Stealing the Preacher (2 page)

Why would they take over the passenger car if they didn’t intend to rob the passengers? Were they simply keeping the crowd in check while the fourth man rummaged through the baggage car?

Crockett leaned forward, just enough to see out the opposite window. The fourth man had gathered the horses on the west side of the tracks and was pointing a rifle in the direction of the engine.

“Then what
did
you come for?” the man with the watch demanded. “Tell us so we can hand it over and be done with you and your gang.”

The creases around the outlaw’s eyes deepened as he scanned the coach for what he sought. When his gaze touched on
Crockett, it hovered a moment before moving on. Crockett’s mouth went dry.

The man’s brows formed a V of displeasure as he concluded his search. A growl rumbled in his throat seconds before his intention exploded across the coach.

“I came for the preacher!”

2

C
rockett stiffened.

He came for the . . . what?
Surely his mind was playing tricks on him. The man couldn’t have said what he thought he’d heard.

The outlaw glared at the passengers and waved his guns from side to side. “Which one of you is the parson? Don’t think you can trick me by not wearin’ one of them white collars. I know he’s on this train, and I ain’t leaving ’til I find him.”

Crockett’s hand nearly lifted to the string tie at his neck, but he halted the movement before giving himself away. He’d never worn a clerical collar. Brother Ralston insisted that a man’s character, not his clothing, should identify his calling. Following in his mentor’s footsteps might have saved his life.

“You!” the outlaw barked at the salesman across the aisle. “You look like a preacher with your fancy duds and soft hands.”

“N-n-no, sir.” The man who had raised his hands in surrender the minute the bandits boarded the train now turned his palms inward, worry creasing his brow as he inspected his
smooth palms. “I’m j-j-just a drummer. See?” Slowly he opened his traveling case. “Patent medicines.”

“Bah!” The outlaw turned away in disgust and swung around to face Crockett.

Pale, steel-blue eyes took his measure. Accustomed to staring down unwanted strangers after years of protecting his ranch from interlopers, Crockett held the man’s gaze, although the task had been much easier when he’d been the one holding the gun. The outlaw’s eyes narrowed to slits, then turned their attention to Crockett’s suit. One brow lifted to the brim of the man’s dark hat as he took in the formal attire, but after a glance at Crockett’s work-roughened hands, the bandit grunted and strode past.

Never had Crockett been more thankful for calluses and scars.

As the outlaw continued his progress through the car, Crockett made his own assessment of the passengers. Which one was the preacher the bandits were looking for? The man at the front who had offered his watch? The one two rows up dressed like a farmer but whose head was bowed like a man in prayer?

The coincidence of the robbers invading this particular train in search of a preacher didn’t sit easily on Crockett’s shoulders. Yet he was sure they couldn’t be searching for him. He’d never been in this area before. Shoot. Until a couple years ago, he’d never been
anywhere
. No one knew he was on this train except his family, Brother Ralston, and the elders at Brenham.

“I’m losin’ patience, folks.” The leader growled his warning as he stomped back up the aisle. “If the preacher man don’t fess up, I’m liable to get a might upset. And my trigger finger tends to get twitchy when I’m upset.”

“Mama, is that man gonna shoot us?” Andrew’s tiny voice cut through Crockett’s heart.

“Hush, Andy,” his mother hissed as she tucked him more firmly under her arm.

Crockett set his jaw.
This isn’t right.
Tormenting women and children. Something had to be done. “How do you know that the man you seek is even on this train?” Crockett slowly pushed to his feet, careful to keep his hands raised.

Steel Eyes met his challenge without flinching. “Read him the handbill.” He barked the order over his shoulder with a jerk of his chin.

The man by the stove reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. Holding it by one edge, he shook it open. “‘Meet the . . .’” He paused, cleared his throat once, and then stretched the handbill farther away from his face and squinted. “‘Meet the preachers. Welcome our two cand-i-dates at Brenham Station on Saturday afternoon. They will arrive on the noon train from Houston and the two fifteen from Milano. Cookies and lemonade will be served.’”

A heaviness pressed against Crockett’s chest as the bandit’s stilted words drove into him like nails into a coffin.

