Preacher and the Mountain Caesar (8 page)

He restored them to their perch atop the pack animal and mounted up. Preacher led the way out, much relieved, the children considerably subdued.

* * *

Preacher crouched by the hat-sized fire he had built in a protecting ring of stones. He looked up from the skillet of fatback and beans, savoring the aroma that rose. He had found some wild onions, added dried chili peppers, salt and a dab of sugar from his supplies, and water from the creek that flowed soundlessly a hundred yards away.

Only a fool, or a greenhorn flatlander, camped right up beside a noisy mountain creek that burbled and gurgled over rocks and made musical swirls as it rounded sandbars and bends. A whole party of scalp-hungry Blackfeet could sneak up on such a foolish person. Preacher had learned that before his voice changed. It had saved his hair on numerous occasions. He paused in his cooking duties.

“Terry, go fetch that foldin' bucket full of water for the horses.”

“Why didn't we just camp by the crick?” Terry offered in a revival of his earlier attitude.

There you go,
Preacher thought to himself. Flatlanders an' fools. He drew a breath, ready to deliver a blistering rejoinder, then mellowed. “Because it's foolish, even dangerous, to camp where the sound of water fills your ears and you can't hear anyone sneak up on you. Didn't I explain all that to you before?”

To Preacher's surprise, Terry flushed a rich scarlet. One big toe massaged the top of the other. He cut his eyes to the ground right in front of them. “I—reckon you did. I—I . . . forgot.”

“Well an' good. You owned up to it, an' that's what counts.”

Unaccustomed to praise for any reason, Terry glowed, his eyes alight and dancing, his cheeks pink for a far different reason. Preacher gave him scant time to rest on his laurels.

“Git on, now. Gonna be dark before long.”

After her brother scurried off on his errand, Vickie came to Preacher. With all the natural wiles of a woman, she draped one forearm on his shoulder and bent toward him with an expression of earnest absorption. “When will we be at the trading post, Preacher?”

“Some time in the mornin', provided you two carry your end. We git up, eat, clean up, an' git. All before the horizon turns gray.”

Vickie made a little girl face. “Why do we have to wake up so early? I like to sleep until the sun is up far enough to shine in the loft an' I can smell breakfast a-cookin'.”

“There's no loft here, an' we be in a hurry,” Preacher answered shortly.

“What's the hurry for?” Vickie asked in sincere ignorance.

Preacher studied her a moment. “You don't think your poppa an' them herri-dans of his'n is gonna kick back and say, 'Ol' Preacher done stole our prize pupils. Ho-hum.'”

Vickie's eyes went wide. “You mean . . . they's a-comin' after us?”

“Count on it. Sure's there's stink on a skunk.”

Twenty minutes passed, with Terry not yet back from the creek, when Preacher's prediction proved true.

* * *

His teeth gritted against the constant pain in his shoulder, Silas Tucker had held steadfast to his determination to exact revenge upon the crazy man who had broken into their cabin and stolen his best earners. Why, then two could steal the gold from a man's teeth without him knowin' it. And the boy, even though Silas had no intention of letting him know it, was turning into a right capable killer.

With those two bringin' in the goods, Silas would soon have his women dressed in silks and himself in a woolen suit. Reg'lar nabobs they'd be. Then, along comes this mountain wild man and spoils it all. Silas' brow furrowed, and he flushed with mounting anger as he looked down into the small valley where Preacher and the children had made camp. They'd soon see, Silas decided. He turned to Faith and spoke in a whisper.

“Be sure not to hit them brats. I know you're a good shot, m'love. Allus was. That's why I want you to stay back up here and give cover fire, y'hear?”

“I know, Silas, I know. It's that Purity cain't shoot for beans.”

Silas gave her a broad wink. “That's why she's comin' with me. I c'n sorta keep an eye on her.” He paused and gave consideration to something that had been gnawing on him since Terry and Vickie had been stolen. “You know, I been thinkin' maybe I should git a couple more brats offen her. They's whip-smart, her git.”

Faith hid the jealousy that nearly gagged her. “What's wrong with me?”

“We gotta face facts, woman. Those youngins of ourn ain't travelin' with full packs. Somethin's sommat wrong with them.”

“They're kin an' kin to our kin,” Faith defended stubbornly.

Silas ground his teeth. “So be it, woman. Now you just get ready.”

* * *

Preacher had poured himself a final cup of coffee when a bullet cracked sharply over his head. He lunged to the side and rolled to where he had rested his Hawken against the trunk of a grizzled old pine. The finely made weapon came into his hands with fluid ease. He turned back to the direction from which the shot had come.

His eyes took in a flash, bright enough in the twilight to be readily seen, and a puff of gray-white powder smoke. He sighted in the Hawken. The hammer had not struck the percussion cap when a fat lead ball smacked into the tree, two inches above his head, and Preacher flinched in a natural reaction. Bits of wood and bark stung as they cut the back of his neck. That caused his round to go wild. A hell of a shot, whoever it might be, Preacher considered.

