“Wiley!”
“And you,” Courtland shouted at Langley. “Bringing her out here where she’s liable to lose her hair to bloodthirsty savages! You want her scalp hanging in some Blackfoot chief ’s lodge? Do you, Langley?”
“Judith is perfectly safe here—”
“You haven’t had to bury your friends who were killed by those Indians!”
Despite the fact that Courtland had been pretty obnoxious, the man had a point, Preacher thought. As the westernmost outpost built by the American Fur Company, Fort Gifford was in a particularly precarious position. It had to be a tempting target not just for the Blackfeet but for every hostile tribe in the area. There had probably been plenty of medicine talk in the lodges already about attacking the fort. Whether or not such an attack would take place was uncertain, but it was definitely a possibility.
“Don’t worry about my wife,” Langley said. “I can protect her.”
“You can’t protect her!” Courtland insisted. “You’re nothing but a damned coward!”
Almost to the door between the living quarters and the main room of the trading post, Preacher glanced over his shoulder, saw the way Langley blanched, and knew it wasn’t over, even if he got Courtland out of there.
“Let him go!” Langley roared. “I thrashed him once, and I can do it again!”
“Ethan, no!” Judith said. “I won’t have the two of you fighting over—”
“Don’t worry, Judith,” Courtland broke in. “He can’t hurt me. I’m not afraid of him. He’s the one who’s afraid.”
Langley started toward them with fists clenched.
Preacher had Courtland close enough to the door that a hard shove sent him staggering through it. Preacher hurried after him and slammed the door behind them, hoping Langley would seize that excuse to let the sordid confrontation end.
“Preacher, stop protecting him.” Courtland’s normally fair-skinned face was bright red with rage, brighter than any sunburn.
“I ain’t protectin’ him,” Preacher said. “I’m tryin’ to keep you from makin’ a fool of yourself. You won’t do any good brawlin’ over a married woman.”
“Maybe once she sees what sort of man her husband really is, she won’t want to be married to him anymore.”
Preacher didn’t believe that for a second, but Courtland obviously did. He thought he stood a chance of taking Judith away from Langley.
And maybe he did. Preacher couldn’t say. He’d never been able to fathom why women did what they did most of the time, and he had just about given up trying.
But he was convinced it wasn’t the time or place for a showdown and said as much as he grabbed Courtland again and hustled the man toward the front door of the trading post.
Preacher’s hopes for at least a temporary end to the trouble were dashed as the door to the living quarters burst open behind him. Langley strode into the trading post’s main room. Judith came with him, plucking at his sleeve.
He shook her off and stomped after Preacher and Courtland. “Take him outside, Preacher. We’re going to settle this once and for all!”
Preacher doubted anything would be settled as long as both men were still alive, but as long as it was a fair fight and they weren’t busting up Judith’s home, he didn’t really care what they did.
Courtland would have charged Langley again, there in the trading post, but Preacher wouldn’t let him past. He gave Courtland another shove toward the entrance.
Behind them, Judith said desperately, “You don’t have to do this, Ethan. You don’t have to prove anything to me.”
“It’s not you I’m trying to prove anything to,” Langley replied. “I’m tired of Courtland trying to come between us, and after tonight he never will again!”
That sounded pretty final, thought Preacher. Maybe Langley planned on a fight to the death—probably not a good idea. If he died, Fort Gifford would be left without anybody in charge. Preacher didn’t want Langley to kill Courtland, since he still felt a bond of comradeship with the man.
Chances were it wouldn’t come to that, no matter what Langley’s intention. It was mighty hard for one man to beat another man to death, especially if they were as evenly matched as these two seemed to be.
Preacher jerked the door open and wrestled Courtland through it onto the porch. The compound was fairly quiet, but there were a few men moving around. Candlelight glowed through the open door of the barracks. Not everyone had settled down for the night.
When they reached the ground at the bottom of the steps, Courtland jerked loose from Preacher’s grip. Actually, Preacher let him go. He wouldn’t have been able to get free otherwise.
