“That’s the thing about dyin’,” Preacher said. “A lot of the time it sort of sneaks up on you.”
CHAPTER 14
After retrieving Horse and his pack animal, Preacher rejoined Mitchell and Burton on the creek bank. The two trappers took turns digging a grave for their friend at the edge of the trees. Preacher did likewise for Vargas, although Druke’s man was planted with no ceremony.
As the three men stood beside Carl Pennington’s grave after lowering the blanket-wrapped figure inside it, Burton took off his hat and said, “This is all my fault. I was supposed to be standing guard. I was right there on the bank looking at the trees when one of those outlaws shot Carl. I never even saw where the shot came from.”
“I reckon those fellas had considerable experience at skulkin’ around in the woods,” Preacher pointed out. “Anyway, seems to me like the blame goes to the varmint who pulled the trigger, and to Jebediah Druke for sendin’ those men after you.”
“We can talk about Druke later,” Mitchell said. “Right now, I want to say a prayer for Carl’s soul.”
“Thank you, Enos,” Burton said quietly.
Preacher and Mitchell took their hats off, too, and bowed their heads as Mitchell asked God to have mercy on Carl Pennington’s soul.
“I know he would have preferred it to be different,” Mitchell concluded, “but this is a beautiful place to spend eternity. Amen.”
“Amen,” Preacher echoed.
They filled in the grave, then started back to the horses.
The mountain man said, “Those fellas who got away know where they found you. It’d be smart if you boys moved on and found yourselves a good place to camp somewhere else.”
“Will you come with us?” Mitchell asked.
Preacher considered the invitation. “For the night, I reckon. I don’t know how far it is back to Druke’s place. We can’t rule out him sendin’ some more men after you right away. He’s got a grudge against you because you didn’t turn tail and run when he tried to scare you off the first time. Can’t have folks standin’ up to him. That makes him look bad.”
“We’re not going to let him scare us off,” Burton said.
Mitchell grunted. “Speak for yourself.”
“If we leave now, Carl will have died for nothing,” Burton insisted. “Besides, I think that a third of whatever we make from our pelts should go to his family, and I want it to be as much as possible.”
“Well, I sure can’t argue with that,” Mitchell said with a nod. “I’d feel a mite better about things if you’d throw in with us, Preacher. I’ve heard about you. I think Jebediah Druke might have met his match in you.”
“Under normal circumstances I might be tempted to do that, but I’m lookin’ for that young fella I mentioned, William Pendexter, and I promised his pa I’d do my best to find him.” Preacher paused. “Of course, that don’t mean I won’t take a hand in a ruckus like the one here today, any time I come across one. I figure just in the natural course o’ things, there’s a good chance I’ll tangle with Druke and his men.”
“Be careful,” Burton warned. “They’re ruthless.” He glanced toward Carl Pennington’s grave. “We’ve seen plenty proof of that.”
Following Preacher’s suggestion, they moved along the stream the rest of that day and traveled several miles before they stopped to make camp. When they did, they chose an area at the base of a bluff where several boulders had come to rest in ages past, a choice that Preacher would have agreed with if they had asked him. The rocks provided good cover for men and horses alike.
Preacher added some jerky to their supper. They ate and then put out the fire as shadows of evening began to settle down over the valley.
As they sat there beside the dead embers, Preacher commented, “You fellas seem to know what you’re doin’. You must’ve learned something from that other run-in with Druke’s bunch.”
“We learned from Will Gardner,” Mitchell said. “He gave us plenty of good advice.”
“Unfortunately, it wasn’t enough to save Carl’s life,” Burton added with a touch of bitterness in his voice.
“Tell me about Gardner,” Preacher said.
Mitchell said, “There’s not much to tell. He’s just a young trapper. He struck me as being pretty experienced, though, despite his youth.”
“And he acted like he’s declared war on Druke for some reason,” Burton added. “He and Druke’s men had fought before. That night he helped us wasn’t the first time they clashed.”
