Forty Guns West (25 page)

Flores couldn't answer. He was dead. Zapata gently closed the man's eyes and lowered him full length to the sand.

“What were you discussing with that peasant, Juan?” Sir Elmore asked.

Zapata smiled. “You would never understand, Elmore. Not in a million years. I'm not sure I do.”

12

Preacher had spotted the second way out of this series of canyons and left the rim above the man-hunters just after high noon. He'd seen Haywood crawling away and guessed correctly he was looking for another way out. Preacher had watched him return. From his vantage point, high above the group, Preacher would also see where the horses were being held and shortly after the man's return, had spotted unusual activity there. He figured accurately that Haywood had found the way out and the trapped men would try to slip away just after dark. That would be just fine and dandy. He could be waiting.

Preacher fired no more shots the remainder of that day. Just as the day began to cool and shadows were covering the entire canyon floor, Preacher heard several horses whining. Rifles loaded, he waited.

As the pass widened near where Preacher waited, the escaping men would be outlined faintly. Preacher would choose his targets with care, for he did not want to kill a horse. He also knew that if he got two this time, he would be lucky, for at the sound of the first shot, the man-hunters would put the spurs to their horses and leave the pass at a full gallop.

When the lead rider was faintly outlined, Preacher sighted in and squeezed the trigger. The man tumbled from the saddle. Just as he'd predicted, the men behind the fallen man-hunter shouted and spurred their horses. Preacher grabbed up his second rifle and snapped off a shot. He saw the man jerk as the ball hit him, but the rider managed to stay in the saddle. Then the canyon was filled with dust and Preacher could see nothing. He reloaded his rifles and listened to the pound of hooves gradually fade into the early night. He wasn't worried; that many men would leave a trail anybody could follow. He'd pick it up come the morning. He made his way down to the canyon floor and stripped the saddle and bridle from the horse, turning the animal loose.

Preacher had been lucky, for the second man had been leading a packhorse. When the ball struck him, he lost the lead rope. Preacher smashed the weapons, rendering them useless, left the dead man where he was and took the packhorse back to his camp. The man probably had gold on him, but Preacher didn't want it. He relieved the animal of his burden and sat down to fix supper. He'd go through the newly found supplies at first light.

Over coffee, Preacher tried to put himself in the boots of the man-hunters. Where would they go? They were all eastern men, and most would want to get back to familiar territory. They did not know this country, and would probably elect to go back the same way they came. That was only a guess on Preacher's part, but he felt it was a good one.

Or was it? By now, the news of all those warrants against him being lifted would be common knowledge at Bent's Fort. Bones might not want to take the chance of running into any of Preacher's friends at the fort and risk gunplay. So the group might decide to head north and then cut east. Well, he'd know come the morning.

* * *

It was a silent bunch of men who finally reined in their weary horses and made camp. They had escaped the canyon but they all knew they had not escaped Preacher. The mountain man would be after them likes fleas to a dog.

They'd lost one packhorse, but still had supplies a-plenty to get them back to civilization. And to a man, that's where they wanted to go. They all agreed they wanted no more of the mountains and the mountain man called Preacher. Even the gentry agreed with that, albeit reluctantly.

“Preacher's gonna follow us if it takes him to hell,” Van Eaton spoke softly to Bones. “We ain't never gonna be rid of that mountain man.”

“I know,” Bones said, weariness in his voice. Like the others, Bones was dirty and could smell the rancid stink from his body. His clothing was stiff with dirt and days-old sweat. “But I'm out of ideas.”

“I got one,” Van Eaton said. “We run like the devil hisself is after us.”

“He is,” Bones whispered. “He is.”

* * *

Preacher had inspected the supplies, took what he needed, and turned the packhorse loose. Then he was on the trail of the man-hunters. He followed their tracks and found their now deserted camp. A dead man lay stiffening on the ground. Preacher figured it was the man he'd shot coming out of the canyon. Some of those with Bones had taken everything of value from the man, even taking his pants, jacket, and boots.