Courtland shook his arms and moved his shoulders. “All right, out here is fine. Just gives me more room to move around.”
Langley stalked through the door onto the porch in time to hear Courtland’s words. “More room for me to kick you all around the fort, that’s what you mean,” he boasted.
“Come on and try!” Courtland said as he lifted his fists and poised himself to do battle.
Preacher stepped out of the way. Now that they were outside, he wasn’t going to interfere anymore. Those two stubborn varmints could do whatever they wanted to each other.
Judging by Courtland’s stance, he expected Langley to come down from the porch and start throwing punches.
Instead, Langley threw himself from the porch, taking Courtland by surprise with a diving tackle. He wrapped his arms around Courtland and both men crashed to the ground.
Judith ran down the steps and clutched Preacher’s arm. “Can’t you stop them?” she pleaded.
“I probably could, but it wouldn’t do any good. They’re bound and determined to have it out, and if I stopped ’em now, they’d just go after each other again some other time. Best let ’em go ahead and scrap. Maybe they’ll get all that hate out of their guts.” Preacher didn’t think that was very likely, but he supposed it was possible.
He stood there watching with a very worried Judith at his side as Langley and Courtland rolled around on the ground, wrestling and slugging at each other.
Across the compound, a man yelled, “Fight! The booshwa’s in a fight with that fella who brung in the horses!”
More cries of “Fight! Fight!” went up and echoed through the fort. Men hurried from the barracks and some of the other buildings.
Langley wound up on the ground, and Courtland tried to seize that momentary advantage by grabbing the other man’s throat. Before Courtland could lock down the grip, Langley shot a fist straight up and caught him under the chin. The blow rocked Courtland back.
Bucking upward, Langley threw Courtland off. As he sprawled in the dirt, Langley lunged after him. Courtland lifted his right leg and sunk his boot heel in Langley’s belly, doubling him over. Courtland straightened his leg, making Langley fly through the air above him.
Langley landed facedown and didn’t move. He seemed to be stunned. Courtland rolled over and scrambled after him. He dug a knee into the small of Langley’s back and looped an arm around his throat from behind. Bearing down with his knee to keep the booshwa pinned to the ground, Courtland hauled back on Langley’s throat.
Preacher had been trapped in grips like that. He knew from experience how a man’s backbone groaned and bent painfully in that position. A fella couldn’t stand it for very long.
Judith’s fingernails clawed at the mountain man’s buckskin sleeve as she pleaded despairingly, “Preacher . . .”
He was ready to step in before Courtland broke Langley’s neck, but didn’t have to. Langley managed to drive an elbow backward into Courtland’s midsection with enough force to break the grip himself. The blow made Courtland gasp for breath.
Langley rolled over and threw another elbow. It landed alongside Courtland’s jaw and stretched the horse trader out on the ground.
From the way Langley fought, Preacher could tell that the man had been in plenty of bare-knuckles brawls.
Langley crawled away, putt
ing himself a little distance from Courtland. Both men climbed to their feet, their chests heaving. Blood dripped from a scratch on Langley’s face, and Courtland’s jaw was already starting to puff up and turn purple.
“Please stop!” Judith cried. “There’s no need to do this!”
Neither man seemed to hear her. They paid no attention to the shouts of the men gathered around to watch the fight, either. Some of the bystanders yelled encouragement to the booshwa, while others urged Courtland on.
Otis Freeman’s leather-lunged bellow filled the night air as he shouted, “Go get him, Wiley!”
Langley and Courtland approached each other cautiously. They had taken each other’s measure. They had each dealt out and absorbed some punishment, and were trying to figure out how to end the fight.
Neither man would give up, Preacher knew. He could tell from the determined expressions on their faces. They would slug away at each other until they were too tired to lift their arms.
That might be the best outcome, he thought. Let them battle to a draw, with no clear winner, and they might decide the rivalry was over.
