E
IGHT
Preacher rode easy but in a distance-covering gait. He crossed the Shirley Mountains without incident and then got caught up in a blizzard near the southern curve of the North Laramie River. He forted up as best he could and he and Hammer and the packhorse sat it out. Finally the weather broke, the sun came out, the snows began to melt, and Preacher pushed on, reaching the post just as the first tentative touches of false spring were trying to shove winter aside.
He hadn't seen so damn many people all gathered together in years.
Indian tipis had been put up all around the post. Wagons were scattered here and there. A new corral had been built to handle the livestock and the post itself had been enlarged. Preacher sat his horse and stared in amazement.
“The push is on, Hammer,” he said to his horse. “By May they'll be pilgrims all over the damn place. But if we have any luck a-tall, we'll be south of all this mess and bother. Let's go, Hammer, they's a whole feedbag of grain waitin' for you and my good packhorse.”
Preacher wound his way through the tipis and movers' tents and wagons and what have you, and rode into the post. He stabled his horses and gave the boy a coin to rub them down good and grain them. He saw no one he knew and no one called out his name. Which was just fine with Preacher. He found him something to eat and then went to the store, which had a room that served as a saloon of sorts. Preacher got him a cup of whiskey and found a seat at a table in a darkened corner of the room. He figured that sooner or later Sutherlin would show up ... and Preacher was a patient man.
After a time several men â eastern men, by their appearance â strolled in and bought them a jug. They were rough looking and heavily armed. The three men tried to peer through the gloom to see who it was sitting alone at the corner table, but finally gave up and contented themselves with talking in low murmurs, occasionally glancing toward Preacher.
“You there!” one of them called sharply and in a tone that rankled Preacher. “I ain't seen you around here 'fore.”
“I got caught up in a blizzard west of here and it blowed me and my horses all the way over here. That was some wind, let me tell you. But it set us down gentle like about a mile from the post. Does that satisfy you?”
The burly, unwashed, and stinking lout stared at Preacher for a moment. “Were you borned with a smart-aleck mouth or did you come into it as you got butt-uglier over the years?”
Preacher smiled at the man. “You callin' me ugly is like a frog callin' a buzzard ugly. I bet your mamma had to tie some fatback around your neck to get the dogs to play with you.”
The lout narrowed his eyes and sat his cup of whiskey down and stood up.
“That's Preacher,” a man spoke from the archway leading from the store into the bar.
The burly man smiled, exposing a mouthful of bad teeth. “The famous Preacher, hey? I heared an awful lot about you, Preacher. Some folks has you meaner than a bear and quick as a panther and all man. But lookin' at you, I can see they was all lies. I think I'll just break you in two.”
“It's been tried,” Preacher said, then took a sip of his whiskey. He set the cup down on the table. “More'n oncest.” He cut his eyes to the archway. A mountain man name of John Morris stood there. “John. You know this loudmouth?”
“I seen him around. He's a trouble hunter.”
“He's found it,” Preacher said quietly.
“Not in here, Preacher,” the sutler said, stepping up to the archway.
“I come in here for a quiet drink,” Preacher told him. “You know me, Hector. I ain't never started no trouble in your place. But I ain't takin' water from this ugly bastard.”
“Sit down, Talbot,” one of his friends urged him.
But Talbot wasn't having any of that. “You callin' me a bastard, Preacher?”
“Yeah.”
“I'll break you in half.”
“You ain't done nothin' yet 'ceptin' run your mouth.”
“Your employer will certainly pay for the damages,” Hector stated. “Or you all shall be barred from the post, and from any other post from here to the Oregon coast.”
“I'll pay.” Another voice was added.
Preacher looked over at the man. A cruel-faced man with little piggy eyes. But a massive brute of a man nonetheless. He stood well over six feet and weighed probably two hundred and thirty pounds. He had the look of a man who had fought some for money. Big hamlike hands and huge wrists. One ear was slightly cauliflowered and his nose had been busted a time or two. Scar tissue over his eyes. Had to be Sutherlin. His clothing was either hand sewn or store-bought and tailored and very neat for the frontier.