“You shore teamed up with a pack of lousy no-counts,” Preacher said to the dead man. “But I reckon you wasn't no better than them so I ain't gonna waste my time plantin' you.” He left the dead man and headed out, following the easy to see trail.

Bones was leading the men straight north. “You won't go north long, Bones,” Preacher said. “You'll have to cut east in about three or four days. And I know where that'll be.” He knew that Bones had some sort of a crude map, for one of the men who chose to remain with the missionaries had told him so.

“So I 'spect you'll be cuttin' some east today. Just about noon. I'll be a-waiting' for you, Bones. I'm gonna drive you back into the mountains, ol' son. You ain't gettin' out on the Plains. Not if I can help it. And I can help it.” He lifted the reins. “Come on, Thunder. We got some hard travelin' to do.”

* * *

“This ain't like Preacher,” Bones said. “I don't believe for a second he's given up. So where is he?”

The nobility had been strangely silent for the past two days. They had finally begun to grasp the seriousness of it all. They had finally got it through their aristrocratic noggins that there was a very good chance they were going to die. Juan Zapata had sensed it first, back in the canyon. Robert Tassin had been next in line to understand the gravity of it all, and that feeling of doom had quickly spread to the others. They understood now that out here in the wilderness, their wealth and station in life meant nothing. They were in a situation where their money could not buy them out of it. And that knowledge was beginning to show on them. For the past two nights they had huddled together, speaking in low tones.

Bones knew the gentry was up to something. What, he didn't know. And he didn't care. He personally hoped they would break off and go it alone.

And that's exactly what they did.

The group had been traveling through a rough and dense part of the country, with each man having to concentrate on his own business. No one seemed to notice as the nobility began lagging behind ... along with several other men. When Bones halted the group for food and rest at about noon, the gentry were gone, along with Dutch, Percy, Falcon, Hunter, and Bates.

“Hell with them,” Van Eaton said. “I'm glad to be shut of the whole bunch.”

“Yeah,” Haywood said. “We got our money so who cares. Maybe Preacher will spend his time chasin' after them and leave us alone.”

“But they took two of the mules and a lot of supplies,” Lige pointed out.

Bones shrugged his shoulders. “I'm just glad they're gone. Good riddance.”

* * *

Preacher studied the ground carefully. The bunch had separated here. Bones and his people were still headin' for the Plains, and twelve or thirteen others had continued on to the north. “Interestin',” Preacher muttered.

He had miscalculated where Bones would cut due east, and lost time in backtracking. But Bones had made a bad choice and had to travel through mighty rough country. Preacher figured he was only hours behind Bones. So he'd come up behind them. That was fine. He knew a short cut around this bushy tangle that Bones knew nothing about. And that might put him ahead of Bones. But it would be close. Real close.

* * *

“You seem to be the most capable among us, Mister, ah, Dutch,” Sir Elmore Jerrold-Taylor said to the burly man. “So we have voted and you shall lead.”

“Fine. First thing we got to do is get hid from Preacher. And I mean, hid good. When we get done restin' here, we'll take to that crick over yonder and stay in it long as we can. We'll leave it several times, but always come back to it. That'll cause Preacher to waste a lot of time huntin' for our tracks. We'll find us a place to hole up. Bet on it.”

“Excellent thinkingl” the duke exclaimed. “You get us through, and you shall receive a bonus.”

Dutch nodded his head. “I want me a shot at Preacher. I owe that no-good. I really do.”

“Perhaps you might think up a fine plan for an ambush, Dutch?” Baron Wilhelm Zaunbelcher suggested.

“I been thinkin' on one. I surely have.”

* * *

Preacher beat Bones and his bunch by only a few minutes. But it was time enough for him to load up all his rifles and get into position. He would be shooting downhill, but the grade was a gentle one. And they had to come through, or try to come through, this pass, or else go miles out of their way. But Preacher wasn't going to allow them through ... if he could help it.

