Forty Guns West (22 page)

Van Eaton moved just as Preacher squeezed off a shot. The ball slammed into a tree and Van Eaton got a face full of splinters that bloodied him and scared him. He dropped to the ground, sure that he'd been mortally wounded.

Preacher quickly reloaded and wriggled into a better spot. Sam Provost raised his head up and took the last look of his life. Preacher shot him between the eyes.

That was enough for Van Eaton. Leaving Sam's body behind, he and the other man with him, Horace Haywood, ran from the area. They'd gone about two thousand yards when they came up on Cliff Wright, dangling butt bare and all from a tree limb. One side of his face was bloody and scratched something awful. The men stood and stared in disbelief for a moment.

“Y'all want to stop that bug-eyed gawkin' and cut me down and find me something to wear!” Cliff hollered.

While Horace was cutting him down, Van Eaton asked, “What happened to your face? Did Preacher do that?”

“No!” Cliff snapped the word. “A big bear did. He come by about an hour ago and reared up two-three times a-sniffin' at me. Like to have scared me half outta my wits, let me tell you. Then he rared up on his back legs, reached up and slapped the pee outta me and just wandered off. I hate these mountains, Van Eaton. I mean, I really,
really
hate these mountains. I hate these mountains nearly 'bout as much as I hate that mountain man. And I do hate Preacher.”

“All your guns is ruint,” Horace told him. “And I can't find your clothes nowhere.” He took off his jacket and handed it to Cliff. “Wrap that around you.”

Van Eaton held up a hand. “Wait. Let's go back and peel the clothes offen Sam. He shore ain't got no more need for them. And his boots'll fit you too, Cliff.”

“Suits me. I'll get his guns, too.”

But Preacher had smashed Sam's guns, leaving them useless, and taken his powder and shot.

“Crap!” Van Eaton said, as Cliff removed the dead man's clothing. “Now I see what he's doing. If this keeps up we'll be throwin' rocks at him.”

Lige and his dwindling bunch came cussing through the timber, dragging a moaning Derby Peel on a hastily made travois. Lige's head was bloody and there was a huge knot in the center of his forehead.

“What happened to you?” Van Eaton asked.

“Preacher,” Lige said, a surly note to his voice. “He flung a rock at me.”

Van Eaton sighed and muttered, “Now he's throwin' rocks at us. Good Lord Amighty.” He pointed to Peel. “All right, all right. What about him?”

“He either fell into a ravine or Preacher throwed him into it. He's stove up pretty bad. Busted some ribs, I reckon,” Homer said, red-faced. He was wearing Jeremy's jacket which wasn't quite long enough to cover his essentials, and Tom was wearing the dead man's pants.

“Where's your guns?”

“Busted up. Gone. I don't know. Preacher took all our powder and shot, too.”

“Halp!” The shout came faintly to them. “Somebody come halp me. Over here.”

“That's Tatman.”

Van Eaton rubbed a hand over his unshaven face. “I hope to hell he's wearin' his britches. I done seen enough men's bare butts this day to last me a lifetime!”

7

The missionaries were amazed and somewhat amused that one man could inflict so much damage on so many. And to a person, they all realized something else about this legendary mountain man called Preacher. He could have easily killed all these men who now were straining their meager medical facilities and knowledge. But despite his tough talk and dire threats, he had elected to injure most and not kill.

If the missionaries were secretly amused, the man-hunters certainly were not. The nobility were livid with rage, and Bones and Van Eaton and Lige were so mad they could scarcely speak.

No plan they had conceived thus far had worked, and Preacher had made fools of them—again—toying with them as if they were little children.

“This is mighty fine venison you cooked up, ma'am,” Tom Evans said to Patience. “One of your men shot this today, did he?”

“You might say that,” she replied.

“Huh?” Tom said.

“Preacher brought it in about an hour before you gentlemen arrived,” Prudence told him.

Tom's face turned beet-red and he almost choked on his food. He suddenly lost his appetite.

