C
HAPTER
T
WO
The bullet ripped through Cobey's arm, missing the bone but gouging out a considerable hunk of flesh and splattering blood. It was his gun arm, which meant that the pistol in his hand flew across the room. It hit the wall and went off, but the heavy ball buried itself harmlessly in a barrel of flour.
Preacher hadn't been expecting trouble, so his pistol wasn't double-shotted. If it had been, Cobey probably would have been dead by now, but the fella was lucky. He got to live, as long as he didn't do anything else stupid.
The same went for his companions, so to keep them from getting frisky, Preacher pulled his second pistol and leveled it at them. He did it fast, while they were still gaping in surprise.
“You boys stand still,” Preacher told them. “Fat boy, see to your friend. The rest of you, don't move.”
Cobey had slumped to his knees in front of the makeshift bar and clutched his wounded right arm with his left hand. His face had gone gray under its tan, but Preacher had to give him credit for toughness. He hadn't yelled in pain, hadn't made a sound, in fact, other than breathing hard.
His round friend hurried over to him and knelt beside him. He pulled a dirty bandanna from a pocket in his buckskins and tied it tightly around the wound, trying to stanch the flow of blood.
The air in the trading post smelled like burned powder. Preacher looked at the proprietor and said, “Sorry about the mess, amigo. I know blood can be mighty hard to get up out of floorboards.”
“That . . . that is all right, Señor.”
The door behind the man swung open far enough for a woman to peer out into the front room. Preacher saw dark eyes and a mass of thick raven hair. When the woman rushed out and threw her arms around the proprietor, she revealed just how pretty she was. She was followed by a younger, smaller version of herself. The wife and daughter he had heard mentioned, Preacher decided. Nobody else they could be.
It would have been better if the two of them had stayed in the back room, out of sight. Preacher could understand, though, why the woman had wanted to rush out and make sure her husband was all right. She would have heard that shot and not been sure exactly what had happened.
But as it was, her presence, and especially that of her daughter, immediately made things worse. Because the biggest of the hard cases, who was built sort of like a mountain, stared at the girl for a couple of seconds and then said, “I want her.” He took a lumbering step toward the bar.
“Hold it!” Preacher snapped. “Unless you boys want me to shoot him, you better grab your pard.”
One of the men took hold of the giant's arm, but the big man shook off the grip like it was nothing. He took another step toward the girl, who shrank back with a look of horror on her face.
“Come here,” the giant said to her. “I want to kiss on you.”
The proprietor pushed his wife aside and moved quickly between his daughter and the big man. He reached onto a shelf and plucked a knife from it. The blade shone red, as if already drenched in blood, in the later-afternoon sunlight that slanted through a window.
“Get back, Señor!” the proprietor said. “Get back, I tell you!”
Without waiting, he slashed at one of the giant's outstretched hands. The knife ripped a gash across the back of it. Blood welled from the wound as the giant snatched his hand back and howled in pain. “You hurt me!” he roared. Furious, he lunged forward, crashing into the bar and swinging his malletlike fists at the proprietor.
Preacher didn't have any choice then. The Mexican was half the size of the giant. He would wind up being beaten to death if Preacher didn't stop it.
The pistol in Preacher's left hand blasted. The ball hit the giant in the back of the leg, knocking it out from under him. He reeled and went down, finishing the job of demolishing the bar. Planks scattered around him and one of the whiskey barrels overturned. The bung popped out and the who-hit-John began to leak, glugging onto the floor and forming a puddle. The sharp reek of the stuff mixed with the tang of the gunpowder.
The other three men, knowing that both of Preacher's guns were now empty, rushed him.
Preacher was expecting that. He flung the left-hand gun as hard as he could, and in these close quarters, when the gun hit one of the men in the face, it pulped his nose and sent him staggering backward, blood gushing down over his mouth and chin. Preacher ducked under a roundhouse punch thrown by one of the other men and grabbed the front of the hombre's homespun shirt. A heave and an outthrust leg to knock his feet out from under him, and the man found himself sailing through the air to crash heavily to the puncheon floor.
That left Preacher only the short, round man to deal with, but to his surprise he quickly discovered that it was a little like fighting a buzz saw. The fella was a lot faster than he looked, and a flurry of hard punches seemed to come from every direction when he closed in. A couple of them landed solidly, knocking Preacher back a step. He caught his balance, set his feet, and swung a blow of his own, driving a fist into the man's belly. That was another surprise. The man was built like a barrel, and punching him in the stomach was about like hitting a barrel, one made of thick, stout oak. He didn't even grunt.
The fella with the broken nose was back in the fight too. His bloody face was contorted in a snarl as he circled and grabbed Preacher from behind, pinning his arms to his sides. “Get him, Arnie!” he yelled thickly at the fat man. “Beat the hell out of him!”
Preacher figured he ought to consider himself lucky that they were all mad enough to fight with their fists, rather than pulling their guns. Dealing with three-to-one odds in a gunfight, and him with a couple of empty pistols at that, would have been a mite tricky. He was confident that he would have figured out a way to do it, but hell, a brawl like this was more fun anyway.
He stomped back on the instep of the man holding him and then jerked his head back too, snapping it into the man's face. More cartilage crunched in the already injured nose. The man screamed and let go just as the fat man charged Preacher again. Preacher dropped to the floor and went forward into the fat man's legs in a rolling dive. The fat man's momentum carried him over Preacher and into his howling friend. Both of them went down in a tangle of arms and legs.