Preacher let the first few riders enter the pass and then he emptied a saddle. Will Herdman was slammed out of his saddle, dead before he bounced on the rocky trail. Preacher grabbed up another rifle, but he was too late. Bones and crew were learning fast. Those who had entered the pass had left their horses and taken cover behind the huge boulders that littered the gap. Preacher reloaded and settled down for a long wait.

“Preacher!” Bones shouted from the mouth of the pass. “Listen to me, Preacher. The gentry is gone. They left us. We ain't got no more quarrel with you. This was a job of work, Preacher. That's all. You takin' this personal.”

“You mighty right, I am,” Preacher muttered. “You kilt Eddie, Wind Chaser, and his whole family and band. Then you kilt a dozen friends of mine. It's personal, all right.”

“Preacher!” Bones shouted. “We're just a bunch of ol' boys tryin' to make a livin', that's all. And we didn't have nothing to do with killin' that boy or them trappers. That was all the work of the gentry.”

“Sure,” Preacher whispered. “Wonder how come it was that the supplies I took the other day still had a few traps amongst the other gear?”

“Look here, Preacher,” Van Eaton shouted. “We made a mistake in comin' after you. But we're big enough men to admit it. Let's just call it quits and call it even. No hard feelin's, all right?”

Preacher had an idea. “I'll think on that for a minute,” he shouted. He found a stick and put his battered old hat on one end. “All right, Bones. I'm comin' down and you and me, we can talk some. How 'bout it?”

“Get set to blow his head off,” Bones told Van Eaton. “That's a good deal, Preacher,” he shouted. “Ain't no reason at all why you and me can't be pards, now, is there?”

“Right,” Preacher shouted back.

Preacher crawled on his belly for a few yards, and then slowly lifted the hat until the brim was even with the top of a large rock. A rifle cracked and the hat flew off. Preacher screamed as if in terrible pain and then fell silent. He quickly crawled back to his loaded rifles and waited. “You sorry ...” He bit back the oath.

Preacher kicked at a rotting log and the log broke free and rolled a few yards, thudding against a rock. It sounded, he hoped, like a body falling.

“I believe we got him!” Lige shouted.

“I think we did,” Van Eaton said, his words carrying up to Preacher.

“Good shootin', Van Eaton!” Evans said. “You finished the man for good this time.”

“There's one I owe you, Van Eaton,” Preacher muttered, sliding around into a better shooting position. “And you can bet I'll pay that debt.”

Stan Law jumped up from his cover, a large knife in one hand. “I get to cut off his head!” he shouted. “Somebody bring the picklin' jar.”

“No! I get to cut off his head!” Cantry shouted.

“We'll race to see who gets the head!” a thug called Billy yelled.

Preacher let them come, all of them, including Bones and Van Eaton, running up the grade, knives in hand, laughing and yelling and shouting and joking and racing to see who would get to cut off Preacher's head.

“Sorry, boys,” Preacher said, then stood up. Holding two rifles like pistols, he fired, dropped those rifles, picked up two more, and emptied those. Then he grabbed for his pistols and really began uncorking the lead.

Billy went down, shot through the head. Cantry took a ball in the center of his chest and stopped abruptly, falling back against Bones and knocking him down, unknowingly saving the bounty-hunter's life. Stan Law took a ball through his stomach. The heavy ball, fired at such close range, tore out his back. Bob Jones stopped his running for a moment, and stared in horror at the growing carnage before him. He only had a moment to look before Preacher grabbed up his pistols. Bob took a double-shotted charge in the face and would have been unrecognizable even to his mother. Jose screamed in panic and turned around just as Preacher fired. The ball passed through his neck, just below the base of his skull. Paul Guy's bladder relaxed in fear and the last thing he would ever remember was that he had peed his pants.

Then the gang was running and rolling and falling and sliding down the grade, some of them losing rifles and knives and pistols in their haste to get away. When they reached the bottom, they didn't look back, just headed for their horses and galloped away.

Preacher glanced at the dead and dying sprawled grotesquely below him and without changing expression, began reloading.

“You a devil!” Stan gasped at him.

“I reckon I might have shoot hands with him a time or two,” Precher acknowledged. “The difference between us is, I know when to turn loose.”