5
Preacher and his companions made poor headway, faced into the brunt of the storm. The heavenly outrage continued into a second day. Soaked until the pads of their fingers turned white and wrinkled, they pressed on. Preacher caught a fleeting glance of their quarry, only to lose them in a thick cloud that lowered to fill the canyon through which he, Nighthawk, and Buck walked their horses. Buck's wound had given him a lot of pain, yet Preacher knew that it would be certain death to send the man back alone.
Instead, he treated it frequently with moss and a few drops of whiskey from a small, gourd flask tied to Thunder's saddle. Preacher's own arm throbbed from the earlier gunshot and made any quick movement of his left side out of the question. They all held up well, confident the fleeing outlaws would lead them to Pease. Their expectations were nearly dashed when they made camp for the night.
A hastily constructed lean-to, covered with pine boughs, provided relief from the constant rain well enough to allow a hat-sized fire. While they dried themselves as best they could, another wave of the stalled-out front swung into place overhead. The first enormous clap of thunder shook them until their teeth rattled.
“This one ain't gonna be fun, fellers,” Preacher advised.
“Have any of them been?” Nighthawk asked tartly.
“Not so's you'd notice, no,” Preacher agreed dryly.
Jerky and stale, now soggy biscuits provided supper. The men munched in silence while nature raged around them. Preacher chewed purposefully, his senses tuned to the elements. A palpable intensity built within the disturbed air as Preacher opened his mouth to speak.
“I think ...” He got no further.
A cascade of sound ripped at them. A man asleep under the mouth of a twenty-pounder cannon could not have been punished more. The world washed stark, actinic white, the air sizzled and crackled and stung their nostrils with ammonia, as a bolt of lightning struck a tall pine close to where they had secured the horses by ground anchor.
Nighthawk's mount, Sundance, and Buck's ex-outlaw plug panicked. Already weakened by the thorough soaking, the ground gave way around the corkscrew shaped anchors and the beasts bolted into the night. Only Thunder remained behind a second later. The sturdy animal had picked up his head, whinnied as though in pain, shook his big head and then trotted about nervously at the far extent of his tether. Preacher pulled on moccasins, draped himself with his capote and ran to comfort the nervous stallion.
“Easy there, Thunder. Easy, boy. I'm gonna bring you closer to us,” Preacher crooned.
When he released the anchor and led Thunder up beside the lean-to, the anxious faces of Nighthawk and Buck popped out of the low shelter. “What about our horses?” Buck asked, shaken.
“Doubt they'll go far,” Preacher opined, water dripping from the brim of his hat and the fringed hem of the capote. “An' this can't last forever. Come mornin', I'll set out after them. Now'd be a good time to grab some sleep.”
“After that?” Buck asked with a nod toward the blazing pine. “I got jarred hard enough to loosen every tooth in my jaw.”
“You chew on enough jerky an' they'll tighten up again,” Preacher teased.
Buck threw his hands in the air. “Lord spare me from such humor.”
* * *
By first light, the maelstrom had subsided to a drizzle. Preacher downed coffee, another stale biscuit, and saddled Thunder for the search. Nighthawk and Buck wished him good luck and set about drying everything they could put over their stingy fire.
At noon the sky showed patches of blue, large enough, as Preacher's father had used to put it, to make a Dutchman a pair of pants. It meant a clearing trend for certain. He also found smudged hoofprints that soon led him to Sundance. The Delaware's pony wickered a greeting to Thunder and allowed itself to be led peacefully along on the continuing search.
It seemed the odds had turned against him, Preacher reasoned as the trail remained illusive. Here and there he caught the marks of a riderless horse, yet never near enough to see the missing animal. He pushed on through the afternoon. Along toward what Preacher reckoned to be five o'clock, he developed a tightness and itch between his shoulder blades. He could swear someone had put eyes on him.
Then the sensation went away. The birds warbled their usual sweet music and insects hummed accompaniment as they recovered from the past two liquidy days. Preacher shrugged off the premonition, yet remained watchfully alert.
