Read Preacher's Journey Online
Authors: William W. Johnstone
Preacher's Journey (6 page)
NINE
Preacher knew trouble when he heard it a-bornin'. He straightened from his casual stance as Peter Galloway said angrily, “Damn you, you can't talk to my uncle that way! A Galloway never cheats!”
“Well, he did,” Watson insisted in a reedy voice. “I seen him deal a card off the bottom of the deck.”
“That's preposterous,” Geoffrey said. “Jonathan, tell him.”
“Of course. I never cheated at cards in my life,” Jonathan said. “And I'm insulted that you think I did tonight.”
Watson glared at him. “I don't think itâI know it. I seen it with my own eyes. He ain't the onliest one neither. It ain't no coinseedence that ever since we started playin' for money, one o' you boys has won ever' hand.”
“They're playin' for money?” Preacher muttered to himself. “I thought they was playin' for pebbles.”
“It was you and your friend who wanted to âmake things more interesting,' as you put it,” Peter said to Watson. “We just went along with you, even though I didn't think it was really that good an idea. If you're too stupid to win, don't blame us and claim we're cheating.”
For once, Preacher couldn't blame Peter Galloway for being hotheaded, even though Peter might have phrased his argument a mite more discreetly. If a man was honest and came from an honest family, he couldn't just let it pass when somebody accused him or his kin of cheating.
“I ain't stupid,” Watson shot back, “which means I don't believe you. You're all a pack of cheaters and liars!”
Peter threw his cards down on the blanket and started to get to his feet. “Take that back or I'll thrash you!” he said.
“Oh, my God,” Angela said softly. “Peter, don'tâ”
Watson had no intention of taking back his harsh words. Preacher knew that just by looking at the man's face. He started forward, intending to intervene in the argument, but it was too late. Watson launched himself across the blanket, uncoiling from the ground like a striking snake. His fist lashed out and crashed into Peter's jaw. Peter sprawled backward on the ground, scattering the powdery, new-fallen snow.
“Peter!” Angela cried.
Watson continued his attack, lunging at Peter and drawing back his leg for a kick. “Thrash me! Go ahead and thrash me, why don't you!”
Simon, Geoffrey, and Jonathan were all too stunned by the sudden vicious assault to do anything to help Peter. Preacher could have gotten there in time to stop Watson from kicking Peter, but he held back, wanting to see what the young man would do, how he handled himself. Might come a day when Preacher would have to depend on Peter Galloway to save his life or the life of someone else.
Although stunned by the punch, Peter still had his wits about him enough to see Watson's booted foot coming at him. He rolled to the side, avoiding the kick, and reached up to grab Watson's leg. He heaved on it, toppling the mountain man and sending Watson crashing to the ground.
Hawley started to his feet, reaching for the pistol behind his belt as he did so, and Preacher finally stepped in. He swung the Hawken up so that its barrel was pointed in Hawley's general direction and growled, “Stay out of it, mister. Let them settle it.”
Hawley stopped reaching for his gun and settled back down on the ground, but his face was taut with anger. He didn't like having a rifle pointed at him. Preacher didn't much care what Hawley liked or didn't like.
Peter tried to press his momentary advantage. He leaped at the fallen Watson and swung a couple of wild punches at the man's face. Watson blocked them both, brought a knee up, and planted his foot against Peter's chest. A hard shove sent Peter flying through the air.
“Can't you stop them?” Angela said worriedly to Preacher.
“I could, but there ain't no need to.”
“No need? Peter could get hurt!”
Preacher shook his head. “Not too bad, as long as it's just fists. Better to let them hash it out amongst themselves.”
Watson had the advantage now. He threw himself on top of Peter Galloway and tried to lock his fingers around Peter's throat. Peter was younger, taller, and heavier, but Watson knew all the tricks of rough-and-tumble, bare-knuckles brawling. He got a stranglehold on Peter and bore down, cutting off his air.
That grip didn't last long. Peter bucked up off the ground and threw Watson to the side. Gasping, he rolled away and came up on his hands and knees, then staggered to his feet. He rubbed his sore throat where Watson's fingers had dug into it.