Duke Burton Sullivan was tempted to hurl his plate into the fire, but thought better of it. That would be very bad manners on his part. Prince Juan Zapata muttered some curses in his native tongue and laid his plate to one side. Derby Peel shook his bruised head and wished he had never left home. Tatman, his knee set and immobilized, was the first to admit—to himself—that the whole bunch of them were outclassed. None of the newly wounded men had any idea that Preacher was less than a hundred yards away, watching the scene through very amused eyes. After a time, Preacher picked up his rifle and slipped away. Bones and his men would not be expecting an attack on their main camp this soon after their fiasco in the mountains. Preacher thought he'd just go stir things up a bit.

Back at their own camp, Bones and Van Eaton sat to one side and looked over what was left of their group. It sure was a pitiful sight. Beat-up, bloodied, bruised, and embarrassed, the men were silent and sullen this late afternoon. But incredibly, almost to a man, there was no thought of giving up.

Joe Moss, one of Lige's group, got up from the ground to pour a cup of coffee. On his way to the fire, he paused to speak to Alan James, a man from his home state. Joe turned and Preacher's rifle boomed from the dusk and the shadows, the ball shattering Joe's left knee and knocking him screaming and thrashing about on the ground. Alan leaped for his rifle and brought it to bear. But there was no target. Only the darkness presented itself.

“Oh, Sweet Baby Jesus!” Moss hollered, jerking in pain. “I'm ruint for life.”

Before the echo of the shot had faded, every man in camp had bellied down on the ground. Every man except Alan. He stood crouched, rifle at the ready. Preacher's rifle boomed again, and Alan was spun around like a top, the big ball breaking his hip bone. He fell across Joe's shattered knee and Joe screamed and dropped into unconsciousness. All over the camp, men were cussing and casting about dire threats. But nobody got up to carry any of them out.

Preacher slipped across the valley and headed for his own camp. Somebody would be transporting the newly wounded over to the missionaries, and true to his word, Preacher would not ambush anyone doing that. He knew the man-hunters would not honor that if he was the one wounded, but that was their rock to mentally tote around. Preacher's conscience was clear and he planned on sleeping well that night.

* * *

The next morning, Sir Elmore, Baron Zaunbelcher, Willy Steinwinder, Bones, Van Eaton, and Lige rode over to the camp to see about their friends. They almost went into apoplexy when they saw Preacher, lounging comfortably and drinking coffee.

“Howdy, boys!” the mountain man called cheerfully. “Did y'all get a good night's sleep?”

“Just remember, this is a neutral zone,” Frank Collins reminded the men.

“We'll honor it,” Bones said. He looked at Preacher. “You got more than your share of nerve, Mountain Man.”

“I reckon.” He pointed to the several bouquets of wild flowers that now brightened the camp. “But I wanted to show the ladies how much I 'preciated them bein' here. So I picked them a bunch of flowers. Purty, ain't they?”

Willy Steinwinder's face became ugly and mottled with rage. When he got his anger under control, he said, “You ... picked those flowers?”

“Well, they shore didn't leap out of the ground and into my hand. I think y'all ain't bein' very gentlemanly 'bout this here situation.”

“What do you mean, sir?” Baron Zaunbelcher demanded.

“Y'all didn't bring nothin' for the ladies, did you?”

Steinwinder turned his back to Preacher and looked up at the blue of the sky. He muttered darkly under his breath.

Preacher wouldn't let up. With a straight face, he said, “Here I am, havin' to hunt game so's the very men who was doin' their dead level best tryin' to kill me will have somethin' to eat. Now, that don't seem real fair to me. Seems like y'all would see fit to contribute somethin'.”

The men stared at Preacher. A thousand thoughts were running through their heads but they were speechless. Stunned into silence. All of them.

Tatman hollered, “Kill him for me! Just hammer back and kill that smart-aleck for me!”

Bones found his voice. He looked at Preacher. “Took their guns, did you?”

“It seemed a smart move at the time, yeah.”