“You youngins stay low. Hug the ground.”

“It's Silas, come to git us,” Terry announced, his voice quavering with his fear of the man.

Preacher mulled that over. “May be, but if so, he's gonna leave his bones here for the varmits.”

“No,” Vickie wailed. “No, he's gonna kill us all.”

More shots came from closer in. Preacher dived for another position. But not before one ball cut a hot path across the top of his left shoulder. He came up in a kneeling position and took aim at a hint of movement among the aspens along the trail. The reloaded Hawkin bucked and spat a .56 caliber ball into the tree line.

A grunt and muffled curse rewarded Preacher's effort. He put the rifle aside and drew one of the pair of new-minted. 44 Walker Colts. Another shot came from uphill and forced Preacher into a nest of rocks at the edge of the camp. Vickie yelped, and Terry uttered words that should never be in the mouth of a twelve-year-old. Preacher fired into the aspens and moved again.

Emboldened by Preacher's apparent retreat, Silas Tucker came into view. A red, wet stain glistened in the waning light of the sunset. He had taken Preacher's ball in the meaty flesh of his right side. Enough fat there, Preacher reckoned, to make certain nothing vital had been hit. Still, even a cornered rat had a lot of fight left in him. Silas peered shortsightedly around the clearing and located Terry, hunkered down on the grassy turf. Sudden rage at the boy's defiance blotted out his earlier evaluation of the youngster's worth. He raised a single-barrel pistol and took aim at the boy's slim back.

A hot slug from the .44 Colt in Preacher's hand shattered the radius of Tucker's right forearm a split second later. Impact caused his .60 caliber pistol to discharge skyward. Instinctively, he dove for a hiding place. Preacher started after him when another shot cracked from the aspens.

This could be a little harder than he had expected, the mountain man admitted to himself. He sure hated to kill a woman, but who else could Tucker have with him?

8

In rapid succession, three bullets sought a chunk of meat from Preacher's hide. He banged off two fast slugs at the hidden shooter and again moved to better cover. A fallen log seemed to offer the best advantage.

He had barely settled into position and begun to lament the lack of his rifle when a scurry of movement in the open caught his attention. On hands and knees, Terry scampered toward Preacher, with a Hawken, powder horn, ball pouch, and cap stick slung over his slender back.

“Git back, you little varmint!” Preacher shouted at him.

Terry kept coming. “You need these,” he countered.

Well, damned if I don't,
Preacher acknowledged to himself.

Terry reached the fallen tree in under five seconds. He paused as a ball smacked into the bark inches above his towhead. Then he adroitly flew over the rough surface of the trunk. At once, Preacher snatched the rifle from the boy, taking time only to pat the lad on his head in gratitude. A moment later Silas Tucker made his move.

“Git out there, woman,” he bellowed as he charged, a pistol in each hand.

First one barked, then the other; lead cracked overhead and Terry scrunched lower behind the tree. The ramrod still in the barrel of the Hawken, Preacher set it aside and answered the two-person charge with his .44 Walker Colt. A freak change of direction on the part of Silas Tucker caused Preacher to blow the heel off the degenerate's right boot.

Preacher exchanged six-guns as Tucker and the woman bore down on him. Biting his lip, Preacher sighted in on the center of the woman's chest. She fired at him, missed by a long ways, and Preacher saw her golden hair streaming from under a bonnet. The mother of Terry and Vickie! Imperceptibly, Preacher changed the aiming point of his Walker Colt and triggered a round.

Hot lead tore a shallow crease along Purity Tucker's rib cage. She stumbled and sprawled headlong in the dirt. “Momma!” Vickie screamed.

Silas Tucker did not even miss a stride. Hobbling, he came on, determined to end it right there and then. Preacher was glad to oblige him. His .44 Colt bucked once, then again. Silas Tucker jolted to a stop, turned partly away from Preacher and looked down in amazement at the twin holes, which formed a figure eight in the center of his chest. He made a feeble attempt to raise his weapon again, then crumpled bonelessly into a heap on the ground, while his lifeblood pumped into his chest through a shattered aorta.

Made haunting by distance and the echo effect of the basin, a curse descended upon the living in the clearing. “You baaastarrrd!” A shot followed.

Calmly, Preacher completed the loading drill for his Hawken and hefted it to his shoulder. “You up above. You can give it up now. No harm be done to you if you do.”

He waited for a reply. It gave Faith Tucker time to reload. A shower of bark slashed down on Preacher and Terry. Preacher grunted his reluctance away and took aim. He fired with cool precision. A weak wail that wound down to breathless silence answered his shot.

“D'ya git her?” Terry asked hopefully.

