Read Online Forty Guns West by William W. Johnstone - Free Book Online Page A

opened his eyes. Preacher was at his side. “Ain’t feelin’ so good, right?”
    â€œI’m hot, Preacher.”
    â€œI can fix that.” He poured some of the vile smelling liquid in a cup. “It don’t smell very good, but it’s good for you. Sip it, Eddie. Trust me.”
    Eddie wrinkled his nose at the smell. “Smells like old dirty socks.”
    Preacher laughed. “Yeah, it do, don’t it. Wait ’til you taste it. It tastes even worser. But it’ll knock that fever right out. My mamma used to have us drink this ever’ day, and we never was sick. I want you to drink three cups a day, Eddie. Ever’ day. You start sippin’.”
    Preacher found some wild onions and Indian potatoes and started up a venison stew. The broth would be real good for Eddie. “A body don’t have to starve in the wilderness, Eddie,” Preacher talked as he worked. “But to survive in the wilderness, you got to work with nature, not aginst it. You drink your tea and sleep. Sleep is good for a body. When you wake up, this here stew will be ready to eat and it’ll be larrepin’ good. If you wake up and I ain’t here, don’t worry. I’ll be prowlin’ around.”
    Preacher sat the kettle to one side so it would simmer slow, and rifle in hand, he worked his way up the mountain until he found him a vantage spot. He took his spy-glass from his pouch and extended it, then slowly looked the country over. He saw a few plumes of smoke, but they had been there for several days, and he knew that it was a small camp of Utes about fifteen miles off. He saw no other signs of life.
    He wondered for a moment if Bones had given up the hunt. But he shook that off. Bones wasn’t known for givin’ up. He had to take a prisoner from the group and find out what the hell was going on. The only problem was, he couldn’t leave the boy alone.
    Well, there was one thing he could do: He could take the boy down into the Ute camp and see if they’d take care of him. He’d rather go into a Cheyenne camp, for he’d always gotten along well with the Cheyenne—except for a few minor skirmishes over the years—and the Cheyenne revered children. But he didn’t know of any Cheyenne village close by. So it was the Utes or nothing.
    Preacher worried about that all the way down the mountain. But when he reached his camp, he stopped worrying about getting into and out of a Ute village alive.
    About a dozen Ute warriors were waiting for him, and one of them had a hand on Eddie.

7
    The man with a hand on Eddie lifted his other hand, palm out, in a gesture of peace. Preacher lifted his hand as recognition flooded him. The Ute was a tribal chief called Wind Chaser.
    â€œGhost Walker,” Wind Chaser acknowledged. He patted Eddie’s shoulder “Boy sick.”
    Preacher deliberately laid his rifle aside and walked away from it, a move that did not go unnoticed by the other Utes. “Yes, he is, Wind Chaser. But I’m gettin’ him well.”
    â€œNo get well running all over the mountains,” Wind Chaser said.
    â€œI was gonna bring him to your village and see if you’d take care of him whilst I checked my back trail.”
    That pleased the Ute. He solemnly bowed his head. “My woman take good care of him. How is he called?”
    â€œEddie.”
    â€œEd-de,” Wind Chaser repeated. “Means what?”
    This was always difficult to explain to an Indian. Indian names meant something, or stood for an event or happening. “He’s named after his father.”
    â€œUmmm. Confusing. But I have never understood the white man’s ways. Why men chase you and boy?”
    This, too, was chancy and Preacher chose his words carefully. “The boy was a slave. His master was cruel. You can see what condition he left the boy in. I took the boy and the man came after me with a gun. I kilt him. The man’s