A few feet away, Watson struggled up as well. By now the other men had drawn back, giving the combatants some room. The blanket was wadded up, and the cards and pebbles were scattered. Clearly, the game was over for the night.
With angry shouts, the two men came together and started slugging it out, fists flying and thudding into flesh and bone. Again, Watson's greater experience helped him. His punches were short and compact but had all of his strength behind them. Peter gradually had to give ground. As he backed up, Watson's foot suddenly shot out, hooked behind Peter's ankle, and jerked. Peter went over backward.
Watson reached into his coat and pulled out a knife. With a savage grin on his face, he lunged at Peter, the blade poised to strike down into the younger man's chest.
The Hawken in Preacher's hand roared as he fired without seeming to aim. The heavy lead ball struck Watson's knife hand, shattering bone and shredding flesh. The knife went flying harmlessly into the air. Watson screamed and fell to his knees, clutching the wounded, blood-spouting member to his chest.
“You shot him!” Hawley shouted accusingly. “You said we ought to stay out of it!”
“That was when it was just fists,” Preacher said. “Watson made it a heap different when he pulled that pigsticker.”
Watson glared up at him from his knees. “You bastard! You've ruined me!”
“You're lucky I didn't kill you,” Preacher said coldly.
“We ain't gonna forget this,” Hawley warned.
Preacher nodded and said, “I sure as hell hope not. Tend to your friend.”
Hawley got up and went to Watson's side. He helped Watson to his feet and led him over by the cliff. Working quickly, Hawley bound up the wounded hand with a strip of cloth he cut off Watson's shirt. Both of them sent frequent, hate-filled glances toward Preacher and the Galloways.
Angela hurried over to Peter as he climbed shakily to his feet. “Are you all right?” she wanted to know.
He nodded. “I'm fine.” Amazingly enough, the look he gave Preacher was resentful. “I could have handled him. I was doing all right.”
If that was what the damn fool wanted to believe, Preacher wasn't going to waste breath or energy arguing with him. Preacher knew, though, that Peter Galloway would have been dead in another few seconds if he hadn't shot Watson.
The shouting and the gunshot had roused everyone else in the camp. The kids looked out from the wagon where they were sleeping, full of questions and wide-eyed with fear. Once Angela was satisfied that her husband was all right, she went to reassure the youngsters that everything was fine and tell them to crawl back into their bedrolls and go back to sleep.
Meanwhile, Roger Galloway climbed down from his wagon and came over to join the others. He had a pistol in his hand. “What is it?” he asked anxiously. “Is it the Indians? Are we under attack?”
“Nope,” Preacher said.
Simon said, “Peter got in a fight with one of those mountain men.”
“A fight?” Roger repeated. “About what?”
“The man said I was cheating at cards,” Jonathan explained, “but I never did. You know I wouldn't do that, Roger.”
“Of course not.” Roger looked at his brother and asked the same question Angela had. “Peter, are you all right?”
“I'm fine,” Peter said again, more disgustedly this time. “We should have known not to trust those ruffians.” He cast a meaningful glance Preacher's way.
Preacher figured that if any cheating had been going on, more than likely Hawley and Watson had been doing it. He had reserved judgment on the men, but now he decided that they had planned to fleece the pilgrims at cards all along. But they had gone up against stiffer competition than they had expected. All of Jonathan's talk about not being any good at poker had been a ruse, designed to draw in Hawley and Watson. They had played along without even realizing it, even to the point of suggesting that they play for money instead of pebbles, which was no doubt what Jonathan had wanted all along.
But despite that con, Jonathan had been winning fair and square. Preacher hadn't seen Jonathan or any of the other Galloways cheating.
Well, it was over now, and nobody had gotten killed. There was that to be thankful for anyway, Preacher thought as he reloaded the Hawken.
Hawley walked over to him. “What are you gonna do about this?” he asked, knowing that Preacher was in charge here.
“Come mornin', you and Watson will go your way and we'll go ours.”
“You're not goin' to kick us out of camp tonight?”
“Nope, not in weather like this. Not that I care overmuch whether the two of you freeze. I just don't want to have to mess with your stiff carcasses come mornin'.”
“This ain't fair,” Hawley blustered. “You said we could travel together.”
“That was before your pard tried to kill somebody.”