Preacher sighed heavily. “I reckon so, though I sure am sorry to have had to do that. Killin' a woman's not somethin' a man lives with easily.”

“She treated us as mean as Silas did.” To Preacher, Terry's justification lacked conviction enough to vindicate what had been done. “What about our momma?” the boy asked.

Recalling the grazing wound he had given the woman, Preacher came to his boots. He swung a leg over the downed tree and cleared it with ease. Terry quickly followed. Rapid steps brought them to the side of the fallen woman. Preacher knelt and felt her wrist for a pulse. He found one, strong enough, if a bit rapid. She moaned, turned her head, and opened one eye.

“My babies?” she asked first off, surprising Preacher. “Are they all right?”

“Sure are, ma'am,” Preacher assured her. “Terry's right here beside me.”

“Silas would have killed them. Sure enough that black-haired bitch sister of his would have.”

Preacher broke the news with the usual mountain man's lack of delicacy. “She won't be doin' no killin' anymore.”

“She's dead?”

A straight face hid Preacher's feelings. “Yep. She was tryin' to take my head off with that rifle.”

“She is—er—was a good shot.”

“Shootin' downhill throws a body off some. Now, there's somethin' I need ask of you. In fact, I damn well insist you do it. Once I get you patched up, I want you to go back for the rest of the children and lead them to the trading post at Trout Creek Pass. If you have any love for your own two, you had best do as I say, and mend your ways. You're gonna have to do that, and give them the care and love they deserve.”

“They have done some terrible things,” Purity offered in the faint hope of sloughing off her responsibilities.

“I know that. But they's youngins an' were forced into the life they led. You're not and nuther am I. We got rules to live by, and for you to teach this pair. Let me get on about fixin' you up.”

“What if I just leave here an' keep on goin'?” Purity sought yet for a way out.

Preacher cut his hard, gray gaze to her eyes. He remained silent long enough to cause Purity to flinch. “Well, consider this. If you have any idea of duckin' out, with or without those other youngsters, keep in mind that I will hunt you down and drag you in to the tradin' post, where they'll be obliged to put a rope around your neck.”

Purity Tucker swallowed hard and nodded her understanding. With her children gathered around, Purity sat still while Preacher cleaned up the shallow gouge in her side, packed it with a poultice of sulphur, moss and lichens, and bandaged it. Then he lighted the fire and set out the makings for coffee.

“Come morning, you set out north; we're headed south.” Purity started to raise her voice in protest. Preacher showed her the palm of one hand to silence her. “Nuf said. Now, do I have to tie you to a tree?”

Purity shook her head and settled down to sip coffee in silence. An hour later everyone lay down for a restless sleep.

Dawn seemed to come extra early. After one of Preacher's substantial breakfasts, Purity sent Terry to recover the horses used by her and the dead pair. Preacher admonished the boy to gather all of the weapons. When Terry returned, Preacher tightened the cinch on one animal and helped Purity to mount. Without even a good-bye to her children, she rode away to the north.

Terry turned imploring blue eyes on Preacher. “Think she will really come back?”

Preacher shrugged and snorted. “I wouldn't bet more'n a nickel on it.”

With that he assisted the boy and his sister into the saddles of the newly acquired mounts, and the three rode off toward Trout Creek Pass.

* * *

Philadelphia Braddock looked up from the moccasin he was repairing on the front porch of the trading post at Trout Creek Pass. He worked with a bison bone awl and a curved, fish rib bone needle. He sewed the sinew thread in precise, neat stitches. He was putting on thick, smoke-cured, bull hide “traveling” soles. The soft, distant sound of approaching horses had attracted his attention. Philadelphia squinted his bright green eyes. The brown flecks in them danced in the tears this produced. He peered over the top of the hexagonal half-glasses perched on the bulb of his nose.

From the cut of him, that big feller in the lead could be Preacher, he reckoned. Philadelphia ignored a small twinge in his shoulder wound, which was mending nicely under the care of an unlicensed doctor, who had journeyed west, turned to trapping and later to hard drink. To his credit, the pill-roller abstained religiously whenever he had a patient who needed the best of his professional skills. Yep, he saw more clearly now. Couldn't be anyone else.

Philadelphia shook his long, auburn hair in eagerness, which made his over-large ears, with their long, floppy lobes, flutter like wings. He snorted his impatience as it seemed to take forever for Preacher and the smaller folk with him to descend the high grade to the northern saddle out of the pass. Did his eyes play tricks, or did those folk ride some ways behind Preacher?

No, he realized a minute later as Preacher drew near enough to make out his face. They were kidfolk. Preacher with a pair of brats? And whose, at that? Be they his? Philadelphia literally danced with urgency, yet he knew he would learn the answers soon enough. Preacher swung clear of the main trail and entered through the gateway of the palisade that surrounded the trading post compound. Already, his keen vision had identified Philadelphia, and he waved enthusiastically to his old friend.