“What about the Indian who was with him?” Preacher asked.
“Gray Otter? If anything, he was even more dangerous than Gardner. I never saw a man who could move so quietly or strike so swiftly.”
“What tribe is he from?”
“I have no idea,” Burton said. “I don’t think that subject was ever brought up, was it, Enos?”
“No, now that you mention it, I don’t believe it was. That’s a little odd, isn’t it? I thought most Indians were proud of their tribe. But Gray Otter never talked much, and even then he didn’t really . . . talk. He and Gardner used sign language because Gray Otter doesn’t speak English.”
It wasn’t that unusual for a white man and an Indian to befriend each other and travel together, Preacher mused. Audie and Nighthawk were perfect examples. “You have any idea where I could find those fellas?” he asked Burton and Mitchell.
“None at all,” Burton said. “They seemed to appear out of thin air and vanished the same way, once Gardner was ready to move on.”
“Why do you want to find them, Preacher?” Mitchell asked.
Preacher scratched at his beard. “Well, from the sound of it they’ve been around these parts for a while. I was thinkin’ they might be able to help me find William Pendexter.”
“That’s a good idea,” Mitchell agreed. “I wish we could be of more help. You saved our lives, and we haven’t done anything to repay you.”
“Shared your fire and your coffee with me,” Preacher said with a grin. “That’s enough for now. Maybe someday you’ll have a chance to do somethin’ else.”
“If you ever need us, all you have to do is call on us,” Burton said solemnly. “We owe you a debt, and we’ll pay it.”
“I’ll remember that,” Preacher promised.
As he rolled up in his blankets a short time later, he thought that it was much more likely Will Gardner would be able to help him rather than these two novice trappers, but Burton and Mitchell meant well. If Gardner was as savvy as they made him sound and had been around King’s Crown for a while, he might be Preacher’s best lead to William Pendexter.
Another thought danced momentarily around the back of Preacher’s mind, but it never really came clear. Sooner or later it would, he knew, so he didn’t worry about it as he dozed off.
By evening, Jebediah Druke was snockered, but as he liked to boast, whiskey didn’t muddle his mind any. At least he didn’t think so, although being drunk, it was hard to say for sure.
The important thing was, he had guzzled enough of the busthead so that his wounded arm didn’t hurt anymore. A warm, pleasant glow enveloped his entire body as he sat on a log near the big cook fire and ate stew from a wooden bowl. A jug of whiskey sat on the ground next to him. From time to time he reached down, picked it up, and washed down the food with a slug of the fiery liquor.
Several more men were enjoying their supper as well. Druke didn’t worry about having the big fire burning after dark, because he didn’t think anybody could ever harm him in his sanctum. Guards were posted all around the place and would warn him in case of any trouble.
One of those guards hurried up just as Druke was finishing the stew.” A couple riders comin’, boss. Looks like it’s Sam Turner . . . and that Indian.”
The lookout’s tone was a little nervous as he referred to Turner’s companion, so Druke knew it had to be Blood Eye. The renegade Crow could give even the most hardened killer the fantods.
Druke got to his feet. The wa
rm glow that had surrounded him abruptly vanished. He threw off the whiskey’s effects and was sober again. “Bring them here,” he snapped, then realized that the order wasn’t necessary. Turner would come straight to him. It was damned well about time, too.
Druke wouldn’t admit it, but he had started to get a little worried about Turner. It was impossible to predict what Blood Eye would do in any given situation. He might well have killed Turner on sight, rather than waiting for the man to explain why he was there. Druke had known that when he sent Turner to look for Blood Eye.
Luckily, from the sound of it, nothing like that had happened. Still, Druke was relieved when the two men rode into the big circle of light cast by the fire and he could see with his own eyes that Turner was hale and hearty.
Blood Eye looked the same as he always did—downright scary. The Indian was coldly expressionless as he slipped down from his pony’s back.
Turner dismounted, too, and took the reins of Blood Eye’s horse from the Crow. “Here he is, boss, just like you wanted.”