Bones had also noticed that Preacher had a sawed-off shotgun lying across his lap. Bones knew what a sawed-off shotgun could do. He'd seen men cut in two with them. So he was very careful to keep his hands as far away as he could from his pistols. “So what now, Preacher?”

“Y'all can pull out and I'll forget all about this.”

Van Eaton said, “You know can't none of us do that, Preacher. And you know why.”

“Pride's a terrible thing sometimes, Van Eaton. You really figure it's worth dyin' for?”

“When you're in our line of work, yeah, I do.”

“Maybe so. But y'all could change your line of work, you know?”

“My good man,” Sir Elmore piped up. “I have a sporting proposition for you.”

“I just bet you do. What is it?”

“Your mummy and daddy still living?”

“Yeah. My mum ... mother and father is alive.”

“Could they use ten thousand dollars?”

“Who couldn't?”

“Well ... there are some of us who ... never mind. My proposition is this: As soon as Juan and Burton are up to it, we shall put up bank notes worth ten thousand dollars. We'll, ah, let the good missionaries hold the notes. Then the eight of us hunt you. In an area that can be worked out. If we kill you, your parents are richer by ten thousand dollars. I mean, face facts man, we're going to kill you eventually. Why not make your parents' lives a bit easier?”

Preacher blinked, then blinked again. This fool really believed what he just spouted. Preacher chuckled softly “No, mister high falutin' mucky muck. I think I'll pass. But I will take this time to try to get somethin' through your heads. I've tried before, but perhaps this time I can get through to you. You boys ain't gonna kill me. I may get bit by a rattler or a hydrophobia skunk; my horse might step in a hole and toss me and break my neck. I may get mauled by a puma or kilt by a grizzly. Some Injun might get lucky and do me in. All sorts of things can happen to a man out here in the Lonesome. But I'll tell you all what ain't gonna happen: you boys ain't gonna kill me. You best understand that.”

“Oh, that's piffle!” Elmore said with a wave of his hand.

“No, it ain't neither piffle,” Preacher said. “Whatever that means. It's pure fact. Now, boys, I mean what I say. This ain't fun and games. Whilst you're in this camp, you're safe. But out yonder,” he pointed to the valley and beyond, “you're fair game to me.”

Sir Elmore looked down his aristocratic nose at Preacher. “I must say, sir, that there is little distance between you and a fool.”

Preacher smiled. “You mighty right about that. I figure five feet at best.”

* * *

Before he left the missionary's camp, Preacher had asked if they had any kind of opiate to knock Tatman and a couple of others out. Otto assured him they did, and they most certainly would do just that.

Preacher left the camp feeling better. Otto was not a real trusting man when in the company of brigands and thugs. And the man was ox-strong. Had arms on him 'bout the size of Preacher's thighs. If Otto ever got his hands on a body, it would be all over 'ceptin for the buryin'. And Hanna wasn't no delicate bloomin' flower herself.

Preacher awakened in the wee hours of the morning. No sense of danger awoke him. It was the workings of his mind. For years Preacher had prowled the mountains and ridden the country in relative peace. He had run-ins with Indian and whites alike, all mountain men did. Indians who resented the coming of the white man and trashy whites who raided trap-lines and the like. Preacher had never been known as a trouble-hunter. And he tried to shy away from those who did want trouble. But the past two or three years had been rough on him. As his reputation grew, so did the people who came looking for him to make a name. Seemed to him the immigration of eastern folks heading for a new life out west had brought him nothing but headaches.

Preacher sighed and reached out to feel the coffee pot. The coffee was still warm enough to taste good. Without getting out of his blankets, he reached for the cup and poured it about half full. The coffee was just right. Black as sin and strong enough to bend nails. Good.

Preacher lay back, his saddle for a pillow, and tried to figure out the best thing he could do. If not for the missionaries, he thought he'd just pull out and hole up 'til winter.

But he couldn't do that with the gospel-shouters in the valley. Bones and his men would have their way with the women and the men. Preacher did not want to go through life with that on his conscience.