Preacher had not risen from his chair. He drained his cup of whiskey and carefully placed the cup on the rough boards of the table.
“Fancy-pants,” he said to Sutherlin, “you bes' tell your pet dog here to sit down and stop his barkin'. I just might decide to kill him.”
“My name is Sutherlin.
Mister
Sutherlin, to you.”
John Morris laughed at that and Sutherlin flushed under his clean-shaven face.
“Your name might be Sutherlin,” Preacher said. “But it'll be a cold day in hell 'fore I call the likes of you mister.”
Sutherlin's flush deepened and Talbot took a step toward Preacher, his hands balled into fists.
“I'll keep the others off of you, Preacher,” John said, and pulled out two pistols.
“How do you want this, Talbot?” Preacher asked him. “Knives, fists, or guns?”
“Guns, Talbot. Let's be rid of him now.”
Preacher stood up and all stared in confusion at the rig that hung around his waist.
“Guns it'll be,” Preacher said. “Pull when you've a mind to, Talbot.”
“We'll have a proper duel with seconds,” Sutherlin said.
Preacher laughed at him. “This ain't New York, Sutherlin. You can forget all them e-laborate goin'son. We like things simple out here. Now shut your flap and stand aside.” He cut his eyes to Talbot. “Jerk and fire, you son of a bitch.”
Talbot's hand flew to the butt of his pistol and that was as far as he got. Preacher pulled, cocked, and fired. One ball struck Talbot in the chest and the second ball tore a great, gaping hole in his throat. The thug was flung backward and died with his butt on the floor and his back to a wall. His pistol was still behind his belt.
Preacher holstered the awesome pistol and sat down in his chair.
“Damnest thing I ever seen,” John Morris said. “I do believe you on to something, Preacher.”
Sutherlin was visibly shaken by what had happened. His broad face was pale and his mouth was hanging open. While dueling was outlawed in most areas of the country, it was still practiced in secrecy in many areas. But no one had ever perfected the art of quick drawing, until now.
“Foul, I say.” Sutherlin had found his voice. “That was not at all fair play.”
“Gimme another drink of whiskey,” Preacher said, tapping his cup on the table. “Shootin' makes me thirsty.”
The men with Talbot had not moved, so shocked were they at the sudden events.
Hector brought a jug to Preacher's table and quickly backed away. Behind the plank bar, he pointed to the dead man. “Get him out of here and do it right now.”
Sutherlin waved a hand at his men and they dragged the lifeless body of Talbot out of the room. He looked at Preacher. “We shall meet again.”
“I'm countin' on it, fancy-pants,” Preacher said, pouring a cup of whiskey.
Edward Sutherlin stared hard at Preacher, the knowledge hitting him sudden that this rugged-looking and shaggy mountain man knew all about him. But
how?
No matter. He did. Sutherlin was sure of that. So this much was certain: Preacher had to die, and die quickly. Sutherlin had too much to lose for Preacher to stay alive and talk ... and talk he would, Sutherlin was certain of that.
Sutherlin stepped from the room and went quickly to his quarters. His men would see to the burying of Talbot. The chief factor came to the saloon to briefly question Preacher and the matter was resolved and forgotten. Life was cheap in the wilderness. Staying alive was a day-to-day struggle that each man met in his own way.
In his quarters, Sutherlin sat down in a hide chair and pondered the situation. There had been no fear in Preacher â none; he had seen that. The man was totally unimpressed by either Sutherlin or his men. So in Sutherlin's mind, that made Preacher a fool.
Sutherlin would have liked to meet with Malachi Pardee and Son, but how? Communications were practically impossible out here in the wilderness, and for some reason as yet unknown to the man, his network of runners and riders had vanished. He did not know that Weasel Tail's braves had killed some of them and the others had fled for their lives, heading back across the Missouri into the safety of civilization ... such as it was.
