6
Nighthawk and Buck greeted Preacher upon his return. Buck expressed his disapproval of the plan Preacher outlined even before the mountain man had the last words out of his mouth.
“I don't like the sound of that, Preacher. I don't mean I'm worried about makin' it back by myself. I'm thinkin' of what might happen if you run across the whole body of those scum.”
“I did in a dozen of them jist yesterday, didn't I?” Preacher challenged, an eyebrow cocked.
“And I still don't know how,” Buck shot back. “This wound smarts some, but I can carry my load.”
“Don't doubt you can, ol' son. But we'd be slowed down with all these horses, the guns, and powder. This way everyone can keep in touch.”
That ended the argument. With a good six hours of daylight left, they set off at once. Preacher easily picked up the backtrail of Vickers and his gunmen. It led northwestward, which set off a tingle of premonition along Preacher's spine. He knew the mountains well in this area. If pushed by the Cheyenne, Pease and his band would no doubt flee southward. Following the most accessible route, it would take them, eventually, to the valley where the helpless pilgrims had settled. He expressed his concern to Nighthawk while the sun slanted well down on their shirt fronts.
“We'd best turn west some. I've an idee where they went. We want to be able to cut them off from runnin' south if the Injuns hit them again.”
Nighthawk frowned. “We're getting close to Rabbit Ear Pass. If Pease has moved camp beyond there, going south would put them right in among our nest of pilgrims.”
“Just so,” Preacher allowed. “Dang if I shouldn't have thought of that before Buck took off. He could have carried a warnin' to those folks.”
Nighthawk scowled and shook his head. “They wouldn't listen. You know that.”
A snort came from Preacher's nostrils, fluttering the long, soft hairs of his mustache. “Damned if I don't think you're right. Those gospel-shouters can be the most one-way critters I've ever done seen. We'd best be findin' a place to stop. We'll hit the pass tomorrow.”
* * *
Hashknife rode into camp at twilight. A worried frown creased his brow. He left his mount with young Vern Beevis and strode to where a pole and brush hut had been outfitted for Ezra Pease. He found the land grabber downing a stiff shot of bourbon.
“No sign of Preacher anywhere,” he reported.
Pease produced an ugly expression. “Where is he? Worse, Titus Vickers has not returned. I'm relying on you to come up with some answers.” With that, he gestured to the small keg of good Tennessee sour mash.
Their talk went long into the night. A pug-nosed thug brought them food, which they consumed untasted. Hashknife felt relieved to get away at last. He headed for his own lean-to, intending to clean the brace of brand new 44 Walker Colt he wore around his lean hips. Those six-shooters were the envy of everyone in camp.
An improvement to the Colt Patent Firearms Co. revolver, Model of 1838, designed by Colonel Walker of the Texas Rangers, the new sidearms featured a trigger guard and fixed trigger, instead of the open, folding trigger that made the original revolver so dangerous to carry in heavy brush. It also had a lighter cylinder and an improved barrel wedge. Six nipples, protected by a recoil plate, allowed the weapon to be carried fully loaded and ready for business. Although a smart man wore it with the hammer down on an empty chamber. A hinged rammer, affixed under the barrel, allowed for reloading while on a moving horse. Hashknife knew full well that about half of the lowlife scum in camp would have gladly killed to possess the pair he owned.
Except, of course, that he was so much more accurate a shot, and could deliver such devastating firepower so much faster than any of them that they didn't have a chance. Hashknife truly believed the astonishing weapons had saved his life several times before, and felt confident they would again.
His head a bit muzzy from all the liquor, Hashknife swung by the central campfire for a cup of coffee He arrived in the midst of an ongoing conversation.
Vern Beevis steadily whanged the ear of Two Thumbs Buehler with his whiney voice. “Now, I tell you, an' I've seen him up close, that Preacher ain't human. He's part wolf, I swear it. No human man can sneak up so close to a body without bein' heard. An' another thing . . .”
Two Thumbs raised his disfigured hand to silence the stream. “You don't think I've seen him in action? Well, hell, boy, he's human enough. Jist good. Damn' good. Way I hear it, he's been in these mountains since he was a little tad. Growed up knowin' ever' nook an' cranny, the twist an' turn of ever' canyon an' trail.”
