F
OUR
Preacher figured there wasn't no time like the present to get into action. The fact that he was outnumbered about ten to one didn't bother him at all. It never had.
He crawled out of the doghouse and turned all but one of the horses loose . . . quietly. Then he began working swiftly in the gathering up of dry grass and twigs and then larger sticks from the woodpile. He crawled around the trading post/cabin on all fours and placed the material on all sides. Then he set all the bundles burning. He led the best horse around back, took out both pistols, and waited, figuring it wouldn't take long for those ninnies inside to start smelling smoke. Both pistols in his hands and the two more in his sash were double-shotted, so Preacher was expecting to inflict some serious wounds.
So intent were the men inside the trading post/cabin in their planning of murder and rape and robbery that not once had anyone opened the sliding windows to look outside ... and that was something Preacher had been counting on. The men had not disappointed him.
Preacher sat down on a stump and waited, his hands filled with pistols.
“Hey!” someone within the building hollered. “I smell smoke.”
“Do tell?” Preacher muttered. “I was beginnin' to think your blowers was stopped up.”
“The damn cabin's on fire!” another yelled. “Lemme out of here!”
He ran out the back door and Preacher shot him, one ball taking the man in the chest, the second ball striking him in the face, making a great big mess. Blood and bit of bone struck the man right behind the mortally wounded outlaw and he screamed in panic.
Preacher ended his screaming when he fired his second pistol, the double-shotted charge taking the man in the chest and knocking him backward. He fell against another man and both of them went to the floor.
The air around the post was now thick with smoke. Men were staggering out, nearly blind from the smoke, tears streaming down their cheeks and all coughing badly. Preacher had pulled out his other two pistols and stood up, waiting for a clear shot.
Hubert ran out, stumbling and staggering. Preacher ended his outlaw life with a ball directly in the heart.
“The damn horses is gone!” a man screamed from around the front, then broke out in a coughing fit.
Preacher put a ball into a fourth man, jammed the empty pistols behind his sash, and jumped on the horse he'd borrowed. Staying low in the saddle, he headed for the brush. Just inside good cover, Preacher leaped from the saddle and began quickly reloading. When his pistols were charged, he looped the reins around a skinny bush and grabbed up his rifle. He made his way back to the edge of the clearing.
The men were working frantically to contain the blaze, but from where Preacher stood, it looked hopeless. The dry logs had turned the building into a blazing ball of fire. Neither Son or Dirk could be seen. Dropping to one knee, Preacher sighted in a man and pulled the trigger. The man stood up on his toes, stiffened, then threw his hands into the air and fell to the ground, landing on his face. The boom of the Hawken was lost in the roaring of the flames and the cracking and popping of burning logs. Preacher reloaded and waited, trying to peer through the dense smoke for a target.
“Give it up!” a man shouted, just then noticing the newly dead man sprawled on the cold ground. “We're targets out here. Head for cover.”
The men vanished into the thick swirling smoke and Preacher gave it up and ran back to the stolen horse, jumping into the saddle and taking off. He rode for about a mile, then circled around, coming up into the woods about half a mile in front of the source of the black smoke arching into the skies.
Sitting his saddle, he listened for a moment and picked up the sounds of many hooves pounding in his direction. Preacher took the prudent course and got the hell out of there. He hadn't killed any of the principals, but he'd blooded the gang some, and given them something to think about.
He left the horse and took off on foot, in a distance-eating trot, heading north and staying close to the river on the timber side. They'd come after him, he was sure of that. The outlaws had no choice in the matter. They had to kill him. Preacher smiled grimly. And that was going to take some doing.
* * *
“Lost everything,” Dirk said sourly. He sat on a log, his face grimy with soot and his clothing coated with dirt and ash. “Everything I owned went up in smoke. Goddamn that Preacher. Damn his eyes, I say!”
“I do know how you feel,” Malachi said. “Believe that.”
