Preacher's Massacre

by William W. Johnstone

  He left Creighton on the boat and walked through the open gates into the fort with Dog beside him and Horse trailing behind. A long building to the right ran the entire length of the wall. It served as trading post, tavern, and barracks for the men. Preacher intended to ask in there if anybody had seen Courtland. With hair so fair it was almost white, most folks would remember him.

  Preacher tied Horse to a hitch rack in front of the tavern, told Dog to stay, and went inside.

  He’d been hoping to pick up Courtland’s trail there.

  He hadn’t expected to find the man himself.

  Courtland was sitting alone in a rear corner of the big smoky room. A jug sat on the table in front of him, but he didn’t appear to be drunk. He looked like a living dead man, gaunt and hollow-eyed.

  He saw Preacher at the same time the mountain man spotted him.

  Preacher tensed, expecting Courtland to reach for the pistol laying on the table beside the jug. Courtland didn’t move, except to cock one white eyebrow in surprise.

  Then he smiled.

  Preacher almost lost control of his emotions then. It would have been simple enough to pull both pistols from behind his belt, walk up to Courtland, and blow the man to hell. But that wouldn’t provide him with any answers to the questions still puzzling him.

  More than a dozen men were in the tavern drinking, playing cards, talking, and laughing. None seemed to notice the looks passing between Preacher and Courtland.

  Stiff-legged, Preacher walked across the room toward the horse trader.

  “Red Knife assured me you had to be dead,” Courtland said quietly as the mountain man came to a stop in front of the table. “He said you were badly wounded, and his men were bound to hit you with their arrows when you tried to get away in the river. Somehow, though, I didn’t believe him. I had a feeling I’d be seeing you again.”

  “In this life or the next,” Preacher growled out. “If I had been dead, I would’ve been waitin’ for you at the gates of hell.”

  “I don’t doubt it for a moment. How did you survive?”

  “Divine providence.”

  Courtland looked puzzled.

  “The Good Lord must’ve kept me alive so’s I can kill you,” Preacher explained.

  “That could be,” Courtland said with a shrug. “Although this”—he looked around at the inside of the tavern—“this is already hell on earth, isn’t it?”

  Preacher used a foot to pull back one of the empty chairs at the table and sat down. “I reckon any place would seem like hell on earth to you, after what you did. You know how much blood you got on your hands, Courtland?”

  “I only care about some of it,” Courtland murmured.

  “Judith’s.”

  Courtland’s wry smile was gone, and in its place was a look of pain. “I never meant for her to be hurt. I just wanted what was best for her. You can’t see that, can you, Preacher?”

  “You didn’t have any right to decide what was best for her.”

  “But I loved her. Don’t you see? Of course I had the right.”

  “So you were responsible for the deaths of dozens of men, all because a woman picked somebody else.”

  “‘The face that launched a thousand ships, and burnt the topless towers of Ilium . . .’,” Courtland mused. “Although you don’t know what I’m talking about, do you?”

  “Don’t sell me short,” Preacher snapped. “I may not have read Homer, but a friend of mine can quote him all day and half the night, if he’s of a mind to. Name of Audie.”

  “A learned man, from the sound of it. Well, then, I suppose he might understand what a man will do for love.”

  “You didn’t do anything for love. You did it for hate.” Preacher paused. “I ain’t sure how you did it, though.”

  “And that’s puzzling you, I can tell. It really wasn’t difficult. You gave me the idea.”

  “Me?” Preacher exclaimed.

  “That’s right. When you went over the wall on that rope. It was easy enough for me to do the same thing. I was supposed to be on guard duty that night. Instead I just left.”

  “Nine times out of ten the Blackfeet would’ve killed you out of hand.”

  “Maybe. But I was desperate, and I was going to die anyway when the fort fell. When I asked to see Red Knife several warriors took me to him, and I made my proposition. I’d leave the rope down when I snuck back into the fort. His men could climb up and hide in the blockhouse where I was posted, and wait until they were ready to strike.”

  “Wait a minute. There were always two men in those blockhouses.”

