Preacher still held a small piece of the busted jug. He tossed it aside as he turned to face Druke.
“What the hell was that?” Druke demanded. He looked as outraged as the rest of the men.
“You never said anything about no weapons,” Preacher told him. “And you gave the jug to me yourself, so I don’t reckon you got any kick comin’.”
“You knew you were supposed to fight barehanded!”
“Nobody ever said that. Pierre’s out cold, so I reckon I won the fight.”
Red-faced, Druke sputtered for a second. Then his face suddenly lit up with a grin as he looked past Preacher.
That couldn’t be good, the mountain man thought.
Slowly, he turned his head to look over his shoulder. Behind him, Pierre had started to climb laboriously to his feet. The big, bearlike man’s face bled in several places, and more blood leaked from his nose. Whiskey dripped from his tangled beard.
But he was definitely not out cold.
Preacher bit back a curse. Busting a jug in a fella’s face would have knocked out a normal man for hours, or maybe even killed him. Pierre wasn’t like most humans.
In fact, the man began to grin as if he found the whole thing funny. He pawed at his face with a massive hand to wipe away the mixture of blood and busthead, then paused to pick several small pieces of broken jug out of his beard.
The crowd of Druke’s men jeered and roared with laughter, their fury of a moment earlier forgotten as it became obvious that Preacher’s ploy had failed.
“Looks like you better think again, Preacher!” Druke called. “The fight’s still on!”
“Well, hell,” Preacher muttered.
Pierre lowered his head and charged like a runaway bull.
Preacher half expected the ground to shake under his feet, like he had experienced when he was in the vicinity of buffalo stampedes.
Pierre wasn’t just big, he was fast, too. Preacher tried to leap to the side and avoid the charge, but Pierre reached out with an abnormally long arm and snagged him. Preacher went down on his back with a bone-jarring, tooth-rattling crash.
He couldn’t allow the stunning force to overwhelm him. He forced his muscles to work, and after a glance to make sure he wasn’t near the outer edge of the ring, he scrambled away. He needed to put some room between himself and Pierre.
Again Preacher wasn’t quite quick enough. Pierre lunged after him and grabbed the mountain man’s ankle. He pulled Preacher toward him.
Preacher twisted around and aimed a kick at Pierre’s face. After busting the jug without much effect, he wasn’t sure if a kick would do any good, but the thought of surrendering never crossed his mind. He wouldn’t give up even if the stakes hadn’t been so high. It just wasn’t something he could do.
His heel smashed into Pierre’s jaw. The big man’s head rocked back and his grip on Preacher’s other foot weakened. Preacher pulled free. He somersaulted backward and succeeded in creating a little space between himself and his opponent.
With his height and long arms, Pierre had an advantage when it came to reach. He came at Preacher again and could have hammered him with punches from those malletlike fists, but he didn’t even try to box. Chances were, he had never had to resort to that tactic in the past. He would have triumphed in most of his fights based on sheer size and strength alone. That was why he preferred to grapple with his opponent.
Preacher had to avoid that at all costs. If he let Pierre’s arms close around him, the fight would be over.
Now that he had a better idea how fast Pierre was, he could plan his own responses better. He darted aside as Pierre groped for him and snapped a hard left to the big man’s nose. More blood flew as the punch landed.
Pierre didn’t seem to feel the blow, despite the fact that he had crimson leaking from his nostrils.
It seemed to Preacher almost like he had punched a block of stone. Time to change tactics.
As Pierre wheeled and flung out his arms in another attempt to grab him, the mountain man stepped in and hooked a left-right combination into Pierre’s midsection. He put all the strength in his rangy body behind the punches.
Getting that close was dangerous, but he had to risk it. If Pierre had a weak spot—that was a big if—Preacher had to find it, and the sooner the better. Every minute that passed increased the chances that the big man would grab hold of him.
The blows didn’t seem to have much effect, Preacher saw again as he danced back. If Pierre’s head was like a stone block, hitting his belly with its corded muscles was like punching the wall of a log cabin, he thought.
