Preacher and the Mountain Caesar

by William W. Johnstone

  Quickly the spear carriers resupplied the hurlers, and the squares bristled like aroused porcupines. By design, the spears landed short, albeit not too short. Marcus Quintus was tickled pink. Not a waver. Not a man broke formation. Those Celtic fools called the plains barbarians the finest light cavalry in the world. Let them come up against the tactics of the legions and see what happens to them. The cavalry whirled and made another approach.

  Again the rain of javelins broke their charge. Suddenly the tortoises broke apart and the legionnaires counterattacked, the keen edges of their gladiae striking blue-white ribbons from the autumn sun. They descended on the stalled cavalry and began to break into man-to-man duels. Dust became a blinding curtain, from which only sparks from upraised swords could be seen. Quintus knew that Septimus and his officers would be judging the effectiveness of both forces and was not surprised when a buccina sounded to end the battle.

  Proud of their ability, Varras, the cavalry legio, trotted his men forward to salute the First Citizen. Marcus Quintus was beaming with satisfaction, thrilled with how well this mismatched rabble had welded themselves into a disciplined army. That pleasure ended quickly when he recognized his eleven-year-old son, in full armor, in the front rank of cavalry, face begrimed, sweat trickling from under his helmet. It instantly struck him that the boy had been fighting among all the others.

  Riveted by that thought, he advanced to the next obvious revelation. He could have been killed! For all their well-conducted performance, the legionnaires were only partly trained. One could have gotten carried away, gone farther than orders allowed. And Faustus could be lying on the ground, bleeding, or headless. It chilled his blood and brought an imperceptible shudder to his burly frame. Before he could control himself and rethink the situation, he burst out with a bellow.

  “Quintus Faustus, get out of there!”

  Faustus could not believe what he had heard “But, Father, I . . .”

  Imperiously, Quintus pointed to the driver’s position in his chariot. “Get off that horse, come over here, and get in this chariot.”

  “But, Father, Varras said it was all right, that I would be safe.”

  Blood boiling, Quintus narrowed his eyes. “There is no such thing as ’safe’ in a battle. Even in practice, mistakes happen.”

  Faustus’ voice rose to a near whine. “Father, please! I’m not a baby anymore.”

  “Come here now! ”

  Faustus swung a bare leg over the neck of his mount and hung from the saddle, to drop to the ground. He walked stiff-legged across the space that separated him from the chariot. With each step his face turned from white to a deeper red. His lower lip slid out in a pout until he discovered it; then he sucked it in and bit it with small, even teeth. The first tears slid down his cheeks as he reached one large wheel of the two-person vehicle. The driver stepped to the ground, and Quintus snapped at him.

  “Bring that horse and come with me,” he commanded. To a thoroughly frightened Varras, he growled, “I’ll see you later at the palace, Varras.”

  He said not a word while he drove straight to the palace. There he started to lecture Faustus, who bolted and ran off sobbing, to cry his heart out. Still disgruntled by how he had handled the situation, Quintus found little sympathy from his wife.

  Titiana Pulcra stared unbelievingly at her husband. Small, slim hands on her hips, she stamped one slender, sandaled foot. “How could you, Quintus? To humiliate the boy in front of all those soldiers like that is unconscionable. It could have a terrible effect on my son. It could even make him into a sissy.”

  Burning with his own demons, Quintus turned deaf ears to his wife’s protests. This impending war would be the ruin of him yet. Goddamn you, Preacher! he thought furiously.

  * * *

  Vickie reached across the darkened room and lightly touched her brother on the arm. “Terry, Preacher’s comin’ back,” she whispered.

  “Who told you that?” Terry asked crossly.

  “Nobody. I just . . . know.”

  “You an’ your knowin’ things,” Terry heaped in scorn. “It’s like you sayin’ he was in real big danger. A body can’t know those sort of things.”

  Vickie defended herself staunchly. “Well, I can. I sort of . . . feel things. Preacher’s been hurt, too. I know that, so there.”

  “How’d he get hurt, smarty?”

  Tears threatened in Vickie’s words. “Oh, Terry, I can’t tell you that. I don’t know how I know these things.”

  Terry pondered that a moment. “What do you suppose we should do?”

