Forty Guns West (19 page)

“Howdy, boys!” Preacher called cheerfully. “Looks like y'all run into some trouble, My goodness, what happened to y'all? Did you tangle with a whole passel of grizzly bar or get in the way of a buffalo stampede?”

“Very funny,” Van Eaton said, painfully dismounting and limping back to the travois behind his horse.

“What's the matter with your head, Van Eaton?” Preacher asked. “How'd you git all them bumps on your noggin?”

Van Eaton lost his temper and reached for the pistol in his belt. A hard hand clamped down on his wrist and squeezed. Van Eaton thought for a second his wrist was going to be crushed. He looked into the broad peasant face of Otto Steiner.

“This is neutral ground, friend,” Otto said. “But don't cause me to lose my temper. Back before I found Christ, four men came out of the darkness one night to rob me. I broke the back of one, the neck of another, and smashed the brains out of the other two. And I do not joke. I do not have much of a sense of humor.”

“Neutral ground,” Van Eaton hissed through clenched teeth, reeling from the pain in his wrist. “I give you my word. And I'll shoot any man who violates it.”

Otto released his wrist and Preacher called out, “Have some coffee, Van Eaton. Supper'll be on in a few minutes. You best partake. It might be your last one.”

Preacher had to hand it to the men and women who had wandered west to serve their God. They did a bang up job when it came to fixing up the wounded.

“We've all had medical training,” Hanna told him.

Later, when Bones and Lige and most of their people had left, Preacher sat by the fire drinking coffee. He became conscious of eyes on him and looked up. Patience was staring at him.

“You think I enjoy all this killin', don't you?”

“Frankly, yes. I do.”

“Well, you're wrong, Missy. 'Cause I shore don't. I've done given them ol' boys out yonder a dozen chances to back off and let me be. They could ride out of here tonight and I'd not give them another thought. Hell, Missy. I give them all another chance to leave this day, up on the slide.”

“He ain't lyin' 'bout that, ma'am,” a man with two busted legs spoke up. “He done it.”

“More'un oncest,” another wounded man said. “And I shore wish I'd a took his invite.”

“And he's let some go,” a third man offered up. “I tell you this, Preacher. When I can ride, you've seen the last of me.”

Most of the bruised, banged-up, and broken men in the camp agreed, except for one loudmouth brute.

“Not me. I aim to kill you, mountain man. I'm gonna track you down and skin you alive. Then I'm gonna cut off your head, pickle it, and tote it back east to claim my reward.”

“Why?” Patience asked him, a horrified look on her face.

Preacher smiled into his coffee cup and said, “That's Ed Crowe, ma'am. He's a murderer, a rapist, and a brigand through and through. But he claims to have repented his evil ways. Now he's a bonney-e-fied man-hunter workin' with Bones and Van Eaton. Two of the sorriest men on the face of the earth.”

Ed cussed Preacher until Otto showed up and said, “If you do not stop that filthy language, I will gag you. If that doesn't stop your vulgar mouth, I just might rip out your tongue with my bare hands.”

“Otto!” Hanna cried. “Please. Do remember who we are and what we represent.”

“Be still,” he told her. “There is a time and place for all things. Including violence.”

Ed Crowe must have believed the big man, for he shut his mouth and after that, as long as he was in the camp of the missionaries, when he spoke, it was free of profanity.

“I . . . guess I've misjudged you, Preacher,” Patience said. “I apologize for that.”

Preacher waved it off. “I just wanted you to know that I ain't no heartless savage, Missy. And that I really didn't want all this killin' and did try to stop it.” He stood up. “I best be goin'. Bones and Lige and the gentry and the rest of that pack of no-counts will be gunnin' for me at first light. I don't want no shootin' around this camp.”

Before she could form a reply, Preacher had vanished into the night.

* * *

Bones and his bunch had pulled themselves into a tight little camp right next to a fast runnin', spring-fed stream. And there they stayed. They posted guards that stayed alert and were changed often. Each day, under a white flag, an unarmed man would ride to the camp of the missionaries to check on the wounded, and then ride back. Other than that, they did not leave camp. Preacher had no way of knowing what they were planning, only that it would probably be better than any previous plan. So far, everything they'd tried had failed miserably. For now, all he could do was wait and watch and see.

Preacher was determined that he would not start the next round of gunfire. He had given some thought to just picking up and moving on. But he knew the man-hunters would just come after him . . . after they did, God only knew what they would do to the missionaries, and Preacher had him a pretty good idea what they'd do to the women.