He looked closely at his opponent. Had the man’s face turned a little gray? Preacher couldn’t be sure. Most of Pierre’s features were hidden behind that bushy beard and the forest of hair that fell over his forehead.
The possibility was enough that Preacher had to try again. When Pierre swung a wild, backhanded blow at his head, he ducked under it and stepped in once more. He pounded a straight left to Pierre’s sternum to keep him off balance, then swung a curving right to the belly with all the power of his arm and shoulder behind it. He thought his fist sank a little deeper than before.
Pierre’s breath whoofed out and he leaned forward. Preacher lifted a left uppercut to the big man’s chin, barely making Pierre’s head move, but it must have stung a little. He blinked rapidly and for a second, didn’t seem to be able to focus his eyes on Preacher.
That confusion didn’t last long enough for Preacher to take advantage of it. Pierre’s gaze locked on him, and with an angry bellow the big man thundered forward again.
Preacher was confident that he could dart around and hit Pierre all night if he wanted to, but his hands ached and by the time he’d put the man down and out, every knuckle in his hands might be cracked and swollen. He couldn’t afford to be crippled that way.
So as Pierre charged him again, Preacher waited until the last second before diving aside. He caught himself on his hands and used his feet to sweep Pierre’s legs out from under him.
Pierre toppled forward and crashed to the ground like a falling tree.
Preacher muttered a disappointed curse as he rolled over and came up on one knee. He had hoped they were close enough to the edge that when Pierre pitched forward, he would land at least partially outside the ring.
That wasn’t the case. Pierre had fallen short by a couple feet.
He was slow to get up, though, so Preacher dived on top of him. He drove a knee as hard as he could into the small of Pierre’s back, finally bringing a grunt of pain from the big man.
Preacher got both arms around Pierre’s neck and levered his head back. He locked Pierre’s throat in the crook of his right elbow and tightened his grip. Pierre reached around and tried to grab him, but Preacher pressed himself close to Pierre’s back. The big man couldn’t reach him from that angle.
All he had to do was hang on until Pierre passed out from lack of air, he told himself.
Pierre didn’t cooperate and make it easy. He pushed himself up onto hands and knees and threw himself to the side, rolling over so fast that Preacher was trapped underneath him. That sudden reversal threatened to crush Preacher under Pierre’s great weight.
Preacher didn’t let go, even though he couldn’t breathe, pinned to the ground as he was. He summoned up his strength and tried to roll out of the trap, but Pierre weighed too much. He was immovable.
As Preacher lay there and struggled, he heard Druke’s men shouting encouragement to Pierre. He drew strength from the jeers and catcalls. He’d heard it said before that you could judge a man by his enemies, and he was proud to oppose men like the scum Jebediah Druke had gathered around him. He could tell that they all thought he was beaten.
They were about to find out how wrong they were.
Drawing on his reserves of strength, Preacher rolled Pierre off of him again. Maybe Pierre had finally started to weaken from being choked, or maybe Preacher was just too damned stubborn to be denied. Whatever the reaso
n, Preacher rolled Pierre onto his belly again. He slid his right knee off Pierre’s back and planted that foot on the ground. With that leg for leverage, he hauled Pierre’s upper body a foot or so from the ground, giving him the chance to get his left foot down, too.
Pierre flailed backward at him, but the attempts smacked of desperation.
Inch by inch, Preacher straightened up. Pierre rose from the ground until he was on his knees with Preacher behind him, right arm still locked around his throat.
Pierre pawed at that arm, but couldn’t tear it loose. Preacher applied more and more pressure. Some of Druke’s men still shouted, but most of them had fallen silent as they watched the unexpected spectacle of the massive Pierre being beaten.
Preacher looked over Pierre’s head and saw Druke standing silently at the edge of the circle with a sullen expression on his face. Clearly, he was as shocked as the rest of his men at the way the fight was about to end.
Preacher could tell that it was almost over. Pierre’s attempts to break free were feeble. Another minute or so, Preacher thought....