Preacher rolled on over and came up on hands and knees in time to see that the man he had shot had gotten back on his feet. He had grabbed up an ax from a table where several of them lay, and now he swung the double-bitted tool at Preacher's head. Preacher dived aside at the last second. The ax head bit deeply into the wooden floor and lodged there.
Preacher came up from the floor, uncoiling like a snake as he threw an uppercut that landed on the wounded man's jaw. The impact of the blow shivered all the way up Preacher's arm, and he hoped he hadn't busted a knuckle or two. The punch lifted the wounded man off his feet and sent him slamming down onto his back. Preacher didn't think he would be getting up anytime soon.
But that still left three menâwell, two, since the one with the broken nose was lying huddled on the floor, his hands pressed to his face, whimperingâbut those who might want to tussle some more. Preacher clenched his fists and waited to see if they were going to attack again.
He heard a familiar, ominous, metallic clicking sound from behind him. “Step aside, Señor!” the proprietor cried. “Step aside, and I will deal with these animals as they deserve!”
Preacher threw a look over his shoulder and saw the owner of the trading post standing there with a double-barreled shotgun in his hands. The man's face was dark with outrage, and Preacher could tell that he wanted to pull the triggers and blast all five of the hard cases into bloody shreds.
That didn't sound like such a bad idea, but Preacher knew it wan't the right thing to do. He said softly, “Hold on there, amigo. I don't reckon you want to kill these men.”
“Oh, but I do, Señor, I do!”
Preacher shook his head. “Right now, you do, but I can tell by lookin' at you that you ain't the type to kill a man in cold blood. If you do, it'll eat on you from now on, and you wouldn't never know a minute's peace.”
“The law would not blame me! I am defending my home and my family and my honor!”
“I ain't talkin' about the law. I'm talkin' about what's in your own heart.”
The man hesitated. Preacher knew he had read him right. The barrels of the shotgun lowered slightly.
“That's right,” Preacher said. “What you need to do is give me the shotgun.
I'll
kill 'em, and I won't never lose a second's sleep over it.”
The man seized the opportunity and pressed the shotgun into Preacher's hands. He leveled it at the five men. From the terror-stricken looks on the faces of four of themâthe giant with the wounded leg lay there sobbing in pain, not really knowing what was going onâthey thought they were about to die.
“I will kill you,” Preacher went on, “unless you pick yourselves up, get the hell out of here, and never come back. If you do, if you cause these good folks even one second of trouble or grief, I'll hear about it, and I'll hunt you down and kill you slow. I've lived with the Injuns, boys, and they taught me all their tricks. I can keep a fella alive for days, sufferin' more pain than you ever dreamed a man could suffer. It's up to you. Die now, die later . . . or be smart and live.”
Cobey, the one Preacher had shot in the arm, looked at him and grated, “Who the hell are you?”
A grin stretched across the mountain man's lean face. “They call me Preacher.”
The name meant something to a couple of the men, including the short, fat one. He said, “Damn it, Cobey, I've heard of Preacher. The Injuns call him Bear Killer. He fought a grizzly with just a knife.”
The other one who recognized Preacher's name added, “We better do what he says. I ain't hankerin' to die today.”
Cobey didn't look happy about it, but he couldn't ignore what his companions had told him. He struggled to his feet, clutching his wounded arm again, and said, “Get Wick, and let's get out of here.”
It took all three of the other men, including the one who was still blubbering about his nose being busted, to lift the giant off the floor. All three of them supported him as he limped toward the door. As he went out, he twisted his head around to look one last time at the girl. “Pretty,” he muttered. “Mighty pretty.”
From the corner of his eye, Preacher saw a shiver go through the girl's slender form.
Cobey was the last one to back through the door onto the trading post's porch. “I ain't gonna forget you, Preacher,” he said. “Our trails will cross again one of these days.”
“You'd best hope not,” Preacher said. “Next time, I might just shoot you on sight.”
“Not if I shoot you first.”
With that threat, Cobey turned away and stumbled after his friends, who were struggling to get the giant mounted on a rangy mule tied up outside, along with the horses belonging to the rest of them.
Preacher stepped into the doorway and kept an eye on them as they mounted up. The shotgun was tucked under his arm now, but he could bring it into play in an instant if he needed to, and they knew it. He stood there, tall and vigilant, and watched as they rode away. He didn't go back inside until the five men were out of sight.
The proprietor and his wife and daughter had already started trying to clean up the mess that the brawl had made. Preacher set the shotgun on a counter at the side of the room and moved to help them.
“No, Señor,” the proprietor said. “You have done enough already.” He pulled a chair over. “Please, sit. Would you like something to eat or drink?”
“Maybe later,” Preacher said as he nudged the chair aside. “Right now I'd like to help you straighten up. I'm partly to blame for that ruckus, I reckon.”
“Not at all,” the Mexican insisted. “Those gringo dogs deserve all the blame. No offense,” he added quickly.
Preacher flashed a grin. “None taken. I can't speak for my dog, though. He might be insulted by the comparison.”
That made him look around. Dog had trotted off into a nearby stand of pines as they rode up, probably sniffling out a rabbit or something, so he hadn't been around to take part in the fracas. Having the big cur at his side would have evened the odds considerably, but Preacher figured he had done all right on his own. He didn't see Dog, but he knew the animal would be back later.
Together, he and the Mexican righted the whiskey barrel before all of the fiery stuff could leak out. The fumes were still potent. Preacher waved a hand in front of his face and said, “A fella could get drunk just takin' a few deep breaths.”
Lupita, open all the windows,” the proprietor said. “We must let more air in.”
“
SÃ
, Papa,” the girl said as she hurried to carry out his command.