So, he concluded, he had to see this fight to the end whether he liked it or not. So all right. But he thought he knew a way to do it without any more killing ... or at least keeping it to a minimum.

With that issue settled in his mind, he went back to sleep.

8

The man fetched water from the creek, returned to the camp, and squatted down in the dim light of pre-dawn. He laid twigs on the coals, then added heavier sticks when the kindling burst into flames. He lifted the coffee pot and his right hand and arm went numb when a heavy caliber rifle ball punctured the pot and tore it from his hand. The early riser leaped for the safety of darkness and away from the campfire. The entire camp of man-hunters was awake and belly down on the cold ground. They watched through startled eyes as a fire arrow arched its fiery way through the air and landed on a pile of dirty, flea-infested blankets just vacated by Lige Watson. The blankets burst into flames and tall shadows lept around the murk of the camp. Another fire arrow landed inside the crude corral and the horses were spooked. They smashed through the flimsy barricade and spilled out into the valley, running wild.

Sutton leaped to his bare feet and Preacher cut him down with a ball in his leg.

Preacher had carried four rifles and his bow with him that morning, determined to put as many men out of action as possible, hopefully without killing any of them. If he could get enough of them wounded and unable to rude, he would take the missionaries and lead them away from this place and then maybe he could go on with his life and live in peace.

“Anybody see where he is?” Bones tossed out the question.

“No,” Van Eaton replied from a few yards away. “It wouldn't make no difference no how. He moves as soon as he fires.”

With the light increasing, Preacher ruined another big coffee pot, the big ball sending the pot flying.

“Two pots left,” Tom Evans said sorrowfully. “And them horses are still runnin'.”

“It'll take us the better part of two days to round them all up,” Fred Lasalle said.

“You uncouth savage! “Jon Louviere yelled. “Stand up and fight like a man.”

Bones shook his head and muttered, “I swear them people get dumber and dumber with each passin' day.”

“I challenge you to a duel!” Sir Elmore screamed. “Meet me in honorable combat!”

“Sure he will,” Van Eaton mumbled.

Another fire arrow soared gracefully through the air and landed in the grass behind the camp and flames began licking their way higher and higher. Bones had ordered the camp built inside a lazy half circle of the creek, so the flames had but one way to go—straight into the camp.

“We gotta put out that fire!” Bones yelled. “It'll burn ever'thing we got if we don't.”

Hugh Fuller jumped up and grabbed a bucket of water. Preacher broke his arm with a ball. George Winters ran for his saddle and his sleeping blankets and Preacher cut his leg from under him. Preacher fired at another running man and missed him clean. Using his last loaded rifle, he shot Ray Wood in the side. Preacher gathered up all his empty rifles and began working his way around to the rear of the camp. The flames were leaping into the air and the smoke was thick.

“Stay on your belly and toss water or beat blankets on the ground in front of you!” Bones yelled. “Beat it out with your hands if you have to.”

“Get shovels or use your blades to dig a break!” Van Eaton added, panic in his voice.

The smoke was so thick none of the man-hunters could see the single, odd-shaped arrow arch through the air and land in the middle of the flames. But they could all damn sure hear and feel the explosion as the bag of powder attached to the arrow blew, sending fire and sparks flying all over the place.

The concussion knocked one man down and stunned several others closest to the explosion. Another arrow landed and a second explosion rocked the smoky camp. Sir Elmore was only a few feet away from the second explosion and the explosion rendered him sillier than a happy lunatic for a few moments. He was wandering about the fire and smoke humming and playing patty-cake until Baron Zaunbelcher tackled him and brought him down.

Preacher figured he'd done a fair amount of damage and caused enough confusion for one morning. He ripped the hammers off three of the rifles, put them in his pocket and tossed the rifles aside. He took off at a run, circling the camp and heading in the direction of the running horses. He figured he'd have a good hour before any of the men came after him.

He managed to calm down and get hands on four of the trembling horses. He led them off into the mountains and turned them loose. They might return to the camp, and they might not. He left them on rich, belly high grass near water.