How . . . ?
How could he be the preacher they sought? Denial raged through him, but he smothered it and straightened his shoulders. The
why
didn’t matter. What mattered was getting these bandits off the train.

“I’m your man.”

“You ain’t no parson.” The leader waved his gun at him. “Sit down.”

Crockett stood his ground. “Check my bag. You’ll find my Bible, and inside the front cover is a folded page of sermon notes.”

Steel Eyes cocked the pistol in his right hand and pointed the barrel an inch from Crockett’s chest. “Step aside, son.”

Crockett obeyed, moving into the aisle.

Keeping his stare locked on Crockett, the outlaw holstered his left gun and reached for the satchel. Crockett gave serious thought to knocking the pistol out of his hand the minute he glanced down to open the bag, but the man never gave him
the chance. Once he had a grip on the satchel, he tossed it to his partner at the rear of the coach, all without taking his eyes from Crockett’s face.

“It’s here, boss,” the third bandit called in confirmation. “The Bible. The notes. He’s even got some journals underneath—all with religious-type names.”

“Well, folks,” Steel Eyes announced. “It looks like we found what we came for.” He latched onto Crockett’s arm with an iron grip. “Now, Mr. Preacher Man, let’s get you off this train so these good people can enjoy the rest of their trip.”

Crockett submitted to the forced escort, the pistol barrel jammed into his back keeping him in check. The outlaws might have the upper hand now, but he’d bide his time. Once away from the women and children, Crockett wouldn’t have to worry about an innocent getting caught in the crossfire. He’d make his move when the time was right.

He had an appointment to keep and a job to win. No gang of long-in-the-tooth train robbers was going to derail his plans.

An hour of hard riding later, the leader finally called a halt near a stream bed. Crockett had managed to stay in the saddle during the grueling ride despite the fact that his hands were tied behind his back. His shoulders burned from the awkward position, and his thighs ached from working so hard to keep him atop his mount. The pain had kept him alert, however, and his mind sharp.

The man who had stayed with the horses during the abduction was the first to dismount. “We still got it, eh, Silas?” He eyed the gang’s leader. “Don’t get that kind of excitement herding cattle, do ya?” He tugged his bandana down to his neck and took a long drink from his canteen, apparently unconcerned that Crockett could see his face.

“I’m too old for that kind of excitement.” The man to Crockett’s right released a mighty groan as he stood in the stirrups. “You didn’t have to jump the train, Carl. I swear I ain’t gonna be able to walk right for a month after slammin’ my hip into that railcar.” He rubbed the offending spot and made a great show of hobbling as he led his horse over to the stream.

“Quit your whining, Frank.” Silas kept a firm grip on the reins to Crockett’s horse as he swung down out of the saddle. He’d had them in hand the entire way, not trusting his captive to follow meekly.

Smart fellow.

Crockett had already concluded that they needed him for a particular purpose, and whatever that purpose was, it would probably keep them from lodging a bullet in his back should he make a run for it. But it was unlikely he could keep his seat at a full-out gallop with his hands bound behind him, even if Silas relinquished the reins. So, instead, he’d spent his time plotting what he would do when they stopped.

Now that they had, it was time for action. All he needed was for Steel Eyes to come a little closer.

Silas moved, but only as far as the head of Crockett’s horse. He paused to stroke the animal’s muzzle. Crockett bit back his disappointment.

“Jasper, bring the preacher man your canteen. He looks a little parched.”

The third bandit did as ordered, but as he approached, Crockett caught a glimpse of the censorious look he turned on his leader. “This is crazy, boss.” His low voice barely carried, but with little noise around them, Crockett was just able to hear his quiet words. “You promised Miss Martha to give up your thievin’ ways. I’ve never known you to go back on your word. Especially to your wife. We’ve been livin’ honest for too long to risk it all on some fool stunt like this.”

“I haven’t broken my word,” Silas growled, his face reddening as he clearly fought to control his fury. “Martha was the best thing that ever happened to me, and I’d not dishonor her memory by soiling a vow I made to her. I didn’t steal a single trinket today, and you know it.”