  The tears leaked through this time. “Don’t ask me. That’s for you to figger out.”

  Pausing a long moment in the dark night, Terry turned that over in his head. “Why don’t we go to meet him?”

  “We don’t know where he’s coming from,” Vickie objected.

  “Yes, we do. He went north from here when he left us our new clothes. We’ll just go north.”

  “Really? Do you think it will work?”

  “We won’t know unless we try. And we can’t tell anyone.”

  “When do we go?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  * * *

  Sister Amelia Witherspoon stood in the center of camp. Another two days to reach this trading post. She remembered one they had come upon along the North Platte River. Low-slung buildings, with crude thatch roofs, smelly and dirty inside, hardly more than a poor excuse for a saloon. It reeked of stale beer, spilled whiskey, greasy food and human sweat. She had almost gagged when she entered.

  If they had not needed supplies so desperately, she would have prevailed upon the new Deacon Abercrombie to pass this pestilential place by. Thought of their former leader, and how he had died, brought a pang to her heart and a lump to her throat. She swallowed hard, hoping she would not break into tears, because she also recalled that he had betrayed them when the first attempt had been made to escape. And that brought her to Preacher.

  Oh, how handsome he had looked when he left them on the trail. She remembered him as a shining knight in buckskin on that day he rode off from them, for all his disreputable appearance. She wondered how he would look when he had washed off all that blood, dirt, grease and powder grime, and had a chance to shave. She would find out when he reached the trading post and rejoined them. She could hardly wait.

  A sharp report of a pistol from across the campsite drew her away from her favorite subject. Laughter followed. “Brother Lewis, you’re supposed to take that thing out of the holster before you pull the trigger.”

  A thoroughly shaken, crimson-faced young missionary stood with a group of those who had elected to continue to fight. Smoke ringed his knees, and Amelia saw the splintered leather at the bottom of the holster fastened at his waist. Poor Lewis Biggs, she thought. He had always been so clumsy. Only now he could get seriously injured, or even killed, for it. If only Preacher were here to teach them.

  That brought back images of the lean mountain man. His eyes normally held a far-off look, as though he saw things a thousand yards away. She really knew so little about him. Though she had heard plenty of wild stories from Sparticus, her practical side found little of it credible. Like wrestling with a bear and killing the beast with a knife. Or leading a wagon train of women from Missouri to the Northwest Territory. No one man, no matter how able and clever, could do that alone.

  Which got her to wondering how Preacher had resisted the charms of so many unattached ladies. With a shiver of delight, she thought how much she would like it if Preacher succumbed to her charms. Her missionary zeal abandoned, Amelia imagined those strong arms around her, holding her tight, his full lips pressed to hers. She wondered how her somewhat bony, angular body would be fitted to his hard, muscular frame. Oh, when would they reach the trading post? When would Preacher join them?

  20

  Trout Creek Pass looked mighty good to Preacher when he reached the trading post there three days later. One-Eye Avery Tookes spotted him first and let out a whoop. Tha
t brought his partner Bart Weller, Bloody Hand Kreuger, Squinty Williams, Blue Nose Herkimer and Frenchie Dupres. The others were out hunting game for the table. The back slaps, shoulder punches, elbow rib gouges, to say nothing of the general jumping up and down and stomping the ground, went on for a good fifteen minutes.

  “We heard you was lookin’ for fellers to join a real, ring-tailed mixup, Preacher,” One-Eye Avery Tookes declared when the welcoming calmed some and the participants had repaired to the inside of the saloon.

  “That I am, Ave.” Preacher allowed. “Philadelphia an’ me got ourselves in one hell of a fix up north in the Ferris Range.”

  Three of the mountain men rounded up mugs and dispensed whiskey and foaming flagons of beer while the others pressed close around. Frenchie Dupres spoke for them all.

  “We learned some of it from Philadelphia, Preacher, but we would like to hear it from you.”

  Preacher studied on it a moment, downed half a mug of beer to soothe the trail dust from his craw, then launched into the story of New Rome. “Seems there’s this feller, ’bout three beaver shy of a lodge, who’s took it in his mind that he’s the emperor of Rome. Built him a right accurate copy of the ancient town in this big valley in the Ferris Range.” He went on to describe the highlights of the stay he and Philadelphia had endured.