“We'll stand a lot better chance of gettin' to Garvey's Fort if we stay together.”
“You will, you mean,” Preacher said.
“Might come a time when you'll need our guns.”
“Well, we'll just have to get along without 'em, I reckon. Get back over there by the cliff, and the two of you stay there. Somebody will be keepin' an eye on you all night, so don't try anything.”
“Ain't fair,” Hawley muttered again as he turned away. “Just ain't fair.” He went back over to Watson and told him what Preacher had said. Watson was still in pain. He cradled his injured hand against his body.
The Galloways all began to move toward their wagons. Now that the trouble was over, they were ready to turn in. Except for Roger, who started toward Preacher and said his name.
Preacher half-turned to see what Roger wanted, so it was only out of the corner of his eye that he saw Watson pull a pistol from under his coat with his good hand. In an instinctive reaction to the threat, Preacher pivoted back toward the cliff and fired from the hip. Watson had lifted the pistol and pointed it at Preacher, but he fumbled for an instant before pressing the trigger, probably because he had the gun in his left hand. That second of delay was enough to prove fatal for him. The ball from Preacher's Hawken smashed into his chest and lifted him backward off his feet as it plowed all the way through his body and burst out his back in a shower of blood and pulped flesh. He hit the face of the cliff and bounced off, pitching forward and leaving a smear of crimson on the rock.
Like lightning, Preacher lowered the rifle and pulled one of the pistols from behind his belt. He covered Hawley, who was reaching for a gun, and said, “Don't do it.”
Hawley froze, then slowly lifted his hand away from his pistol. “Don't shoot,” he croaked, knowing just how close he had come to dying. “Don't shoot, Preacher. I ain't gonna cause any trouble. What Ed did, that was on his own head. I didn't have nothin' to do with it.”
“You were reachin' for a gun,” Preacher snapped.
“Well, hell, a man sees his partner shot down, he just naturally tries to do somethin' about it.”
That was true enough, Preacher supposed. Instinct had sent Hawley's hand toward his gun, and instinct had come near getting his head blowed off. But nobody else had to die, not tonight.
Preacher said, “Come over here, take all your guns and knives out, and put 'em down on the ground. Then back off.”
“You can't take a man's weapons away,” Hawley whined.
“I ain't takin' 'em permanent. You can have 'em back in the mornin' after we've left. But for now just do what I tell you.”
Grudgingly, Hawley complied, shedding himself of two pistols, a hunting knife, and a dirk.
“That all?” Preacher asked as Hawley backed away from the weapons.
“That's it.”
“You better not be lyin' to me.”
“I ain't as big a damn fool as you seem to think I am,” Hawley said bitterly. “But I ain't gonna forget about this neither, Preacher.”
“No,” Preacher said, “I don't expect you will.”
TEN
The sound of the distant shots came faintly through the frigid night air, first one, and then a few moments later another. Swift Arrow heard them and grunted. “Perhaps the whites are killing each other,” he said to Badger's Den.
The medicine man frowned. “It will not satisfy the blood debt they owe the Sahnish if they kill each other.”
“True. But there will be at least one left on whom to take our revenge, if Neshanu Natchitak wills it.” Swift Arrow smiled. “Who is the only white man who speaks the truth to our people?”
“A dead white man, because he says nothing,” Badger's Den replied, and the other members of the war party laughed at the old joke.
They sat around a tiny fire built in the lee of a rock, trying to ignore the cold. Every man there, if he was honest with himself, missed the warmth of his lodge and his woman. When they had left their village, following Swift Arrow on his quest of vengeance against the white men, they had expected to be back before the first real snowfall. But the white men had been fortunate and had somehow stayed ahead of their pursuers for long enough so that that goal was no longer possible. The first real storm of winter was here, and the warriors had no choice but to pull their bear and buffalo robes tighter around themselves and take no notice of the bad weather.
Swift Arrow worried, however, that the snow would make it more difficult for them to locate the wagons. The white mantle would obscure any tracks left by the wheeled vehicles. Again, the Sahnish would be reduced to splitting up into search parties, such as the one that Nah Ka Wan had been a member of.