“I can't believe that no man would have the balls to just walk up and set fire to a building and then wait outside and shoot folks down as they run from the flames,” an outlaw called Gil said, as he looked around him for the tenth time in that many minutes. Preacher made him nervous being this close. Real nervous. The man was new to the West, having broken jail in Maryland the past year. The first thing he'd been told when he hit the wilderness was to leave mountain men alone. Especially one called Preacher. Everybody had told him that Preacher was bad news.
He had scoffed at that.
No more.
“Settle down, Gil,” Malachi told him. “We'll never kill the bastard if we all get spooked.”
“I still think we should have gone on west,” Kenrick said. “This is a bad mistake we're makin', I'm thinkin'.”
“I wish we'd had some fresh meat,” Ansel said. “Them coals of the cabin is right for cookin' now.”
Dirk looked at the hulking stupid oaf and resisted an impulse to flatten him with the butt of his borrowed rifle. He decided it just wasn't worth the effort.
“Let me go a-huntin', brother,” Ansel said. “I be's hongry around the mouth.”
“Shut up, Ansel,” Malachi told him. “Sit down and be quiet. Keep a lookout for us.”
“You think Preacher will be back?” Dirk asked.
“I don't know. Maybe. With him, you never can tell.”
“Probably lookin' at us right now,” Kenrick said. “Let's get out of here, brother. Like right now.”
“No!” Dirk said sharply. “No, by God. We go after the man. I will not spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder. And there is a very good reason for us doing that: Preacher probably was listening to us make plans. He knows what we're going to do. He's got to die.”
Malachi reluctantly nodded his head. Lord knows he didn't want to pursue Preacher; Malachi had him a gutful of the mountain man. But there was wisdom in Dirk's words. He picked up his rifle. “Let's do it, people. Preacher's got to die if we's goin' to survive. There just ain't no other way.”
* * *
Back in Missouri, in a small town on the Osage River, on the edge of the unorganized territory known at the Great Plains, Edward Sutherlin tossed out the dregs of his coffee cup and looked at the six men who had accompanied him from Ohio. They were all tough, very capable men â men who would do anything for money. And had.
Edward Sutherlin rose to his boots and began rolling his blankets and groundsheet. He knew it was a bad time to be heading west. But it was something that had to be done. He'd received word that his operation was in jeopardy and that some stupid, illiterate, unwashed mountain man with the improbable name of Preacher was to blame.
Well, he'd soon settle Preacher's hash. He had too good a deal going to let one man louse it all up. With Malachi and his boys, and the six tough men he was bringing, that should be plenty. They'd leave this Preacher person's body for the scavengers and then get on with their business.
He just couldn't imagine why Malachi was so afeard of one man. It just didn't make any sense. Ridiculous is was it was. “Let's ride,” Edward said. “We've got a thousand miles in front of us.”
* * *
One of Son's men showed his head and Preacher's rifle boomed. The slug took the man right between the eyes and removed the entire back of the outlaw's head, flinging him backward, dead before he hit the cold ground.
The two dozen or so trash that made up the gang flattened out and hugged the rocky ground on the edge of the Cascades.
They tried not to look at the careless outlaw who now lay with his brains leaking out.
Ansel got to his knees to shift positions and Preacher's rifle boomed again, its ball smashing into a rock and sending bits of rock into the outlaw's face. Ansel whooped and hollered and fell to the ground, wiping the blood from his face.
Dirk and his boys didn't move. Dirk knew all about the mountain man called Preacher and knew what he was capable of. A man took no chances when dealing with Preacher. None. Dirk cut his eyes, looking around him. He was safe from Preacher's bullets as long as he stayed put, but he was pinned down tight.
Malachi looked back at Ansel. His brother wasn't hurt, just bloodied up some and scared. Malachi's own position was like that of Dirk. He was safe, but he couldn't move. Preacher had picked a dandy spot for an ambush. Something that Malachi should have known.
Son lay on the ground, looked at his fallen companion, and cussed Preacher. Ted had been a good man. One moment of carelessness had cost him his life. Now there was one less to fight Preacher.
“Malachi,” Son called in a hoarse whisper. “We's just in good rifle range. We can't go forward, but we can damn shore go backerds. 'Nother fifty yards and we'll be plumb out of range. I say we roll backerds.”