Druke jerked his head in a curt nod. He didn’t believe in praising his men for doing their job. Granted, Turner’s current chore hadn’t been an easy one, but that didn’t matter.
Druke turned to the Indian. “Blood Eye, my friend. It’s good to see you again, as always.”
Blood Eye just grunted. He didn’t seem to believe Druke, nor did he care.
“I asked Turner to bring you here because I have a job for you.” Druke hadn’t actually asked Turner. It hadn’t been a request, it had been an order . . . but the result was the same.
“There are a couple men I want you to hunt down and take care of for me.”
“Will Gardner,” Blood Eye said. “Gray Otter.”
Druke nodded. “That’s right. What do you think? Can you do it?”
For a second, an angry fire flared in the Crow’s good eye, as if Druke had offended him by asking such a question.
Druke saw the reaction and wondered if he could pull the pistol from behind his belt, cock it, and fire before Blood Eye brained him with the tomahawk at his waist. It would be a near thing.
But it didn’t come to that. Blood Eye’s gaze turned stony again. “I will kill Gardner.”
“What about Gray Otter?”
“The one you call Gray Otter will never trouble you again,” Blood Eye said.
“That’s good enough for me.”
Druke was about to bend down for the jug and suggest that they seal the bargain with a drink when he heard hoofbeats. Several more riders approached the cabins at a fairly fast clip. Druke stiffened and barked, “Get your guns ready. This could be trouble!”
The hoofbeats slowed and a familiar voice called, “Hello, the fort!”
The voice belonged to Frank Helton, one of the men who had gone with Vargas to wipe out those three defiant trappers.
“Come on in, Helton!” Druke shouted. He kept his hand on his gun anyway, just in case somebody was trying to cook up some sort of trick.
Five men rode up to the campfire and wearily dismounted. They were leading two more horses with bodies lashed facedown over the saddles.
Druke didn’t see Vargas and wondered if the Spaniard might be one of the dead men. “What the devil is all this, Helton?” he demanded. “Where’s Vargas?”
“We had to leave him behind. He was wounded and we couldn’t get to him. We’d already lost two men and had more wounded.”
Druke saw the bloodstains on the clothes of several men. Anger boiled up inside him. “What the hell are you talking about? Those three greenhorns couldn’t have put up that much of a fight!”
“We killed one of ’em,” Helton said. “Vargas nailed him with his first shot. But then the other two had help.”
“Gardner and Gray Otter,” Druke breathed out.
Helton shook his head. “I don’t know, boss. We never really got a look at whoever it was pitched in on their side. Seemed like there was only one man, though . . . and a wolf.”
Druke frowned. “A wolf?”
“Or else a damned big dog, I ain’t sure which.” Helton inclined his head toward the corpses tied to the two horses. “Creature tore Stallings’s throat out, the poor guy, and chewed up Reynolds pretty good.”
That didn’t really sound like the work of Gardner and his Indian friend, thought Druke, but it didn’t matter. One of those trappers was dead. The other two had to die, and the sooner the better.
Druke turned to look at Blood Eye. “I still want you to go after Gardner and Gray Otter, but I’ve got another job for you first.”
An expression that might have been a smile if it hadn’t been so ugly stretched the renegade Crow’s thin lips. “Who do you want me to kill now?”
CHAPTER 15
Preacher took his leave of Burton and Mitchell early the next morning. Part of him felt like he was abandoning them, but he had the search for William Pendexter to carry out. Also, he was curious about Will Gardner and Gray Otter and wanted to see if maybe he could find them, too.
It wouldn’t be easy. King’s Crown was a good twenty miles across, which meant it covered a lot of ground. It wasn’t easily searched, either, as the terrain was pretty rugged in places. Preacher could cover all of it, but the chore might take him a couple weeks.
To get started, he rode toward the center of the valley. He intended to circle out from there in an ever-widening pattern that would eventually cover all of King’s Crown. He hadn’t gone very far when he began to get the feeling that he was being watched.
