Free Preacher and the Mountain Caesar by William W. Johnstone Page A

crusted in quartz. Tall reckoned it to be worth what the old feller said.
    â€œYou got enough in yer pocketbook to have paid, had yer man lost?” the ancient demanded with ill grace.
    Tall puckered his lips and threw the sore loser a wry look. “Well, now, we’ll never know, will we?”
    â€œDon’t get another hidey-ho goin’, Tall,” Preacher admonished. “I still have to go after those brats.”
    â€œSo you do,” Tall answered cheerily. “And I wish you the joy of it.”
    â€œDang it, Tall, if my knuckles weren’t so sore, I’d knock some of the dust off ’em on that ugly puss of yours.” So saying, Preacher stomped off for the front of the trading post and his trusty Cougar.
    * * *
    Preacher reined in and dismounted. The troublesome pair had found a stretch of slab rock that made it impossible to track them. Instead of crossing directly over, Preacher skirted around the edge counterclockwise, leading Cougar. He had gone only a quarter of the way when he found traces. Something about them bothered him.
    Then he saw it clearly. These prints had been made by moccasins, right enough, and Terry had been wearing the pair Preacher had given him. But these were of a different pattern than those the boy had. These marks had been put down by an Arapaho. Preacher continued his search, and found no sign of where the children had left the wide stretch of exposed granite. Had the Indians taken the boy and girl?
    One way to find out. He set out to follow the trace left by the Arapahos. An hour later, he encountered their evening camp. Among them he soon found old friends. Bold Pony was an age with Preacher, and in fact they had spent several summers together as boys in their late teens. Now the Arapaho settled Preacher down to a ritual sharing of meat and salt.
    Bold Pony had held his age well, Preacher noted. He still made a strapping figure, his limbs smooth and corded with muscle. He wore the hair pipe chest plate of a war chief and proudly reintroduced Preacher to his wife and three children. His boy was eleven, with a shy, shoe-button-eyed little girl of eight next, followed by a small boy, a toddler of three.
    â€œMakes a feller know how many summers have gone by,” Preacher confided. “Last I saw of you, that biggest of yours was still peekin’ at me from behind his momma’s skirts.”
    â€œYou have weathered the seasons well, old friend,” Bold Pony complimented.
    â€œYep. Well . . . beauty is as beauty does.” Preacher’s observation didn’t mean a damned thing, but Bold Pony nodded sagely, arms crossed over his chest.
    â€œWhat brings you into the hunting place of the Arapaho?” Bold Pony got right to the point as he pushed aside his empty stew bowl.
    Preacher described in detail his encounter with Terry and Victoria, described them and recounted how they had managed to bowl over Frenchie Pirot and make an escape from the trading post. Bold Pony nodded several times during the explanation, then sat in silence as he lighted his pipe.
    After the required puffs sent to the four corners of the world, and the two to the Sky Father and Earth Mother, Bold Pony drew one more for pleasure and passed it to Preacher. “We know of these children,” he said with a scowl.
    Preacher repeated the ritual gesture and sucked in a powerful lungful of pungent smoke. “Do you now? Any idea where they might be right now?”
    Bold Pony accepted the pipe back, puffed and spoke. “I may know that. My son and his friends”—he nodded to the other lodges in the small encampment—“range far on their boyish hunts. It is possible they saw these young white people not long ago. It is possible that they are with their no-account family in a canyon not far off. One that is hidden from the unskilled eye.”
    â€œIs it also possible,” Preacher asked after another drag on the pipe, “that you can give