Some of the men near Druke stepped aside. Blood Eye and Charlotte appeared in the opening. The renegade Crow had come to see how the battle played out. If he was disappointed at being cheated of his sport, his impassive features showed no sign of it.
Charlotte looked scared but defiant. Preacher was glad to see that. She had to be ready to fight. Likely they wouldn’t be able to get out of here without her help.
Suddenly, Pierre went limp. Preacher’s first thought was that the big man was shamming, but then he decided that Pierre wasn’t that cunning. Or that good an actor. Besides, he was dead weight.
Preacher let go of him and stepped back.
Pierre fell forward. Judging from the way he landed face-first he was either out cold or dead.
Preacher looked at Druke and grinned. He needed a minute to catch his breath, and he played for it by saying, “Looks like I won.”
Druke exploded. “You cheated!”
“Did no such thing, and you know it. Everybody here saw it. Now you got a bargain to keep.”
“The hell I do,” Druke said with a sneer. “A promise made to a man like you doesn’t mean anything. Blood Eye gets you both!”
“No!” Charlotte cried.
Preacher wasn’t the least bit surprised by Druke’s double cross. It didn’t matter, anyway. He’d never intended to stand by and let himself be executed. He was about to open his mouth and yell for Dog to attack. As soon as the big cur tore into Druke’s men like a gray whirlwind with razor-sharp teeth, Preacher planned to jump one of the varmints and get his hand on a gun.
He never had the chance. Before he could yell for Dog, he was as shocked as everybody else when a shot blasted and a black hole suddenly appeared in Druke’s forehead. The rifle ball bored on through and exploded out the back of Druke’s skull, splattering bits of evil brain matter on the men standing near him.
Jebediah Druke’s reign of terror in King’s Crown had just come to a stunning end.
CHAPTER 32
Preacher had no idea where the shot had come from or who had blown Druke’s brains out.
For a second, he figured that Will Gardner must have freed himself somehow and gotten his hands on a rifle.
But more shots rang out as Druke’s men began to yell in confusion and scatter away from the makeshift prize ring. Preacher heard the swift rataplan of hoofbeats and knew that the renegades were under attack by another group.
Maybe word of the massacre of Monkton’s group near the pass had gotten around the valley and the rest of the trappers had banded together to wage war on their oppressors. Preacher didn’t think that was very likely, but he didn’t have any other explanation for the chaos that suddenly erupted around him.
Those thoughts flashed through his brain as he launched himself forward. He wanted to reach Blood Eye and get Charlotte away from the Crow.
He probably wouldn’t have made it in time— Blood Eye had already whirled around and started to drag his prisoner with him—if Charlotte hadn’t unexpectedly thrown herself at him and sunk her teeth into his shoulder.
Taken by surprise, Blood Eye yelled and stumbled. That slowed him just enough for Preacher to hit him from behind with a diving tackle.
The collision made Blood Eye let go of Charlotte’s arm. As Preacher and Blood Eye fell, the mountain man shouted to her, “Get to Will! Turn him loose!”
Charlotte darted away into the swirling mass of violence and confusion.
Even though he was exhausted from the grueling fight with Pierre, Preacher knew he couldn’t lose the opportunity to take care of Blood Eye once and for all. He rammed his right elbow under Blood Eye’s chin and forced his head back. Preacher smashed his other hand into the Crow’s throat in an attempt to crush his windpipe.
Blood Eye gagged and choked, but didn’t give up. He punched upward and landed a blow in the mountain man’s face with enough force to knock Preacher to the side. Preacher rolled onto his shoulder and hip and came up swinging his leg in a kick aimed at Blood Eye’s head.
Blood Eye ducked. Fresher and faster, he grabbed Preacher’s leg and heaved. Preacher went over backward.
He had barely hit the ground when Blood Eye sprang up and swung a tomahawk at his head with blinding speed. Sheer desperation twisted Preacher out of the way of the blow.
As the tomahawk dug into the ground only inches from his head, he clubbed both hands together and swung them, catching Blood Eye on the side of the head and literally knocking him off his feet. Blood Eye came down a yard away and rolled.
