Read Online Absaroka Ambush by William W. Johnstone - Free Book Online

but the Eastern socialite and sometimes writer had toughened up, despite herself. Her face and forearms had turned red from the sun, blistered, and then begun the tanning process. Her muscles, which had ached fiercely the first week, had grown stronger from the pushing, shoving, hauling, and hours at the reins handling the big mules. Of course Faith still complained all the time, but now no one paid any attention to it.
    So far none of the women had voiced any desire to turn back. And the men had been surprised at that, for they had been watching about a dozen of the ladies whom they felt were the weak ones, not necessarily in body, but in spirit. But even those women had toughened up and were enduring the trail.
    They saw no signs of the Sauk or Fox as they rolled out. Preacher knew they had killed at least three of the attacking Indians and wounded at least two more. To an Indian’s mind, those losses were too great to continue the battle. They had failed, but perhaps there would be another day.
    Preacher headed the wagons for the Platte.
    In about seven years, when the flow of westward pioneers would number in the thousands, the U.S. Army would establish a fort on the south side of the Platte, and it would be one of the most important forts on what would soon be called the Oregon Trail. But for now, Preacher, his friends, and the ladies on the wagons, were alone in hostile country. Should it be needed, there was no one they could turn to for help. If something were to happen to them, it might be months before a patrol was mounted to look for them. And by then it was doubtful any trace of them would be found. There are no accurate records as to the number of men, women, and children who just vanished—disappeared from the face of the earth, with wagons, mules or oxen, and equipment, forever—on their way west. Some place the numbers in the hundreds, others say it was in the thousands. No one really knows because many wagon trains were hastily thrown together and headed west without U.S. Army permission. Many foolhardy folks headed west in small trains—three or four wagons—and were never seen again. Once the wagons left the edge of civilization and hit the Great Plains, they were adrift in a sea—a vast sea—of silence, void of all the amenities they were accustomed to. Danger lay all about them. The horizon seemed to stretch forever.
    They were alone.
    Totally alone.

Seven
    Steals Pony had been gone for two days. Something had been troubling the Delaware and he had pulled out, heading toward the wagons backtrail. On the afternoon of the third day of his absence, he reappeared and swung down from the saddle. The wagons had completed their circle, cookfires were blazing and the coffee was ready when Steals Pony rode in.
    Preacher took one look at the Delaware’s worried face and asked, “What’s wrong?”
    â€œA large band of white men are following us. They carry supplies for a long journey and are well-armed. They are being careful to stay two days ride behind us. We are in trouble,” he ominously ended it. He poured a cup of hot, strong coffee and took a big gulp.
    â€œDid you recognize any of the men?” Snake asked.
    â€œJack Hayes,” Steals Pony said, refilling his cup. “Tom Cushing. Rat Face. I could not recognize any of the others, but a tall, well-dressed man appears to be in command.”
    Preacher waved Lieutenant Worthington over to the fire and told him what Steals Pony had just reported.
    For the last several days, Rupert and his small troop had been very quiet and reflective. Preacher and the other mountain men knew what had happened. They’d seen it many times over the years. The vastness of the land had numbed Worthington and his men. This was what Preacher had tried to explain back in Missouri. But the plains could not be described. It was simply impossible to do that. They had to be seen and tasted personally. And for most, it was a