that. Not that it was his place to be passing judgment on any of these folks, he reminded himself. He didn’t like it when people did that to him.

Moran was a tall, burly gent with a face that looked like it had been hacked out of the side of a granite mountain. Stallworth was short and stocky, with thick blond hair sticking out from under a hat pushed back on his head. Preacher said to them, “You fellas work for Buckhalter?”

“He’s the wagon master,” Stallworth replied with a friendly grin. “It was Mr. Donnelly here who hired us, though, and him and the rest of those pilgrims who’re payin’ us.”

“So there are five guides, countin’ Buckhalter?”

“That’s right.”

“Been to the mountains much?”

“I trapped out there a couple of seasons,” Stallworth said. “Know my way around pretty good, I reckon.”

Preacher turned to Moran. “How about you?”

The big man just grunted. Evidently, he wasn’t overly fond of talking.

Preacher let it go. They were approaching the wagons now, and he saw lots of curious looks directed his way. These folks had to wonder if there was some sort of problem. He saw fear on many of the faces. Fear of Indians, fear of the wilderness, just fear of the unknown in general . . .

But the desire to make a new start in life had overcome those fears, or else these people wouldn’t be here, a long way west of where civilization came to an end.

Donnelly raised his voice and called out, “We’ll go ahead and make camp! Pass the word! These gentlemen have some things to tell us!”

Uncle Dan leaned closer to Preacher and asked quietly, “What gentlemen?”

“He means us.”

“Oh. Been a long time since anybody called me a gentleman. Ain’t sure I fit the description no more . . . if I ever did.”

Donnelly rode along the line of wagons, instructing the drivers to pull the vehicles into a circle. Preacher wondered if they had been doing that all along. From the awkwardness with which the drivers handled the maneuver, he would have guessed that they hadn’t.

He looked around for Buckhalter but didn’t see the man. He was beginning to think that Buckhalter was a fraud, that the man had taken the job as wagon master but didn’t really know what he was doing. These pilgrims should have been circling the wagons every night since they left St. Louis.

The same thought must have occurred to Uncle Dan, because the old-timer said, “These folks need help, Preacher. Somethin’ ain’t right about that fella Buckhalter. That must be why he acted like he had a burr under his saddle right off. He didn’t want anybody comin’ around tellin’ these folks that he’s a damn fool.”

“I expect you’re right . . . but we can’t take over and guide this wagon train all the way to Oregon Territory. We got business of our own waitin’ for us downriver.”

“Yeah, I know.” Uncle Dan sighed. “Still, though, you can’t blame a fella for thinkin’ about it.” He gazed past Preacher. “Especially when he’s feastin’ his eyes on what I’m lookin’ at right now.”

Preacher was curious enough at the comment that he had to glance around. When he did, he saw immediately what Uncle Dan meant.

Because the woman coming toward them was pretty enough to make any man think about spending more time with her.