  “Of course there were. I took care of the man who was on duty with me.”

  “You killed him, you mean,” Preacher said.

  “Slit his throat. Couldn’t have him see me coming and going, now could I?”

  Preacher was breathing a little harder as he struggled to control himself. “You let those warriors in, and nobody noticed ’em until they were openin’ the gates. Is that the way it worked?”

  “Exactly. And Red Knife had a large force ready to rush the gates as soon as they were open . . .” Courtland shrugged again. “You know the rest.”

  “And in return?”

  “Judith and I were to get safe passage out of there, to wherever I wanted to go.”

  Preacher’s eyes narrowed. “Did you really think she wouldn’t have told anybody what you’d done?”

  “She would have had to rely on me for her safety. Besides, she would have come to love me. She always loved me. Somehow Langley just blinded her to that fact.”

  Several seconds of silence went by before Preacher said, “Mister, you’re as crazy as a man can be. You never would’ve got away with it.”

  Courtland reached out lazily and picked up the jug of whiskey. “I guess we’ll never know, will we?”

  He exploded out of his chair and swung the jug as hard as he could at Preacher’s head.

  The mountain man was ready. He’d been ready for Courtland to try something ever since he sat down. He jerked backward, and the jug passed harmlessly in front of his face. The chair tipped over with a crash as he came to his feet.

  Courtland snatched the pistol from the tabletop. The gun roared, and Preacher felt the hot sting of burning powder against his cheek. The ball flew past his ear and smashed into a keg behind the bar as men in the tavern shouted in alarm and scrambled for cover.

  There wouldn’t be any more shots. Courtland stood with the smoking pistol in his hand and slowly looked down at the bone handle of the knife sticking out from his chest. Even as the gun was going off, Preacher had brought the knife up from under the table and buried the full length of the blade in Courtland’s body.

  Courtland’s eyes widened with the realization he had only seconds to live. He tried to say something, but couldn’t get the words out. He licked his lips before rasping, “You . . . you’ve done me . . . yet another favor . . . my friend.”

  “I ain’t your friend,” Preacher said harshly. “And you can tell it to the Devil.”

  Courtland winced, sagged, and twisted, landing on his side as he toppled onto the table. Preacher reached down to pull the knife free, but then he stopped. The blade was right where it was supposed to be, in the traitor’s heart.

  He left it there as he turned and walked out of the tavern.

  TURN THE PAGE FOR AN EXCITING PREVIEW

  Welcome to the peaceful little town of Doubtful, Wyoming,

  which has more than its fair share of kill-crazy gunslicks,

  back-shooters, and flat-out dirty desperadoes.

  It also has a sheriff named Cotton Pickens,

  who tries his best to keep law and order

  without getting his head blown off before breakfast.

  DOUBTFUL’S GOT A NEW DEPUTY . . .

  FOR THE MOMENT

  Cotton Pickens got where he is by virtue of a quick

  draw and slow wit. He knows the difference between

  lawbreakers you have to lock up .
. . and the kind

  you might as well just let go. Deputy Rusty Irons,

  though, ain’t the sharpest tool in the shed.

  Someone kidnapped his mail order brides.

  They were probably doing him a favor,

  but a deputy in love is blind.

  As for the various carny barkers, medicine show

  con artists, and revival-meeting fly-by-nighters who

  pass through Doubtful, Cotton just tries to keep

  the peace and keep the traveling hucksters

  moving on. But in one terrible moment, it all

  goes straight to hell as the town explodes in a

  frenzy of killing and bloodshed. That’s when a

  lawman like Cotton earns his pay, saves his soul,

  or loses his life by looking evil straight in the eye.

  Of course, there’s also the matter of keeping

  his new deputy alive and in one piece.

  SUPPORT YOUR LOCAL DEPUTY

  A COTTON PICKENS WESTERN

  by William W. Johnstone

  with J. A. Johnstone

  Coming in March 2013 wherever Pinnacle Books are sold.