The mountain man felt that he was in between that much talked about “rock and a hard place.”

He had not been back to the missionary's camp and make-shift hospital. He felt that would be just too dangerous for those good folks.

On the fifth day of inaction, Preacher got lucky. Just as dusk was spreading its first shadows all over the valley floor, Preacher sat in the brush on a slope viewing the scene below him through his spy glass. About a quarter of a mile from the camp of the man-hunters, a covey of birds suddenly shot up into the air.

“Now what's all that about?” Preacher muttered, shifting the glass and studying the area in question. But he could see nothing. Then he spotted a very slight movement in the tall grass. After studying the area for a moment, he collapsed the pirate's glass and smiled.

“Very good, Bones,” he muttered. “Yes, indeed. You got more sense than I gave you credit for havin'.” He picked up his rifle and moved out. Preacher thought it was a good thing he'd taken a long nap that afternoon, for it looked like it was shapin' up to be a long night.

The night was black and the air was heavy with moisture. A bad storm was building, and if a body has never been in the high-up country when a thunderstorm hit, you just can't imagine the sound and fury. The pounding of the thunder is unbelievable and the lightning so fierce it'll stand you hair up on end.

Preacher studied the sky and figured he had about an hour before the full brunt of the storm struck. He also figured he could do a lot of damage in an hour.

Mack Cornay froze like a rock when he felt the cold edge of a Bowie knife touch his throat. He started sweating in the coolness of the night air when Preacher said, “You just never learn, do you, boy?”

Mack was so scared he was afraid to reply. He remained stone-still as Preacher shucked his pistols out of his belt and laid them to one side.

“Are you gonna kill me?” Mack whispered, his voice a tremble in the darkness.

“I shore ought to. You would if you was in my moccasins, wouldn't you?”

“I reckon. Can we deal?”

“What do you have that I want?”

“Information.”

“Talk.”

“Me and Frenchy is on this slope. Cobb is about a quarter mile to the south. Pyle is acrost the valley with Hunter. Flores is closin' the box north and Percy is comin' out later this night to put the lid on to the south.”

“That's right interestin' news. What is your name, boy?”

“Mack Cornay. Please don't kill me, Preacher. I'll git gone ifn you'll let me. I swear that on my mother's head.”

Preacher thought about that. “How you figure on gettin' your horse away from the camp without bein' seen?”

Sweat was running down Mack's face. He thought hard for a moment. “I cain't. But I can slip into the missionary camp and take one of the wounded feller's horse. And I'll do it, too. You bet I will. For God's sake, Preacher. I'm beggin' for my life, man.”

Preacher removed the razor sharp knife from Mack's throat and the man was so relieved he slumped face down on the cool earth. “Thank you, Jesus,” Mack whispered. “I'm comin' home to see you, Mamma.”

“Get gone, Mack,” Preacher told him. “And you know what I'll do if I ever see you again.”

“You'll kill me.” Mack didn't put it as a question. He knew the answer.

“You got that right. Move! And be damn quiet in leavin'. You hear me?”

“Yes, sir, Mister Preacher. I'll be like a ghost.”

“I ever see you again, you gonna be a ghost. Now get the hell gone from here.”

Mack Cornay turned and looked at Preacher. “Thank you, Preacher.”

“Take your rifle and pistols and clear out,” Preacher told him.

Mack slipped quietly into the night. The odor of his fear-sweat lingered sourly for a few seconds and then the wind carried it away.

Preacher moved out. He would save Frenchy for last, for the man from Louisiana was known to be a bad one to tangle with. Preacher began working his way south. He'd heard some about Cobb, but nothing that impressed him.

Preacher laid a sturdy stick up 'side the head of Cobb and the man dropped like a stone into a well. Preacher trussed him up and waited for the man to come out of his addle.

“Oh, my dear sweet God!” Cobb said when he came to and his eyes began to focus.

“How come people like you always call on God or Jesus when you get in a tight?” Preacher questioned. “You damn shore don't pay no heed to His words 'til you do.”

“I be good from now on,” Cobb whispered, like he never heard Preacher's question. “Dear sweet Mamma, pray for me.”

“Disgustin',” Preacher said. He popped Cobb across the face with a big hard hand. That got Cobb's attention. “Didn't your mamma whup you none whilst you was growin' up?”

“She beat me some.”

“'Pears to me she didn't beat you enough. What am I gonna do with you, Cobb?”

“Turn me a-loose, I hope!”