Several hours later, he watched from a distance as the wounded were taken to the already over-burdened, make-shift hospital. Near as he could figure, both groups combined had about thirty men still able to ride and fight. That was still too many for Preacher's liking.

He suddenly smiled. The deal was no shootin' or ambushin' whilst the wounded was taken to the hospital. There wasn't nothin' said about what might happen on the return trip.

“Now, that's sneaky, Preacher,” he whispered. His smile widened. “Damn shore is!” he said aloud. “I'm proud I thought of it, too.”

He counted the mounted men. Fifteen of them. They'd only managed to round up about a third of the horses.

He worked his way to the valley floor and made himself comfortable beside the creek bank. An hour later, common sense told him to abandon his plan. Bones had sent riders far ahead of the main group's return, riding on both sides of the creek bank with rifles at the ready. Preacher forded the creek, bellied down in the grass, and snaked his way clear. He smiled as he spotted the returning group. Bones was wising up. He'd split the group into two parties. One on the far side of the long valley and the other near the creek.

“You're learnin', boy,” Preacher muttered. “But not fast enough to do you no good.”

Preacher counted the men in the returning groups. He knew he'd wounded three, maybe four. He counted them again. One was missing. “Gettin' sneaky, aren't you, Bones?” Preacher whispered.

He stayed right where he was. Preacher could be more Indian than an Indian if he had to, and he figured this was a good time to do just that. He moved only his eyes. Birds soon became accustomed to the motionless presence and paid him no heed. It was a few minutes before dusk when Preacher sensed, more than heard, the man. Whoever he was, he was damn good. But Preacher knew there was no way the man could know where he was. What he had done was take a guess and it had proved out to be a good one.

The man, and it turned out to be a man Preacher had heard called Bobby, came within twenty feet of Preacher. And Bobby was good. Real good. He moved as quiet as a mouse through a church. He moved so good that Preacher lost him. He couldn't see him, he couldn't hear him.

Preacher knew he was in trouble.

All right, Hoss, he thought. You played it smart and got yourself in trouble. Now what?

Bobby made the mistake of emitting a slight grunt when he jumped and that was the only thing that saved Preacher's life. He rolled to one side, leaving his rifle behind, and Bobby's tomahawk got buried in the dirt. Preacher kicked out, his foot catching Bobby on the knee and staggering him just long enough for Preacher to jump to his moccasins. Bobby immediately jerked a pistol out of this belt and Preacher's left hand shot out and clamped down on the man's wrist, preventing him from leveling the pistol. Locked together, the two men fought with fists. Preacher with his right, Bobby was his left.

Preacher slammed a big right fist again and again into Bobby's face, smashing his nose and pulping his lips. Bobby smashed a fist into Preacher's face and the blood from both men mingled in this death struggle. Bobby tried to back-heel Preacher but the mountain man had expected that and was ready.

Preacher heard the gun cock and finally managed to grab hold of his knife. He drove the blade into Bobby's side and twisted. The man-hunter screamed and pulled the trigger. Preacher felt a tremendous blow in his side and knew he'd been hit. How hard, he didn't know. But he knew it was bad. He jerked out the knife and cut Bobby from belly to backbone, then released the man.

Bobby fell to the ground. “At least I got lead in you,” he gasped.

“You ain't gonna live long enough to enjoy it, though,” Preacher spoke through gritted teeth against the throbbing pain in his side.

“I 'spect you be right about that, mountain man.” That was the last thing Bobby said. He shuddered once, then closed his eyes and died.

Knowing the shot would bring man-hunters at a gallop, Preacher got gone from there.

* * *

“All right,” Bones said, staring at the two distinct blood signs. He had inspected Bobby's pistol. “We lost Bobby, but he got lead into Preacher, and judgin' from the blood, it's a bad wound. And this time it's real.”

“Let's proceed at once!” Sir Elmore said.