  CHAPTER 1

  My deputy, Rusty Irons, was as itchy as a man ever gets. We were at the Laramie and Overland stage station waiting for the maroon enameled Concord stage to roll in. He couldn’t come up with proper bouquets, not in the barely settled cow town of Doubtful, Wyoming, but he managed some daisies and sagebrush he’d collected out on the range.

  Rusty was waiting for his mail order brides. That’s right, Siamese twins from the Ukraine, joined at the hip. He’d ordered just one, but they sent him the pair. He’d gotten the hundred-fifty-dollar reward offered for Huckster Bob, wanted dead or alive. Rusty got him alive, collected his reward, and applied the money to getting himself a wife.

  So there we were, waiting for the stage to roll in. It was an hour late, maybe more.

  Well, my ma always said there’s nothing worse than a sweating bridegroom, and Rusty filled the bill. He had sweat running down his sides. His armpits had turned into gushers.

  “Well . . . you get to be best man,” Rusty sputtered.

  “If I don’t arrest you for bigamy first,” I countered.

  “I looked it up; there’s no law in Wyoming Territory against it.”

  “Well, I’ll arrest you for something or other,” I said. “You found a preacher who’ll tie the knot?”

  “No, but I’m going to argue that all he has to do is marry me to one of ’em.”

  “What’ll you do with the other?”

  “I can’t auction her off, so she gets to be the spectator.”

  “They speak English?”

  “Not a word. They’re from Lvov, Ukraine.”

  “Well, that’s a good start. You won’t get into arguments,” I pointed out. “My ma always said the best part of her marriage was when my pa was snoring.”

  Rusty, he just grinned. “You’re the result.”

  I wasn’t sure how to take that, but thought I’d let it pass without a fistfight. His armpits were leaking worse than ever and I didn’t want his sweat all over my sheriff suit and pants.

  “You figure they’re joined facing the same way?” I asked.

  “I wouldn’t marry them if one was facing backwards. Here.” He pulled out a tintype.

  The image of two beautiful blondes leaped out at me. It looked like they were side by side, except they had on a single dark skirt.

  Rusty pointed to one of the women. “This one here’s Natasha, and the other is Anna.”

  “You know which one you’ll hitch up with?”

  “We’ll toss a coin. Or maybe they’ve got it worked out.”

  “What if one wants you and the other doesn’t? Or you want one and not the other?”

  Rusty, he just grinned. “Life sure is interesting.”

  Word had gotten out, and a small crowd had collected at the wooden stage office on Main Street. Some of the women squinted at Rusty as if he was a criminal, which maybe he was. But mostly they were wondering what sort of twisted beast would want to marry Siamese twins. Fifty of the good citizens of Doubtful stood in clumps, whispering and pointing at Rusty as if he belonged in the bottom layer of hell.

  Rusty, he just smiled. “I’m glad you got me that raise.”

  “You’ll need it,” I replied.

  I’d gone to the Puma County supervisors and talked them into raising Rusty’s wage by five dollars, because of his impending wedlock and his faithful service as my best and most useful deputy. That put him up just two dollars below my forty-seven-a-month sheriff salary, but I didn’t mind.

  I saw Delphinium Sanders, the banker’s wife, glaring at both of us as hard as she could manage. And George Waller, the mayor, was studying us as if we belonged in a zoo—which maybe we did. I sure didn’t know how things would play out, or who’d marry whom, but it made a late spring day real entertaining in the cow town of Doubtful.

  Hanging Judge Earwig was there too, and thought maybe he’d do the marrying if no one else would. He was broadminded, and didn’t mind if people thought ill of him. He might even marry both the twins to Rusty, seeing as how there wasn’t any law against it. That’d come later, when the next legislature got moralistic. Or maybe Rusty could take his gals to Utah and find a Mormon cleric to fix him up, but I didn’t put much stock in it. Utah had outlawed that sort of entertainment.

  The stagecoach sure was late. Dry road, too. The dry spring meant no potholes or mud puddles. The waiting was hard on Rusty.

  “Hey, Rusty, you got a two-holer, or are they gonna take turns?” some brat yelled.