He didn’t stop and look around or let on in any way that he was suspicious. He kept Horse moving at an easy lope. Dog ranged out ahead of him and investigated every bit of brush for small animals, so there was a chance the cur might flush out whoever was spying on him. Preacher turned his head enough to scan the landscape on both sides of him, but he didn’t see anything out of place.
Whoever was watching him had to be pretty stealthy to escape his keen-eyed scrutiny. Preacher didn’t even consider the notion that he might be imagining the sensation. He trusted his instincts far more than that.
Then, suddenly, the feeling was gone. It could mean only one thing.
The watcher had departed.
That knowledge didn’t make Preacher relax. Until he knew who it had been, the question would nag at him.
Around mid-morning as he traveled along one of the streams, a group of riders emerged from a thick stand of trees in front of him and plodded toward him on horseback. He counted eight men, all of them in homespun and buckskin and all riding with rifles balanced across their saddles. They led more than a dozen pack horses and mules.
The strangers didn’t look threatening, but Preacher reined in and unslung his own rifle from its lashings on the saddle, anyway. He waited for the men to come to him, and as they approached he noticed that several of them had shifted their rifles so that the weapons pointed more toward him. Even with that, they still struck Preacher as more wary than menacing.
One man moved his horse slightly ahead of the others. He was short and squat; Preacher could tell that even though the man was still in the saddle. He wore a buckskin jacket decorated with bear claws and a flat-brimmed, round-crowned black hat with a hammered silver band.
A hat band like that would reflect sunlight from a long way off and give away its wearer’s location to an enemy. Preacher wouldn’t be caught dead wearing such a flashy thing.
The other riders slowed and stopped while the short man rode on toward Preacher. He had a round face and a short, grizzled red beard. When he was about twenty feet away he brought his horse to a stop and lifted a hand in greeting. “Good day to you, sir. I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”
“That’s a big assumption,” Preacher drawled.
The man looked vaguely puzzled. “What is?”
“That meetin’ me would be a pleasure.”
Before the man could figure out whether or not he ought to take that as an insult, one of the other riders called,
“Hey, Monkton, I know this fella. That’s Preacher!”
The mountain man looked at the one who had spoken and felt a moment of recognition. It took him a few seconds to come up with the man’s name, but when he did, he grinned. “Howdy, Karnes. Ain’t seen you since the rendezvous a couple years ago.”
“That’s right.” Karnes was a rawboned man with a pleasantly ugly face and a thatch of straw-colored hair under his pushed-back coonskin cap. He heeled his mount forward.
Preacher’s nerves eased. Karnes was a trapper, a decent sort he had met half a dozen times over the years. The other men looked to be much the same sort. Preacher figured they had been working in King’s Crown for a while and that the packs on the animals they led were stuffed full of beaver plews.
Karnes rode up close enough to reach out and shake hands with Preacher.
Monkton said, “Preacher, eh? I’ve heard of you, sir. You’re something of a legend in these mountains.”
“I don’t know about that.” Preacher scanned the faces of the other men and saw several he recognized. He nodded to them and lifted a hand in greeting. “From the looks of it, you fellas have been runnin’ trap lines here in the valley.”
“That’s right,” Karnes said. “Most of us came up here on our own, but we sort of threw in together a while back.” The trapper’s grin disappeared and his long face grew solemn. “You may not know it, Preacher, but there’s trouble afoot here in King’s Crown.”
“You talkin’ about Jebediah Druke?” Preacher asked.
“So you have heard of him.” Monkton’s voice hardened. “You and he aren’t allies, are you?”
Before Preacher could answer, Karnes said, “Cap’n, you couldn’t be more wrong about that. The only thing Preacher would have to do with a polecat like Druke would be to go after him and skin him alive, like the worthless critter he is.”
Monkton shrugged. “I meant no offense.”
“None taken,” Preacher said. “Why don’t one of you tell me what’s goin’ on here?”
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