But if one man vanquished the other, the loser would nurse his hatred and resentment over that defeat, and sooner or later the whole mess would come bubbling back to the surface. Probably sooner. No telling how long Courtland would be around the fort. The loser would have to strike back quickly.
Preacher was rooting for a draw.
The two men circled each other slowly, their fists lifted and poised to strike. Courtland suddenly feinted, and when Langley went for it, Courtland stepped in and snapped a jab that landed on Langley’s nose. Blood spurted.
“Oh!” Judith cried in horror.
Langley fought back, throwing a right that didn’t get through and a left that did. It landed on the same spot where the bruise was already forming on Courtland’s jaw from the earlier blow. Courtland staggered a step to the side, a little off balance.
Langley thrust a foot between Courtland’s calves and jerked his right leg out from under him. Courtland went down hard. Langley bulled in, evidently intending to stomp his opponent to death. He lifted a foot high and drove it down.
Courtland flung his hands up and grabbed Langley’s boot, holding it off from his face. Grunting with effort, he heaved on Langley’s leg and upended the booshwa. Langley crashed down on his back.
Courtland went after him and tried to ram his knee into Langley’s groin. Langley twisted aside and took the blow on his thigh. He tangled both hands in Courtland’s shirt front and threw him aside.
They rolled away from each other. The men surrounding them moved back quickly as the two combatants bumped their legs. Panting and cursing, Courtland reached his feet ahead of Langley. He rushed in as Langley was struggling to his feet.
Unexpectedly, Langley turned that to his advantage. He stayed low and ducked under the roundhouse punch Courtland swung at him. Courtland’s momentum carried him forward. Langley flung both arms around his opponent’s waist, letting out a roar as Courtland’s own momentum helped Langley lift him off the ground.
“Oh, my God,” Judith breathed as Langley hoisted Courtland over his head. “Ethan, no!”
Langley continued to ignore her. Still roaring from rage and the Herculean effort he was making, he lifted Courtland higher and then slammed him to the ground. Courtland actually bounced once from the impact and then lay there motionless in a huddled heap.
The fight was over. Courtland looked like he was out cold.
Langley stepped closer to his fallen opponent, and for a second, Preacher thought he was going to kick Courtland. Langley settled for spitting on him. He turned and walked away, but he was unsteady from exhaustion and his steps weaved a little.
He was bloody and bruised and his clothes were dirty and ripped, but he seemed well satisfied with himself as he came to a stop in front of Judith and Preacher.
“Well, that ought . . . that ought to do it,” Langley struggled to say. “That . . . blackguard . . . will never bother us . . . again.”
“Oh, Ethan,” Judith wailed.
Langley gave a little shake of his head, as if his brain was filled with cobwebs and he didn’t quite understand what was going on. “Judith, what . . . what’s wrong? I . . . I beat him . . .”
With a choked sob, Judith turned and ran back into the trading post. Langley stared after her, blinking in confusion.
Some of the men gathered around Langley to slap him on the back and congratulate him on his victory. Otis Freeman, along with Elkins and Boylan, picked up Courtland to carry him back to their camp just outside the walls of the fort.
Langley didn’t pay any attention to those things. He looked at Preacher. “What happened?”
“I reckon you won the battle, hoss,” Preacher said, “but I ain’t so sure about the war.”
CHAPTER 19
Still looking befuddled and crestfallen, Langley went on into the trading post.
Preacher didn’t follow him. Dinner was over, and whatever went on between Langley and Judith, Preacher figured it would be better to keep his distance. Clearly, Judith was angry with her husband for brawling . . . but she probably would have been hurt if he hadn’t fought for her, too.
There were times when no matter which way a fellow jumped, he was going to land in a mess of trouble. And a woman was nearly always involved at those times.
The fort’s gates stood open. Preacher strolled through them and walked toward Courtland’s camp. In the moonlight he could see the men had worked hard and put together about half the corral. They would be able to finish it the next day. Until then, the horses were picketed, and a couple of Courtland’s men were watching them.