* * *
From the moment he heard hoof falls on the trail below, Delphus Plunkett knew his stock would surely rise in the outfit. His eyes narrowed to cold slits, when the man came into view, then widened when he recognized it to be Preacher. Thoroughly disabused of any ideas of bravado by past experience, Delphus wisely selected to keep watch and then report back to Vickers. It soon became obvious to Delphus Plunkett why Preacher was alone.
From his vantage point in a thick stand of fir, Delphus kept Preacher in sight until the wiley mountain man made a solitary camp and settled in for the night. Then Delphus took the reins of his horse and led it quietly away. Excitement charged his pale, watery blue eyes when he reported to Titus Vickers.
“It's Preacher, shore enough, alone, and not an hour's ride from here. He's got another horse with him, that gold one the Injun was ridin'.”
“The storm must have driven off their mounts, scattered them through the mountains,” Vickers surmised aloud.
“That's how I figgered it,” Delphus prompted. “What do we do now? We gonna go back for Mr. Pease?”
“I don't think so. It's six to one now,” Vickers savored his expected triumph. “Besides, he don't know we know where he is.”
“He didn't the last time,” Delphus reminded Vickers. It earned him a hard scowl.
“We'll wait until just before dark, then move in on him,” Vickers planned the attack in low, heated tones. “We take him from three sides. But, you boys be careful to not overshoot the target. No sense in killin' each other.”
Delphus Plunkett didn't think he liked the sound of that, though Vickers was boss of this search party. He went off to talk with some of the others.
Titus Vickers called them together. He reviewed his plan again and they mounted up. A mile short of the camp, with the eastern horizon turning dark purple, they halted and muffled the hooves of their horses with strips of gunnysack. Satisfied after a quick inspection, Vickers spread his men out and they made straight for where Preacher had bedded down for the night.
* * *
They came out of the stuff of his dreams. Mind still foggy from sleep and visions of the lovely movement of the backside of Miss Cora Ames, Preacher's body took over at the first sound of a bootsole scuffing ground. He rolled free of his blankets with a big four-shot in each hand. Muzzle flashes came from left and right so he swung his arms wide, wincing at the stab of pain in his left one, and triggered each of the big guns.
He had no expectation of hitting flesh, only sought to confuse and jangle his enemies. One of them, partly blinded by the boom of his own and Preacher's pistol stumbled into the fire ring. Sparks from the hot ashes and buried coals swarmed up his trouser leg. The stench of smoldering hair and burned flesh formed a cloud around him. Howling, he hobbled away from the resurrected blaze and directly into the flight path of a bullet fired by Titus Vickers.
“Son of a bitch!” Vickers blurted when he saw the fatal collision.
Preacher cycled the barrels of his right-hand pistol and took aim this time. Before the glow from burning gases dimmed, he had moved, cat quick, to a low boulder that protruded like a giant potato from a mound of earth. Not a hell of a lot in the way of protection, but it would have to do, Preacher decided.
“Where'd he go?”
“What happened?”
Preacher had gotten his way about the confusion. Already one of the attackers had been shot by another. Maybe he could improve the score, the crafty mountain man decided as he tried to recover his night vision enough to find a target. It proved easier than it would have an hour later.
Darkness lay in shadow pools in the meadow where Preacher had camped, yet above, long bars of magenta and crimson still streaked the western sky. It intruded enough, though weakly, for Preacher to take stock of his enemy. One man stood dumbstruck at the side of the fire, his attention riveted on the fallen thug. Preacher used that one's lack of motion to sight in a perfect shot.
Trailing sparks of partly burned powder, the conical ball in that barrel sped to the chest of the hapless man. The soft lead ball, thirty-eight to the pound, opened out to over .75 caliber on impact with the breastbone of the vicious lout, who made not a sound as he fell face first into the fire pit. Two down, how many to go? Preacher wondered as he rapidly shifted his gaze in order not to miss any opportunity for another shot. In the darkness, the best way to lose an object, Preacher knew, was to stare directly at it.
A flicker of something darker, moving against the night shadows, drew his attention. He fired the fourth and final load in that pistol, only to discover that it missed. Three yellow-white bursts in the blackness revealed as many opponents. They fired high and wide of the intended target. Preacher patted his buckskin-clad chest in search of the powder horn and ball pouch he had come away with.