“You roll backerds,” Malachi said. “I ain't movin' 'til I'm shore it's safe.”
Flat on his back several hundred yards away, behind rocks on the incline, Preacher pulled his bow unto a U shape and let the arrow fly, not dreaming for a moment he could hit anything. With their heads down, the outlaws did not see the arrow arch high into the air and start down. A man named Fabor suddenly let out a mighty roar as the arrow point drove deep into the right cheek of his butt. He leaped to his feet, dancing and howling in pain. Radborne tackled him and brought him down before Preacher could shoot him dead.
“My ass is on fire!” Fabor squalled.
“The next time Preacher fires, make a run for it,” Malachi called. “We'll be out of range time he can reload.”
“Oh, Lord, Lord, my ass hurts!” Fabor hollered. “Somebody do something.”
“I'll be durned,” Preacher said, peering through the rocks. “I hit someone.”
Preacher studied the situation for a moment, then picked up his Hawken and shifted a few yards. He sighted in on what appeared to be a boot sticking out from behind a log and squeezed off a round. Wild screaming came his way as one of Son's men had several toes blown off. Son grabbed the man and dragged him downhill, the others quickly following as Preacher reloaded.
Preacher lowered his rifle. The crap and crud were well out of range. Fabor was hollering about his butt and Son's man was screaming in pain from his blowed-off toes. Preacher gathered his gear and slipped back into the timber and began slowly working his way down the grade.
“Get that son of a bitch!” he heard Dirk the Englishman scream. “You men, circle around and trap him up there. You three to the right and you three to the left. We'll have him in a box. Move!”
Preacher smiled and continued moving downward, working his way toward where they had picketed their horses. He pulled up short in the timber. Malachi was wising up. He had left a guard with the horses. Preacher notched an arrow and let it fly. The point drove through the guard's neck and he fell to his knees, coughing and gagging with blood pouring out of his mouth. Preacher ran to him and smashed his head with the butt of his Hawken. He gathered up all the reins, tied them together with rope from one of the outlaws' saddles, mounted the best-looking horse, and took off at a gallop, screaming out Cheyenne war cries as he raced off down the slope and into the valley below.
Malachi jerked off his hat and threw it to the ground. “God
damn
that man!” he yelled.
Preacher stopped and wheeled around. “I am Man Who Kills Silently” he shouted, his words clear in the cold air. “I am White Wolf. I am Bloody Knife. I am called Killing Ghost. I am Preacher. I've lived with wolves and fought grizzlies. I've tamed pumas and talked with eagles. I'm surlier than a badger, got more pison in me than a den full of rattlers, and I'm tougher than any man you ever seen. You hear my words well. You will all die. All of you.”
Several of the brigands shuddered as the words sent chills racing up and down their spines. All the outlaws stood on the hillside and watched the mountain man as he sat the horse about a thousand yards from them. They were powerless to do anything except watch and listen.
“Leave now and never return, or you'll all die in these here mountains!” Preacher shouted. “From now on I show you no pity nor mercy. Get gone east and don't never come 'crost the Missouri again. You best hear me well and heed the warnin', for them's my last words on the subject.”
Preacher put the horses into a trot and soon disappeared over a rise. When he knew he was safe from view, he cut west and then, after a mile, turned north and rode steady until he figured he was a good six or eight miles from the now afoot outlaws.
He found him a fast-running creek and let the horses blow and water. He stripped the saddles from them, including the one he'd chosen to keep for a time, and dumped out their saddlebags, carefully picking through the supplies.
He kept the coffee and a small pot and a side of bacon. Somebody had fixed up some pan bread and carefully wrapped it. Preacher washed out a small skillet and set about frying up some bacon and boiling water for coffee. While that was sizzling and boiling, he carefully loaded up all the spare pistols he'd found in the saddlebags and in holsters on the horns. He'd have to take an extra horse just to tote around all the guns he was now in possession of. But he figured they'd come in handy, for he knew damn well those highwaymen weren't going to heed his words to leave and that sooner or later they'd come a showdown.