“So's you can run tell Bones and them silly uppity folks what I'm doin' this night? Not likely.”

“I wouldn't do that!”

“I think I'll just truss you up real good and let the bears eat you.”

“Oh, Lord, Lord, please save me from this heathen!” Cobb cast his supplication to the heavens.

“Heathen? You call
me
a heathen?”

“I didn't mean it, Mister Preacher. I swear I didn't. You got me so bumfuzzled I ain't thinkin' straight.”

“I tell you what I'm gonna do, Cobb. I'm gonna test you right good. I'm gonna see if you're a man of your word.”

“I'm an honorable man, Preacher. You just ax anybody. They'll tell you.”

“I bet they will,” Preacher said drily. “I'd bet at least a penny on it. Cobb, I want you gone from these mountains. And I mean gone and stayed gone. I'm tired of all this fuss and bother. You know that ravine that cuts 'crost this valley?”

“Oh, yes, sir. I do for a fact. Runs all the way 'crost it. Comes within a few hun'red yards of the missionary camp. I know it real well. I bet I could . . .”

“Shut up an' listen. You beginnin' to babble. I want you to work your way down this slope and git in that ravine and over to the missionary camp. Then I want you to take one of them spare horses over yonder and git gone. I unloaded your weapons. So don't even think about pointin' any of 'em at me.”

“I wouldn't. I swear it.”

“Cobb, listen to me. I don't never want to see you again. You hear me?”

“Yes, sir. I do. I really do. And you ain't never gonna see me again.”

“I better not ever see you again,” Preacher said menacingly. “ 'Cause if I do, I'm gonna strip you buck-ass nekked and stake you out over an ant hill. Then I'm gonna pour honey all over your neck and head and sit back and watch whilst the ants gather and eat your eyes.”

Cobb shuddered and crapped in his pants.

“Whew!” Preacher grimaced and fanned the air with a hand. “Git outta here!”

Preacher smiled as Cobb scurried away. Maybe he had missed his calling; he should have been an actor. He was sure convincing this night.

But he wasn't quite that lucky with Frenchy. Frenchy turned around when Preacher was about five feet away from him. Lightning flashed and Frenchy's eyes widened and his mouth dropped open. It took him about one second to recover and grab at the pistol behind his belt.

One second was the time Preacher needed. Preacher closed the gap and slugged Frenchy just as his hand closed around the butt of his pistol. Lightning flashed again and a cold rain began falling, slicking over the already treacherous footing on the rocky slope. Preacher lost his balance and fell down, dragging Frenchy with him. The two men hit the ground hard, with Preacher landing on top of Frenchy, knocking the wind from him. Preacher slammed a fist against the side of Frenchy's head, causing his hands to loosen their grip on Preacher's shirt. Preacher hit him again just as hard as he could and Frenchy's fingers lost their grip altogether, and his hands fell to the ground.

Preacher caught his breath and then quickly trussed the man up. Already the Louisiana man was moaning and twitching. Preacher had just set the man up, his back to a rock, when Frenchy came to and opened his mouth to yell. Preacher jammed a handful of dirt into the man's mouth.

“Your yell and I'll cut your throat,” Preacher warned. “You understand?”

Frenchy believed him, for his eyes widened at the thought of that prospect and he nodded his head. Frenchy spat out the dirt and said, “What do you want, Preacher?”

“To give you a chance to get gone, Louisiana Man.”

“You gittin' soft in your old age, Preacher?”

Preacher chuckled as the cold rain pelted them both. “You think I am, Frenchy?”

“No,” Frenchy was quick to reply. “But you won't kill me while I'm tied like this.”

Preacher hesitated. That was a fact and somehow Frenchy either knew it or had sensed it about the mountain man. “That's right, Frenchy. But what I can do is knock you silly, tote you up the mountain, strip you down to the buff, wedge you up under a run-off, and then let the weather do the rest. And I'll do that, boy—don't you doubt it for a second. I'm used to the high country. This cold rain don't bother me none. But you now, well, pneumonia'll kill you shore. Think about that.”

Frenchy's eyes told Preacher he didn't doubt that at all. When he spoke, Preacher sensed he had won. Maybe. “All right, Preacher. You cut me a-loose and I'm gone.”

Preacher freed the man's wrists and stepped back. “Frenchy, don't even think about makin' no funny moves or goin' back on your word. This will be the last chance you get. I mean that, boy. When I get done with this night's work, I aim to hallo Bones's camp in the mornin'. If they ain't packed up and pulled out by noon, the killin' starts.”