  Several times, one or another of the mountain men would interrupt with a question. Through it all, only Karl Bloody Hand Kreuger maintained a skeptical expression. When Preacher concluded, he spoke slowly, through a thick German accent.

  “Dot don’t zound right. Vhy haff vun of us not seen dis place in der twelf years you zay it has been there?”

  Preacher gave him the benefit of a one-eyed squint. “How many pelts have you taken in the past dozen years, Bloody Hand?” he asked mildly. “For that matter, how many of us has been in the Ferris Range in the same time?”

  Shaken heads answered him. It urged Preacher to push on a little further. “You all know the fur trade is dead as last year’s squirrel stew. There ain’t a one of us what has made a living entire off of takin’ beaver. Shoot, there ain’t even enough beaver for us to harvest them like we used to.” He paused to pour off the last of the beer. “Monongahela rye, Duffey,” he called to the barkeep. Then he turned back to Bloody Hand Kreuger.

  “Now, you listen to me, Bloody Hand. I seened all that with my own eyes. So’d Philadelphia and that young ’prentice, Buck Sears. An’ that reminds me. If Buck ain’t got him a handle hung on him already, I reckon to call him Long Spear.”

  That brought hoots of laughter. Blue Nose Herkimer asked through his chortles, “Is that for what I think it is, Preacher?”

  Preacher pulled a face of mock disappointment in his fellow men. “No. It ain’t. It’s because he done some fierce fightin’ with one of them pilum things the Roman soldiers use in their army.” He downed a respectable swallow of whiskey, smacked his lips and continued. “Buck ain’t near as good as some of us; but he’s got sand, and he carries his own weight an’ then some. He learns quick. And we need every gun we can get for this fight with the crazy Romans.”

  “Vhy vould anyone lif dot vay?” Kreuger pressed, disbelief plain in his small pig eyes.

  Preacher cocked his head to one side, sipped more rye. “Y’know, that’s a question I asked myself a good many times. Don’t seem that anyone a-tall, with any brains worth countin’, would put up with the loco things this feller calls hisself Marcus Quintus Americus expects of’em. They dress in these outlandish clothes, all robes and nightshirt-lookin’ things, and wear sandals, too, like them brown-robed friars come through the Big Empty back in Thirty-one, weren’t it? Why, their soldiers even wear skirts.”

  That proved too much for Bloody Hand Kreuger. “I told Philadelphia that dis vas horse shit, und dot’s vhat it iss. Pferd Scheist! No zoldiers vear zkirts.”

  Preacher’s dark gray eyes turned to flint. “You callin’ me a liar, Bloody Hand?”

  Kreuger, who had already decided it was a good time to take Preacher to task, barked a single word. “Fawohl!”

  Preacher downed the last of his Pennsylvania whiskey and dusted dry palms together. “Well, then, let’s get to the dance.”

  “Outside! Take it outside,” a nervous Ruben Duffey shouted from behind the bar.

  “More’n glad to oblige, Duffey,” Preacher told him amiably.

  He started to rise, then shifted his weight and lashed out his booted foot in one swift movement. The dusty sole caught the chair in which Kreuger sat at the center lip of the seat and spilled it over backward. Preacher got on him at once. He grabbed the confused and startled German by the back of his wide belt and scruff of shirt collar and made a speedy little run toward the front door. Kreuger dangled in Preacher’s powerful arms, feet clear of the floor.

  With appropriate violence, the batwings flew outward when Kreuger’s head collided with them. Preacher took quick aim and hurled his human cargo into the street. The Kraut mountain man landed in a puddle of mud and horse droppings at the tie rail. Immediately Kreuger let the world, and Preacher in particular, know his opinion of being so used.

  “Verdammen unehrliche Geburt!”

  “Oh, now, Bloody Hand, you know better than to call Preacher a damned bastard,” Frenchy Dupres observed dryly from the porch of the trading post saloon.

  A few chuckles went the rounds; then the fight turned serious. Kreuger came to his boots shedding road apples and urine-made mud. Before he could locate his enemy, Preacher walked up from behind him and gave him a powerful shove that sent Kreuger back into the quagmire.