“Whoo-weee! Preacher, as I live an' breathe,” Philadelphia exploded, unable to contain himself.

When Preacher reined in and dismounted to tie off his big-chested roan stallion, Philadelphia rushed forward with a wild war whoop. Preacher spun and met him midway. Both had their arms extended and charged into a chest-banging embrace that raised a cloud of brown around them. At once they started a toe-stomping fandango that raised more dust. The longer they went on, the more violent their greeting became. Concern began to crease the high, smooth forehead of Terry Tucker. At last he could contain himself no longer.

“Hey! Hey, mister, go easy,” he shouted at Philadelphia. “He's been wounded.”

“Hell, that's never slowed Preacher none, boy. Mind yer business an' we'll mind ourn.”

All of the improved deportment he had learned in Preacher's company deserted Terry. He looped the reins around the saddle horn and jumped off the back of the horse acquired from the Tuckers. “That done it!” his squeaky voice declared. “Damn you, old man, I'm gonna kick you right in the balls!”

Terry charged forward, only to be plucked off his feet by Preacher, who grabbed the boy by the tail of his shirt and the waist of his trousers. Terry squirmed and made ineffectual thrashing with his legs and arms. “Lemme go! Lemme go. I'll fix 'em, Preacher.”

Their hugging welcome ended by Terry's intervention, Philadelphia Braddock stepped back and turned those startling green eyes on the lad. He cocked his head to one side. “Whose your bodyguard, Preacher?”

“He's not a bodyguard,” Preacher growled. “He's a bother.”

Philadelphia gave Preacher a fish eye. “Since when you be travelin' with children?”

“Ain't the first, won't be the last time, nuther,” Preacher rumbled.

For some reason, Preacher felt loath to go into all the lurid details behind Terry and Vickie. Philadelphia would find out soon enough, and no call to embarrass the youngsters. He clapped Philadelphia on the shoulder and changed the subject.

“I got a powerful thirst, Philadelphia. Be you buyin'?”

“I be. Best get these babies some milk.” He made a face at the prospect. “An' a sugar stick to suck on; then we can settle down to some serious depletin' o' Duffey's supply of Monongahela whiskey.”

Preacher lowered Terry to the ground and looked hard into the boy's eyes. “You gonna behave yourselves? Not gonna pull a stunt like last time?”

Terry shrugged skinny shoulders. “We ain't got nowheres to go.”

“That mean you'll stay?” Philadelphia cocked an eyebrow at Preacher's manner of speech.

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Fine. Now, go help Vickie down an' scoot inside. Ask Duffey for something to eat. C'mon, Philadelphia. Let's go wet our throats. By the by, I see you look a mite peaked. Been off your feed a little?”

“Not perzactly. It's a long story. One best told over a flagon of rye.”

Once settled at a crude table in one corner of the saloon side of the trading post, Philadelphia related his tale of the strange city and the stranger men, how they dressed and acted and that they spoke in a funny, foreign tongue. When he had finished, they drank in silence for several long minutes while Preacher wondered at it. At last he made up his mind.

Slapping a big palm on the damp wooden tabletop, Preacher spoke plain and clear while he looked Philadelphia straight in the eye, his own orbs hot with invitation. “I reckon I needs to see these people. I want to learn all I can about them.”

“Suits. I got my curiosities aroused, too.”

“There's more. That city you told me about. Seems I've heard of it somewhere before. Something is nigglin' in the back of my brain pan, says I've seen such a place, or read about it. Buildings is all white, right?”

“Seen 'em with my own eyes,” Philadelphia assured him.

“Hummm.” Preacher drained his pewter flagon and hoisted it to signal for another round. Ruben Duffey complied with a will. When he departed, Preacher went on. “Thing that really rubs me where I cain't itch is all these folks, an' all those buildin's bein' out here in the first place, an' me not knowin' a thing about it.”

Philadelphia tried to hide his own eagerness. “Well, I cain't say I blame you a bit for that.”

“Tell you what, Philadelphia. When that shoulder wound you got from them downright unfriendly fellers heals, I'd be mightly beholden if you were to lead me to this strange city growin' in the wilderness.”

For an instant, relief flashed in those brown-flecked, green eyes. “You got yourself a deal, Preacher, that you surely do.”

* * *

Chariot wheels rattled noisily over the smooth, nicely set cobbles of the wide Via lulius, which led to the foot of the Pontis Martius—the Hill of Mars—and the gladiator school of Justinius Bulbus that nestled in its shadow. Swelled with pride, young Quintus Faustus Americus held the reins as he stood beside his father. Although usually the task for slaves, driving the chariot had made the day into a golden one for the patrician boy. His bony chest swelled even more when he slowed the horses at the proper time and received a fond pat on the head from his father.