At least they knew the right direction in which to begin their search. The shots had told them that much. When morning came, Swift Arrow thought, they would take up the trail once more, and they would not stop until all the hated whites were dead.
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Hawley didn't try anything else during the night. He sat beside the corpse of his friend and stared darkly at the rest of the party until exhaustion finally overcame him and he fell asleep, leaning against the cliff.
Preacher made sure they all understood that one man on every guard shift would have to watch Hawley. Preacher didn't trust the surly mountain man as far as he could throw him. The smart thing to do would be to go ahead and shoot the son of a bitch, but Preacher couldn't bring himself to do that. He couldn't just kill a man in cold blood.
The snow stopped during the night. Away from the camp, the ground was covered with four or five inches of the white stuff, Preacher saw as he looked around the next morning. That wasn't enough to cause the wagons any trouble, although it was possible there were some deeper drifts they would have to contend with. It was pretty to look at too, that white blanket spread over the ground, as well as the caps of snow that nestled on the branches of the pine trees.
The kids could make good snowballs now, and they fell to it with a vengeance, a-whoopin' and a-hollerin' as they ran around and flung the hard-packed missiles at each other. While they were doing that, the adults fixed breakfast and got ready to travel again.
Preacher shadowed Mart Hawley as Hawley tended to his horses. “You don't have to watch me so blasted close,” the man snapped. “I ain't gonna cause any trouble. I told you, pullin' a gun was Ed's idea, not mine.”
“Indulge me,” Preacher said dryly. “I'll feel a mite easier if I keep an eye on you, Hawley. What do you plan to do with your partner?” Preacher inclined his head toward Watson's body.
“Find a ravine, I reckon, and pile some rocks on him after I dump him. Unless you want to help me dig a grave for him.”
“Not likely,” Preacher said.
Hawley glared at him. “Ain't you got a ounce o' human compassion in you? Sure, he lost his head and got hisself kilt, but he really weren't that bad a feller.”
“I'll take your word for it.”
“When do I get my guns back?”
“We'll leave 'em a half mile or so up the trail after we've pulled out. Just follow the wagon tracks in the snow and you'll find 'em. I'll even wrap 'em up in some cloth to protect 'em from the weather.”
“What if I need to shoot somethin' before then?”
“My advice would be not to need to,” Preacher said. “You wait until we're gone and well out of sight before you leave here. And I sure won't take it kindly if you decide to come after us.”
“Well, damn it, what if we just happen to be goin' the same direction? I still thought I might try to winter at Garvey's place.”
“Just don't come ridin' up our backside. If I see you betwixt here and there, I plan on shootin' first and askin' questions later.”
“You're mighty damned touchy,” Hawley muttered.
“I get that way when folks try to kill me.”
Preacher went back to the wagons. Roger and Peter had built up the fire until it was blazing brightly again, and Jonathan was cooking breakfast. Preacher said to Roger, “How's your wife this mornin'?”
“A little better, I think,” Roger replied. A haunted look in the young man's eyes told Preacher that he wasn't really convinced of what he was saying, however. Maybe he was trying to make himself believe it.
“No baby yet, though,” said Preacher.
Roger shook his head. “No. No baby.”
Preacher could do a lot of things, but he couldn't make a baby be born when it wasn't good and ready. He put a hand on Roger's shoulder for a moment and gave him a reassuring nod. That was about all he could do.
A short time later, after everyone had eaten breakfastâexcept for Hawley, who would have to make do now with the jerky and pemmican he already hadâand the wagons had been hitched up, Preacher said, “Climb up there and let's get movin', folks. Got a lot of ground to cover today.”
He swung up into the dun's saddle and rode out of the hollow. Dog went with him and then bounded ahead, kicking up snow with his paws as he ran. He looked more like a wolf than ever in these surroundings. Preacher reined in and turned to watch as the wagons climbed out of the hollow and began rolling across the relatively level ground to the east. There were still some more hills to cross before they would reach the actual plains, but the going would get a little easier with each mile they put behind them.