Once located, rather than go to his second pistol, he set about reloading the first. Patches came from a recess behind the hinged butt-plate, and caps from the wooden capblock at his waist. He had three barrels reloaded before his assailants recovered enough of their wits to determine the location of one another. He rammed the fourth home a moment before they tried a concerted rush on his position.
They came at a rush, bent low, as Preacher raised his unwieldy pistol and fired at the nearest. A high, thin cry advised him of success. Like nearly everyone, Preacher knew that night shooting presented some tricky problems. Not the least of which was being able to see your target. Preacher relied on a simple technique. His first shot drew their fire, which positioned them for him. He dumped two more with the next three rounds, then changed for the loaded pistol.
“Get in there, get going,” a harsh voice prodded from the darkness.
Preacher tried to find that voice with a bullet. He missed and counted muzzle flashes from three weapons. Taking care to aim slightly to the left and an inch lower than one muzzle bloom, he triggered another round. A sobbing voice followed thrashing in the underbrush.
“Oh, Lordy, Lordy, I'm hit bad.”
The gravel voice came again. “Where are you shot, Delphus?”
“Through my right lung, Mr. Vickers. I ain't long for this world.”
Vickers didn't bother to answer. Instead, he directed his last man forward. He could not believe Preacher could be so lucky. Lucky, because no man could be that good. He and John Dancer stepped into the open at the same time. Preacher's pistol banged again and Dancer grunted softly before he fell face first on the ground. Vickers fired at the muzzle flash. Then he bent and retrieved Dancer's pair of pistols.
No time to reload, Preacher realized. He drifted off to one side in the thicket of hemlock, eyes at work to locate the enemy still out there. The crackle of a dry twig pointed Preacher the right way. He could take the risk of reloading in the dark, yet discarded that idea for something a lot surer. Ears searching for him, Preacher continued to edge closer to where Vickers likewise stalked him. A hidden depression in the ground caused Preacher to stumble and set the brush to rattling to his left side.
At once, Vickers fired. Muzzle bloom illuminated his face, a mask of rage, which quickly faded out. Preacher moved away.
“Preacher, you hear me?” Vickers called out. “I'm supposed to bring you in alive. Ezra Pease wants to deal with you up close and personal. For my own part, I'd as soon kill you quick and leave you for the scavengers.”
Preacher refrained from making any reply. Instead, he wormed his way between two stunted fir trees and glided downslope toward the sound of the voice. Gradually, the last scudding clouds cleared away and pale starlight spread downward. Preacher saw his man then.
Down on one knee, Titus Vickers swung the muzzle of his second pistol in an arc. He didn't see Preacher, who advanced. Embolden by the silence, some night creature that had hunkered down at the outbreak of gunfire bolted through the underbrush. Vickers fired wildly in its direction. Realization struck Vickers that he had fired his last weapon. At once his hand went to his powder horn. He worked desperately to load a pistol, as Preacher advanced to a spot within arm's reach behind the outlaw leader.
“Vickers, is it?” Preacher spoke softly. “I'm right behind you.”
In panicked reaction, Vickers whirled and fired the reloaded pistol. The ball passed within an inch of Preacher's head. Vickers reversed the smoking weapon and came up at Preacher. The butt whizzed through the air, a wicked sound, and missed the mark. Preacher sidestepped and swung at Vickers's head with his tomahawk. At the last instant, Vickers blocked the blow with his improvised club. Both men grappled for a moment and Vickers reached his free hand for the knife in his belt sheath.
With a grunt, they broke away. Vickers flailed with the clubbed pistol and Preacher blocked it. This time, when the tomahawk checked the momentum, Preacher rolled the shaft of his war hawk and swung in a horizontal slash. The keen edge cut through the clothing Vickers wore and made a shallow cut on his upper chest. It burned like hot coals and Vickers bit his lip to keep from crying out. He whipped the pistol across in front of him, and aimed at Preacher's temple.
Preacher ducked away from the deadly blow and gave an overhand swing with the 'hawk. It buried deep in the meaty portion of Vickers's right shoulder. The pistol fell from his grip. His knife flashed in the starlight and Preacher decided to end it right there. Another hefty swatch with the tomahawk and the skull of Vickers gave off a ripe mellon
thock!
as steel sank deeply through bone into the brain.