“Well, don't that sound like a lobo-wolf to you?” Beevis persisted.
“No it don't,” Two Thumbs snapped. “All that has to be done to get rid of Preacher is to catch him out in the open an' ...
Whang!
blast him with a rifle.” He gave Beevis a “so there” look.
Hashknife could not resist. “The problem is getting him in the open.”
Both of the Missouri trash looked up at the tall, slender outlaw with the powerful six-guns. Beevis started to speak, then thought better of it. Two Thumbs Buehler gave him a lopsided grin.
“I suppose you've got the way to do that?”
Hashknife produced a grim smile. “I might. And if what I suspect is right and Titus Vickers doesn't return, I'll have a chance to prove it.”
“Why ain't Vickers comin' back?” Beevis blurted.
“I think Preacher has gotten them all.”
“That ain't possible, Hashknife. Vickers had a dozen men with him.”
“Fifteen actually,” the cultured voice of Hashknife corrected. “Our poor Titus insisted on searching the area where we know Preacher to have been roaming. Given his unusual properties, it takes little imagination to envision Titus running afoul of the mountain man. We know he's not alone,” Hashknife went on, repeating the substance of his talk with Ezra Pease. “He has at least three of his scruffy type with him. And, even when we've found bodies, they have been stripped of weapons and ammunition. Their horses taken. Preacher is taking those for someone to use. What I don't know is who.”
“Does Mr. Pease know all this?”
“We talked about it. Half the night, in fact.” Hashknife yawned and stretched. “If Preacher found Vickers, he can backtrack him to us. Were I you, I'd get all the rest I could. Things are going to get rather hot around here, quite soon.”
* * *
Preacher wanted to ride ahead and see what lay beyond a big bend in the trail they followed. So, he was alone when five of the fresh ruffians jumped him. The first shot caught him by surprise. For some reason his notions weren't prodding him like usual. The ball cracked past his head and he spotted a puff of smoke in some gorse at the base of the tree-line on his left.
His Hawken came to his shoulder in a smooth, swift motion and he had the hammer back before another round could be fired. He sent the double ball load a bit to the left of the white puff, then lowered his weapon and slid the French rifle from its saddle scabbard. Another of the lowlifes fired an instant before the LeFever roared.
By then, a yell told him his first shot had counted. Sitting atop a horse, like a thumb poked up from a fist, made too good a target, Preacher realized and slid from the saddle. He ground-reined Thunder and moved away toward a rotting tree that lay at an odd angle to the slope.
“Those fellers up there ain't got the good sense to give it up and make a run,” Preacher surmised aloud. And they wouldn't give him time to reload, he reasoned as he lay the French rifle aside.
“Right on both counts,” Preacher congratulated himself a moment later when the remaining four thugs broke clear of the underbrush and ran downhill toward him, firing as they came.
Preacher eased one of his big pistols from its holster and cocked the hammer. A little bit closer, he estimated. Hold it. That's the way. One of them critters runs a bit faster than the rest. He'll get his reward for it. The four-barrel cracked. Dust and cloth formed a plume at the center of the chest of the man nearest to Preacher. He went over backward. The others suddenly discovered they had emptied their rifles.
One brought forth a pistol as they scrambled for whatever scant cover they could find. He fired wildly behind Preacher. His bullet passed over the tree trunk. Preacher didn't even blink. Instead, he rotated the barrels and fired again.
“My leg!” a bucktoothed bit of slime shrieked. “Oh, God, he done shot me through the leg.”
“Crawl over here, you idiot,” snarled another of the trash.
The third lout raised up from behind a rock and popped a round in Preacher's direction. The ball thudded into the wood of the deadfall. Preacher readied the third barrel. Blood, hair, and a slouchy, black felt hat flew into the air and the ambusher slumped over the small boulder. That left two; the wounded man and the one with the bad attitude, Preacher kept score.
“C'mon, Hank, help me,” the leg-shot villain whined.
“Think I'm gonna show myself, yer crazy,” grumbled his companion.