Hawley stood near the cliff with his horses. Ed Watson's corpse lay nearby. Preacher remembered how the first man he had been forced to kill had haunted him for a long time. He had seen the face of that river pirate in his dreams, and even sometimes when he was awake. Now, so many violent years had rolled past that he could no longer even make an accurate estimate of the number of men who had gone down to death at his hands. But he had never murdered anyone, never taken a life unless he was forced to it, and never killed anybody who didn't need killin'. His conscience was clear and he slept just fine at night.
Some folks just never understood. They prattled on about how every human life was sacred and how nobody had the right to kill somebody else. That was all well and good, and Preacher supposed there was a kernel of truth in what they said. But they seemed to forget that man was an animal, and an animal will always fight to save its own life or the lives of those it holds dear. From the grizzly bear and the mountain lion down to the smallest of field mice, something inside every critter on the face of the earth made it strike back when it was threatened. You'd never catch an animal hesitating and pondering moral questions when it ought to be fightin' for what was right. The greatest morality was survival.
At least it would be, Preacher thought, until so-called civilization bred that out of folks and they got in the habit of just sittin' back and taking whatever evil the world dished out at 'em. He shook his head and hoped he never lived long enough to see it come to that.
“Keep headin' straight on thataway,” he called to Jonathan Galloway as Jonathan's wagon rumbled past. Preacher pointed where he meant, and Jonathan nodded that he understood. Preacher waited off to the side on the dun as all four of the wagons rolled by. He sat there watching Hawley until the wagons had a good long lead. Then finally he turned the dun and rode after them. Dog growled one last time at Hawley and then loped after Preacher.
Preacher had fashioned a makeshift bundle out of a piece of an old blanket and tied up Hawley's weapons in it. When he judged he had gone far enough, he set the bundle on top of a rock where Hawley couldn't miss it, and then rode on. He hoped he wasn't making a mistake by leaving Hawley alive. If the man was filled with enough of a thirst for vengeance, he might creep up on the wagons at night and take a potshot or two at them.
If that happened, Preacher would deal with it. He wouldn't hesitate. He'd just go out and hunt down Hawley and kill him on sight.
The sky was still overcast, but no more snow fell during the morning. The wagons pushed on steadily and actually made pretty good time. If they could keep this up, Preacher thought, they might reach Garvey's Fort before winter really closed down and clamped its icy grip on the landscape.
Yep, they still had a chance to salvage this disaster of a trip.
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Mart Hawley stood above the ten-foot-deep gully where he had dumped the body of his friend and partner. Watson's corpse had been stiff with both cold and rigor mortis, and Hawley had had a hell of a time wrestling it into the gully. Now he stood there with a large chunk of rock in his hand and looked down at Watson.
“Ed, you stupid bastard,” Hawley said. He raised the rock above his head and then threw it down with all his strength into Watson's face, which was still contorted from the man's death agonies. The rock struck with a dull thud.
“If you hadn't lost your head, we could'a strung along with them pilgrims until we had a chance to kill Preacher,” Hawley went on as he picked up another rock. “Then them wagons would've been ours, and that pretty woman too. Course, we'd'a had to kill the rest of 'em, but I don't reckon that'd have been too hard.”
He flung the rock at Watson's corpse with all the fury he could muster. “Stupid damn bastard!”
For several minutes, he kept cursing Watson and throwing rocks into the gully. By all rights, he should have left the body uncovered so that wolves and other varmints could get at it. That's what Watson deserved for being so dumb as to lose his temper and try to kill Preacher. Everybody in the Rocky Mountains knew that killing Preacher would be one hell of a chore. It would have to be planned out ahead of time. That's what he would do, Hawley told himself. He would take his time and make a plan, and then stick to it until he had Preacher in his sights and could blow his damn head off. That would be a fine day, yes, sir, one fine day.
Hawley threw one more rock into the gully and then turned away. That was good enough. He had tried to cover up Watson, because after all, they had been partners and had ridden and trapped together for a couple of years, but if it wasn't good enough, then too bad. Hawley had wasted enough time. He wanted to get after those wagons, retrieve his gunsâassuming that sumbitch Preacher had left them as he'd said he wouldâand get started on his plan.
It would take a while, Hawley thought as he rode off, leading Watson's horse and the pack mule. But he could afford to be patient.
Preacher didn't know it yet, but he was already a dead man. Yes, sir, a . . . dead . . . man.
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