But no action could be taken against Preacher here at the fort. He was too well known and by now everyone would know that Sutherlin and Preacher had bad feelings between them. So Preacher must be watched at all times and Sutherlin and his men must be ready to leave at a moment's notice. He rose from the chair and walked outside to talk briefly with Lester, his second in command. Lester nodded his head and left to alert his men.
Preacher lounged in front of the store and watched the goings-on with a smile. He resupplied and toted the packages to the stable. There, he paid a man he knew very handsomely to sleep in the stall next to Hammer and report if anyone tried to tamper with his horses, supplies, or equipment. That taken care of, Preacher went outside the stockade walls and found him a Crow among the many Indians camped there. All Indians except Blackfeet were welcome at the post. He gave the Crow two of the pistols he'd taken from the dead, and a supply of shot and powder, to spy on Sutherlin and report back to him the man's every move. The Crow was known to Preacher and was a good man, friendly to the whites. Preacher had befriended the man several times, and the Crow was loyal to him.
Many at the fort eyeballed Preacher's guns and the way he wore them. Most shook their heads and dismissed the rig as being too cumbersome.
Before the dawning of the third day, Preacher was saddled up and ready to go. The Crow slipped into the stable.
“Piggy-face and his men are going to follow you, Preacher,” the Crow told him.
“I'm countin' on it,” Preacher replied. “You done good. I'll see you around.”
The Crow nodded and slipped silently away into the predawn.
“What's with this Sutherlin feller?” the man Preacher had hired to stay with his gear asked, rising from the hay and brushing himself off.
“He's no-count. He's a murderer and worser. I aim to put out his lights.”
“Power to you,” the man said. “You want me to bring you some coffee?”
“Had my fill. You take care, Jeff. I'll see you next time around.”
Preacher rode out of the main gate and headed west, conscious of being watched by Sutherlin's thugs.
“Come on, people,” he muttered. “Follow ol' Preacher. I got some surprises for you.”
Before leaving, Preacher gave Sutherlin's men the slip and had talked long with the factor of the post, telling him all he knew about Sutherlin and all that the people in the wagon trains knew about him. The man's frown had deepened the more Preacher talked.
“He has been under suspicion, Preacher,” the man said. “I don't believe he is aware of it as yet, but if he leaves unorganized territory and heads back to the States, there are warrants for his arrest waiting for him.” He handed Preacher a letter from the United States Federal Marshal's office.
Preacher read the letter and grunted. “He won't never go back. I'll see to that.”
“And I'll pretend I didn't hear you say that.”
* * *
Preacher headed for the Laramie Mountains and set a grueling pace. He wanted those behind him tuckered when he made his move. He crossed the Laramie River and plunged into the deep wilderness. Wilderness for them struggling along behind him; home territory for Preacher. As he rode, Preacher allowed himself to recall the tortured and mutilated and raped and murdered bodies that he'd seen over the last couple of years ... all of them due to the cold-hearted treachery of Edward Sutherlin.
“Sutherlin,” Preacher spoke to the cold winds of late winter in the Big Empty. “You'll not be responsible for another death if I can help it. And I can help it.”
At his camp that evening, in front of a small fire, Preacher again inspected his strange and deadly pistols. Whoever had made them had done so lovingly and with patient skill; they were the work of someone who possessed a great knowledge of firearms. Preacher had heard that firearms were in a state of advancement, and that some were even experimenting with some sort of revolving cylinder. He didn't see how anything like that would ever work, so he didn't dwell on it. But these pistols, now, these pistols were a work of art. And they gave him awesome firepower. Close in, he could damn near wage a full-scale war with these beauties.
Something he certainly intended to do.
* * *
Sutherlin and his men sat close to the fire, for the nights were still brutally cold. None of them had the foggiest idea where they were, only that they were staying on the trail of Preacher and they were heading west, in a roundabout manner. Sutherlin had heard back at the post that Malachi's gang had been savaged by Preacher, the mountain man nearly destroying the gang. Sutherlin found that hard to believe and felt the report was greatly exaggerated. No one man was capable of doing that.