“You stole the parson.” Jasper tilted his head in Crockett’s direction, though neither of them looked his way. Good thing—since they might have noticed him slipping his boots out of the stirrups or loosening his bonds as he stretched them on the cantle.

“I didn’t steal him,” Silas insisted. “I just borrowed him. We’ll let him go when Joe’s through with him.”

Jasper sighed and shook his head, his long gray mustache doing nothing to hide his frown. “I know you love that kid of yours, Si. We all do. But this ain’t right.”

“I’ll decide what’s right for my family.” Silas snatched the canteen away from Jasper and stalked over to Crockett’s left side.

Carl and Frank were watering their horses several yards away. Jasper had his back turned. There wouldn’t be a better opportunity.

Crockett flung up his knee, planted his left boot against the man’s chest, and shoved with all his might. The canteen clattered to the ground. Silas stumbled back, his bellow sounding an alarm. Crockett leapt from the horse’s back and managed to wrench his right arm free of his bindings. He smashed his fist into Silas’s jaw before the man could regain his balance. The outlaw tumbled backward, the horse’s reins still tangled in his fingers.

The horse whinnied at the rough treatment and thrashed about, trying to gain his freedom. Crockett used the diversion to make a run for the trees. A building of some kind lay to the north. A building meant people. People meant help. He just prayed he’d been right about the bandits not wanting to lodge a bullet in him.

A shot rang out, followed by angry shouts demanding he stop. But no lead slammed into him, so Crockett kept running.

He ducked beneath post oak branches and zigzagged from one tree to another, taking advantage of any cover the terrain afforded.

The building was getting closer. A barn, maybe? He just had to keep his legs under him.

Hooves pounded into the earth behind him. Crockett’s heart rate tripled. They were running him down. And he was running out of trees.

Open grassland lay between him and a fenced pasture. Keeping to the trees would only allow him to delay capture, not elude it. His only chance was to scale that fence and hope that Silas and his gang wouldn’t risk discovery by pursuing him onto private property.

Lungs on fire, Crockett burst out of the woods and sprinted for the fence. The hoofbeats behind him escalated.

A soft whirring caught his ear a second before a lariat dropped over his head and shoulders. Crockett made a desperate grab for the rope, but before he could get his thumbs hooked, the noose tightened around his chest and yanked him backward. In a flash he was flat on his back, staring at the sky.

He’d just been lassoed like a new calf at branding time. Lying still, head throbbing from where it had collided with the earth, Crockett prayed there’d be no hot iron involved when Silas presented him to his son. Then again, whoever this Joe person was, he was bound to be as off his rocker as everyone else involved in this farce. Who knew what the kid would do? After all, he was the one who’d talked his outlaw father into stealing a preacher in the first place.

3

S
ilas Robbins didn’t know what to make of the man at the end of Jasper’s rope. All the sermonizers he’d ever come across were soft, bookish men partial to the sound of their own voices. Silas rubbed his bruised jaw with one hand as he shifted in his saddle and glared at the preacher struggling to gain his feet.

This parson was anything but soft.

“I thought you fellers believed in turnin’ the other cheek.” Silas’s saddle creaked as he leaned forward. The preacher man’s fine black suit was covered in dust, his hat lay upended a few feet away, and his arms were pinned to his side by a snare that wouldn’t give an inch. Yet the man met his stare without a hint of fear.

“King David was a mighty warrior,” the parson answered, “and the Bible calls him a man after God’s own heart. If he can slay his enemies and stand before the Lord with a clean conscience, I think I can defend myself and do the same.”

Silas straightened, a grudging respect poking him like a mosquito prick. In other circumstances, he could imagine himself liking this fellow. But a preacher? He’d run barefoot across a
bed of cactus before he’d give his hand in friendship to one of them holy hypocrites.

“Whatever lets you sleep at night, Parson. Heaven knows the only man better than a lawyer at twisting truth to serve his own purpose is a preacher.” Silas crossed his wrists over his saddle horn and waited for the man’s reaction.

Would he sputter denials? Call down curses? Staunchly defend his profession?

Nope.

All the fellow did was arch an eyebrow and make a quiet observation. “Seems odd that you would go to so much trouble to collect a clergyman when you hold the occupation in such low esteem.”