“No!” Bones snapped with adamance. “Not in the dark. Think about it. Preacher gonna be holed up like a hurt panther, lickin' his wounds. A wounded animal is the most dangerous. We go blunderin' out there now, some of us ain't gonna be returnin'.”

“At least with Preacher hurt, we can all get a decent night's sleep,” Van Eaton allowed.

* * *

Preacher was weak when he arrived at his mountain camp. Before leaving the valley floor he'd grabbed up enough makin's for several poultices and now he set about boiling water. He took off his shirt and inspected as best he could the wounds. And there were two, one in front, and the exit hole. Preacher had several bullet scars on his hide, and knew if the wound had been a killing one, he'd a been dead by now. But the bullet holes needed tendin', and the sooner the better. And he was already weak from the loss of blood. He made a broth from part of a venison haunch he'd hung up high and while that was simmerin' he cleaned out the wounds and applied the hot poultices. He added salt to the broth, for when you lose blood you crave salt. Then he drank two cups of the broth and felt a bit better. He put water on for coffee and lay back on his blankets to rest. Preacher was a realist, and he knew he was in real trouble. He was weak and in no shape for a fight. He'd heal quick—he always did. But he had to stay quiet for several days. As he lay warm by the fire, he reviewed his back trail. He'd left plenty of sign leavin' the scene of the death struggle, but he soon began erasin' his tracks. It wouldn't fool no Indian, but it might fool those with Bones. He had to have several days of rest. Preacher knew that wounds healed much quicker in the high up country ... he didn't know why, but thought it probably had something to do with the cold, clean air.

He finally went to sleep just as the small fire was dying down to coals.

* * *

The trackers lost Preacher's sign less than two miles from the death scene in the valley. They started working in ever widening circles, but it didn't prove out. The mountain man had vanished without leaving a clue.

“They's got to be a drop of blood,” Van Eaton insisted. “A broken twig, a bent leaf-something!”

“Look for yourself,” Titus, the Kentucky man, said matter-of-factly. “Wounded he may be, but it didn't slacken none his ability to hide a trail.”

At that moment, Preacher was less than a half mile from the man-hunters. But people who are unfamiliar with the mountains fail to realize that there are literally hundreds of places to hide without detection. Preacher had left his horses at the missionary camp and on foot, left practically no sign.

And in hiding, Preacher never disturbed the natural look of the landscape, using nature at its purest for concealment. Preacher rested while Bones and the nobility stomped all over the place and accomplished nothing except for the raising of blisters on their feet.

Finally, Bones called a halt to the search for Preacher and pulled everybody back to the main camp in the valley. There just wasn't any point in continuing. To the man-hunters, it seemed as though the mountain man had simply dropped off the face of the earth.

* * *

“Don't y'all be frettin' none about Preacher,” Dirk, one of the newly converted men at the missionary camp told the women. “Hurt he may be, but that man is tough. And he knows ways to use what nature has provided to get hisself healed up.”

“That's right,” Will, another ex-man-hunter added. “That ol' boy is part wolf, part cougar, part bear, and all around mean when it comes to who flung the chunk. His kind is hard to kill. I seen a man up in the Blue Ridge one time take six balls in him and he still kept on comin'. He kilt them that was shootin' him and the last I heard, he was still alive and doin' right well, he was. There ain't no harder man in the world to stop than a feller who knows he's in the right and just keeps gettin' up and keeps on comin' at you.”

Otto rode in and dismounted. “They've moved their camp,” he told the group. “Over to the next valley west of here. This time they chose well. Preacher would be wise not to attempt any attack on this camp.”

“If he's alive,” Patience said, a gloomy note to her voice.

Otto smiled. “Oh, he's alive. I spoke with him not more than two hours ago.”

Everyone started talking at once and Otto waited until the hubbub of voices had died down.

“He's still not a hundred percent, but very close to it. He's used Indian potions and poultices. We must learn those, people. Their healing powers are nothing short of miraculous. Preacher is fine.”

Dirk gave Patience a friendly wink. “Told you,” he said with a smile.