Courtland sat on the lowered tailgate of one of the wagons. Otis Freeman was with him, using a rag to wipe away the blood from the scratches on Courtland’s face. Elkins stood nearby holding a candle so Freeman would have some light to work by.
After a moment, Freeman set the rag aside and took hold of Courtland’s chin. He carefully moved Courtland’s jaw back and forth. Courtland winced but didn’t make any sound.
“Well, it ain’t broke, anyway,” Freeman announced. “You’ll still be able to eat, but it’s liable to hurt a mite for a few days. You’re gonna be pretty stiff and sore all over, I reckon.”
“So is Langley,” Courtland muttered. “I gave as good as I got.”
That wasn’t exactly true, thought Preacher, considering Langley had still been on his feet at the end of the fight and Courtland hadn’t, but the booshwa sure hadn’t come through it unmarked.
Elkins took a flask from his pocket, uncorked it, and held it out to Courtland. “Take a swig of this, boss. It’s prime corn liquor. It’ll dull the pain some.”
Courtland shook his head. “I appreciate that, Elkins, but I want to feel the pain. I want to experience every ache and throb so I’ll remember what Ethan Langley did. I won’t forget any of it until . . .”
His voice trailed off, but Preacher knew what he meant. Courtland wouldn’t forget until he had evened the score.
It was exactly what Preacher had worried about and why he had hoped the two men would battle to a stalemate. Being defeated by Langley—again—was going to rankle Courtland until he did something about it.
More and more it looked like it was time for Preacher to move on. If he stayed, he ran the risk of finding himself stuck in the middle of the mess, caught between the two men and the hate they felt for each other.
Elkins put away his flask and suggested, “Maybe that fella didn’t exactly fight fair.”
“He fought fair,” Courtland snapped. “Ask Preacher if you don’t believe me.”
Freeman and Elkins looked at the mountain man. He shrugged. “I didn’t see no dirty tricks on either side. There ain’t no rules in a bare-knuckles brawl, but nobody tried anything underhanded. It was a good clean fight.”
“The next time it’ll be different,” Courtland vowed. “Langley won’t ever beat me again.”
; Freeman asked, “Are we still gonna stay here and try to trade and sell those horses?”
Courtland looked up at him and frowned, then winced because even that much movement hurt him. “Of course we are. Why wouldn’t we?”
“Well, I just thought, what with the trouble between you and that fella—”
“That’s personal,” Langley cut in. “The horses are business. I’ve got a lot riding on this, Otis. Everything, in fact.”
Freeman nodded. “Yeah, I know. I just wasn’t sure you’d want to stay here, that’s all.”
“I’m staying here,” Courtland declared, “until I do what I came to do.”
Preacher wasn’t sure what that was anymore. He suspected Langley was right about Courtland being aware the booshwa and Judith were living at Fort Gifford.
Courtland went on, “What about you, Preacher? Are you going to stay?”
“Nope,” Preacher answered without hesitation. “I never planned to hang around once I helped you fellas get here. Fact is, I’ll probably be pullin’ out early tomorrow mornin’. There are plenty of beaver out yonder just a-waitin’ for me to trap ’em.”
“Plenty of redskins waitin’ to kill you, too,” Freeman pointed out.
“That won’t be any different than it’s always been,” Preacher said with a faint smile.
“We’ll miss you when you go,” Courtland said. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to stay and take a share in this operation for all the help you gave us?”
“No offense, but not hardly. I’m ready to head for the tall and uncut.”
Courtland held out a hand. “We wish you well, then. And I hope our paths will cross again sometime.”
Preacher gripped Courtland’s hand.
The horse trader winced again and grinned. “Think I bruised a knuckle or two on Langley’s ugly face.”
He was pretty chipper again for a man who’d just been knocked out. But anger and hatred still lurked in his eyes.
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