  I went after the freckled punk, got an ear, and twisted it. “Cut that out or I’ll throw you down a hole and you’ll stink for a week.”

  “Aw, Sheriff, this is the best thing to hit Doubtful in a long time.”

  “You’re Willie Dickens, and your ma didn’t raise you right. I let go of your ear, you promise to respect people?”

  “Anything you say.” Willie yanked loose, smirking.

  I let him go. The whole thing was turning into an ordeal for my deputy sheriff, instead of a moment of joy. It wasn’t hard to tell what all them good folks of Doubtful were thinking. The marriage would have a threesome in the bedroom.

  And still no coach.

  Then, about the time I was ready to head back to the sheriff ’s office and look over the mail, we spotted the coach rounding the hill south of Doubtful. It was coming along at a smart clip, maybe faster than usual because them drays looked pretty lathered.

  “Well, Rusty, here it comes,” I said.

  Jonas Quill, the jehu, pulled back the lines slightly, and the sweated horses gladly quit on him while the coach rocked gently. He yelled down at me. “We got held up, man.”

  “Held up?”

  “Four armed men, masked.”

  By then, the maroon door of the coach had swung open. Six passengers emerged; four rumpled males, mostly whiskey drummers, and two frightened women in bonnets, both gray-haired.

  No Ukrainian Siamese identical female twins.

  Rusty seemed to leak gas.

  “Clear away from here,” I yelled at the mob. We got trouble.”

  “Where are they?” Rusty asked.

  “Don’t know, but we got business. Sheriff business.” I looked at the six who had just gotten off the stagecoach. “You passengers, stick close here. I’ll want statements from all of you.”

  One woman looked annoyed and started off.

  “You, too, Mrs. Throckmorton.”

  “I surrender to my fate,” she said, and kept on going.

  Rusty looked shell shocked, so it was up to me. “Quill, tell me. What happened and what got took?”

  “Nothing got took. Just the twins.”

  “My mind isn’t quite biting this cookie, Quill.”

  “Three masked men on saddle horses, another in a chariot.”

  “A what?”

  “A two-wheel chariot
hung on two trotters. Man driving it was masked, too.”

  “A chariot like them gladiators used?”

  “A two-wheel stand-up cart, with a lot of gold gilt and enameled red on it. They stop my coach, one has a scattergun aimed at me. They open the door, point it at the twins, and say ‘ladies get out,’ but the twins, they don’t speak a word of English, so the masked men prod the ladies out with their revolvers. That takes some doing—four legs, one skirt—but they get the Siamese twins out, get them into the chariot, and the man with the whip smacks the butts of those trotters and away they go, the three of them standing in that chariot.”

  “That’s it?”

  “The others want the twins’ luggage, and they load it on a packhorse.”

  “And you didn’t fight it?”

  “They made us drop our weapons,” one of the drummers said.

  “What else did they take? The mail? Anything in the lockbox?”

  “Nope,” said Quill. “The foreign women and their bags is all.”

  “Did they give any reasons?”

  “They said not to shoot ’cause we’d hit the women, and that was true. They headed due west, over some off-road route.”

  “Good, we’ll have some tracks to follow,” I said.

  “Them were my brides,” Rusty complained.

  “Real purty, they were. But sure hobbled up.” Quill frowned. “I can see the direction your steamy little brain’s taking, Irons.”

  Things were getting a little out of hand.

  “Rusty, you interview the male passengers, and I’ll interview these women. Meanwhile, you people, clear out of here.” I waved my arms to shoo them out.

  But no one moved. Half the town, it seemed, had flooded in.

  Rusty and I got what we could from the passengers. Nothing was taken except the Ukrainians. No one was forced to empty pockets. No valuables ended up in bandit pockets. The kidnappers were young, well masked, rode easily, wore wide-brimmed hats and jeans and dirty boots. They were polite with no apparent accents and offered no reasons. Treated courteously by the bandits, the Ukrainian twins went peaceably, not understanding a bit. They were even smiling.