Preacher leaped up and would have gone after him, but at that moment a galloping horse loomed up between them. Preacher threw himself backward to avoid being trampled.
As he fell, he caught a glimpse of the bearded, hard-faced man in the saddle. Preacher had never seen him before. He wasn’t one of Druke’s men.
Still with no idea who the strangers were, knowing only that they had shown up at a very fortunate time for him, Preacher looked around for a weapon. He grabbed one of the torches still standing upright and yanked it out of the ground.
He whirled around, expecting to see Blood Eye charging toward him again, but to his surprise the Crow seemed to be gone. Preacher didn’t spot him anywhere in the confusion of men, horses, dust, and powder smoke.
He heard a furious bellow over all the commotion and turned to see Pierre lumbering toward him. Preacher wouldn’t have thought that the big man would regain consciousness so quickly, but Pierre obviously had the constitution of an ox to go with the build of a grizzly bear.
Preacher slashed the torch across Pierre’s face as the man lunged at him. Pierre screamed and pulled back. He pawed at his flame-seared eyes with his left hand while his right flailed blindly toward Preacher.
Pierre staggered as an arrow suddenly drove deep into his chest. He didn’t fall until another feathered shaft appeared as if by magic in his throat. He toppled sideways to the ground as blood gushed from the wound.
Will Gardner and Charlotte stood about twenty yards away. Will had a pistol in each hand, along with a powder horn and shot pouch slung over his shoulder. Charlotte had found her bow and arrows.
“Preacher, come on!” Will called.
The smartest thing they could do was get out of there while all the confusion was going on, Preacher knew. He yanked the arrows out of Pierre’s body, figuring Charlotte might need them later.
As he ran toward the two young people, Druke’s second in command, Sam Turner, appeared behind them. Preacher would have yelled a warning, but he didn’t have to. A huge, furry shape sailed in from the side, crashed into Turner, and knocked the man off his feet.
A flashing swipe of Dog’s teeth ripped Turner’s throat out.
Preacher was immensely glad to see that he’d been right earlier. Dog was still alive.
The reunion could wait until later. Preacher knew they needed to get clear of the fighting. It seemed likely that the men who�
��d attacked Fort Druke were on their side, but in such chaos, a friend might accidentally prove as dangerous as an enemy. Better to wait until the shooting was over and then sort things out.
He slid the bloody arrows into Charlotte’s quiver, gripped her right arm and Will’s left. Raising his voice to be heard over the tumult of battle he shouted, “We need to get out of here. Come on!”
It wasn’t far to the nearest slope, maybe half a mile. Preacher hurried in that direction and urged the two young people along with him. Dog ranged in front of them to take care of anybody who tried to stop them.
No one did. Druke’s men continued to put up a fierce struggle against the invaders. Everyone was too concerned about their own life or death to pay any attention to the former prisoners as they fled from the so-called fort.
But Blood Eye was still on the loose somewhere unless he had been killed in the fighting. The renegade Crow might well be the biggest danger of all. Preacher knew they couldn’t afford to let their guard down until they were sure Blood Eye was dead.
They reached the base of the nearest peak and began to climb. Once they were high enough to be out of harm’s way, they could stop and wait for the outcome of the clash below.
If the survivors of Druke’s bunch happened to win, which Preacher considered unlikely, then he and his companions would climb higher into the mountains and hole up somewhere until they figured out what to do.
If the mysterious attackers emerged victorious, then Preacher would slip back down into the valley and find out what was going on. He would leave Will and Charlotte in hiding until he was sure the newcomers meant them no harm.
They climbed several hundred yards up the wooded slope and stopped at a rocky outcropping that shielded them from view.
Between all the fighting and climbing, Preacher was slightly out of breath, another sign that he wasn’t quite as young as he used to be. He sat down on a rock and blew out a sigh. “Either of you two hurt bad?”
“I’m all right.” Charlotte pushed back a wing of dark hair that had fallen forward over her face.
Preacher's Blood Hunt Page 17