Preacher tried a new gambit. “Hey, Hank, don't you reckon you bit off more'n you can chew?”
“Go to hell, Preacher,” Hank shouted back.
His answer came in the form of rock chips in the face and dust in his eyes. Cursing, Hank moved to one side and exposed a wedge of his thick back. Preacher changed pistols and fired at that slim target. He missed, but sent Hank scurrying on hands and knees for a more secure position.
“Ain't neither of you leavin' here alive,” Preacher taunted.
“I'm bad hurt. You wouldn't kill a helpless man, would you?” the whiner bleated.
“Damn betcha. At least one o' your kind.”
“Jesus, you're a hard man, Preacher.”
“Got to be.” Preacher sensed movement off to his right and turned that direction.
Hank came at him with a pistol in both hands. Preacher snapped off a round and fought the complexity of his weapon's mechanism. Hank closed ground swiftly. He fired blindly and showered Preacher with decomposing bark. Preacher shot back. Another miss. With a triumphant grin on his face, Hank loomed over his intended victim and fired his second pistol.
His ball burned a hot line across the top of Preacher's left shoulder. Preacher loosed his last round. It grazed Hank's rib cage. Undeterred, Preacher came to his feet, his tomahawk in his left hand. He swung at the astonished Hank and received a yelp of surprise as reward. Hank backpeddled and holstered one pistol. The other he used, clublike, to batter at Preacher's head while he drew a long, slender knife.
Their action had not gone unnoticed by the wounded slime. “Kill 'im, Hank, kill him for me.”
“You'd best be thinkin' about yourself, Hank, not him,” Preacher advised, as he and his adversary circled. “Turn tail now and we'll be even.”
“Not a chance. I ain't never turned tail in my life,” Hank growled, still in his black mood.
“It's your funeral,” Preacher observed dispassionately.
Then he struck. Swift as lightning, the tomahawk whuffled through the air, and sank into the extended left forearm of Hank. Howling, Hank released the knife and backed up. Preacher wrenched his 'hawk free and swung it backhand. The pointed knob on the rear smacked into Hank's ribs. He grunted and whipped the clubbed pistol toward Preacher's head.
Preacher ducked and brought his own knife from the sheath. It glinted in the high altitude sunlight, the edge a wicked blue fire. Hank cut his eyes to it; a bird fascinated by the snake. Too late he realized his mistake. The tomahawk descended in a whistling arc that ended with the blade buried to the heft in the top of his skull.
“Unnngh.” The soft sound came from blood-frothed lips as Hank sank to his knees.
Preacher forced the axe head free and bent to wipe it on the shirt Hank wore. That's when he discovered that the wounded man had taken the interim to reload. A .60 caliber pistol ball moaned past Preacher's right ear. A second one was due to follow from another pistol, only Preacher acted too soon. He leaped to one side and did a shoulder roll.
Coming up on one knee, he raised his arm in a saluting gesture and let the 'hawk fly. It struck true and split the breast bone of the injured trash. Reflexively, his pistol discharged into the ground. Preacher came to his moccasins.
“Wouldn't leave it alone, would you? Jist wouldn't leave it alone.”
He walked over and retrieved his bloodied tomahawk from the dying man's chest. Lips worked into a grimace of pain as the ruffian struggled to speak.
“B'God, ya killed me, Preacher.”
“I know that. Didn't have to be.”
“No,” the swiftly expiring drifter corrected. “Weren't no other way. You or us. Th-there's more. They be comin' any time.”
Preacher pursed his lips. “I reckoned that. But, thank you for doin' the decent thing. When it's over, I'll see that you're buried proper like.”
“Won't be time for that.”
“I mean after I'm done with them,” Preacher explained grimly.
“Oh ... yes . . . I see.” Then he gave a shudder and died. Quickly, Preacher began to reload. His own weapons first, then those of the dead men. Almost with no time to spare, eight more of the two-legged beasts rushed through the twilight effect of the tree-shaded glen on foam-flecked horses. Preacher reasoned that his first pick had been a good one, and returned to the dead pine to take up position. Only two of the outlaw weapons had not been loaded. He could stand them off for a while.