  Hoots of laughter ran among the mountain men. Kreuger’s face went so darkly red as to look black. On hands and knees he crawled toward the dry, hard-packed ground. Unwilling to lose an important good shot in so critical a battle as the one he visualized upcoming, Preacher determined to go easy on Kreuger. He knew the cause of some of the bad blood between them, yet had not seen the man in some while and could only guess at what other grievances and faults the German had assigned to him. On the other hand, Kreuger sincerely believed this to be the time to tumble Preacher from his high perch, to show him to be no more than any other man. Through the red haze of his fury, he spotted his foe.

  Springing quickly to his boots, Kreuger swung a looping left that connected with the point of Preacher’s shoulder. Preacher shed it easily, then whanged a hard fist that mushed Kreuger’s mouth. Blood flew in a nimbus that haloed Kreuger’s head. The huge, bullet-headed German absorbed the force of Preacher’s blow and took a chance kick at the mountain legend’s groin.

  Preacher saw it coming and danced aside. He whooped and jumped in the air, waggling one open hand under his chin at Bloody Hand. Kreuger stared at Preacher uncomprehendingly. On the way down, Preacher enlightened the Kraut as to the purpose of his childish taunt. His target sufficiently distracted, he swiftly jabbed two of those extended fingers toward the man’s eyes.

  Kreuger recoiled so violently that he tottered off balance. Preacher’s boot toes lightly touched when he launched a one-two combination at the midsection of Karl Kreuger. Dust puffed from the buckskin shirt Kreuger wore as the piston fists connected in a rapid tattoo. Grunting, he rocked on back. He went over his center and plopped to the ground on his rump. Anxious to end this before harming even this uncertain an asset, Preacher swiftly stepped in on Kreuger.

  Only too far!

  A well-aimed kick from Kreuger landed deeply in Preacher’s groin. Sheer agony radiated outward from Preacher’s throbbing crotch. When the yawning pit of blackness receded from his mind, Preacher recovered himself in time to clap his open palms against the sides of Kreuger’s head. So much for going easy, he thought grimly.

  Their fight turned deadly serious. Not that Preacher would willingly go so far as to kill Kreuger, so long as the German mountain man would let him avoid it. Howling in pain, Kreuger dived forward and wrapped his arms around Preacher’s legs. Digging in with a shoulder, he drove Preacher off his boots. Preacher landed
heavily. Dust rose around him as he tried to suck in air.

  Kreuger did not give him the chance to fully recover. He climbed Preacher’s legs, grunting and growling as he went. Savagely, he bit Preacher in the thigh. Then his forward progress got halted abruptly with a sledgehammer fist. Preacher drove it down on his opponent’s crown with all the force in him. A shower of colored lights went off in Kreuger’s head. Preacher heaved mightily and sent his antagonist flying. Wincing to hold back a cry of agony, Preacher came upright and stepped over to Kreuger.

  “Give it up, Bloody Hand. This ain’t fittin’. We got us a whole wagon load of trouble out there we need to be facin’ together.”

  “You go to hell, Preacher.”

  * * *

  Their fight might have gone on longer had not the long-expected arrival of the missionaries put a quicker end to it. They streamed in through the stockade gate as Kreuger sputtered out his defiance. In the lead, Sparticus halted them abruptly with a raised hand.

  “No need mixin’ up in that folks. Preacher, he got ever’thin’ in hand.”

  And indeed it appeared he had. After Kreuger’s outburst, sthe German forward while he pile drivered a big right to the broad forehead below an unruly shock of wheat straw hair. The birdies sang loudly between Kreuger’s ears. Groggily he tried to get his feet under him. Preacher shook him like a rag doll.

  Kreuger pawed at Preacher’s arm. Preacher punched him again. Kreuger went rigid, and his eyes rolled up in their sockets. He sighed wearily, and his legs twitched a few seconds before he went still and limp.

  Amelia Witherspoon looked on in mingled admiration and horror. She reached out a hand now to touch Sparticus lightly on the arm. “That man? He isn’t dead, is he?”

  “New, Missy Sister Amelia. I figger Preacher to be a more careful man than that. I also reckon he be mighty glad to see you again.”