Preacher’s Fury

by Johnstone, William W.

  He couldn’t completely avoid the blow the man hooked at his head. It grazed his jaw with enough force to jerk Preacher’s head around. He caught himself and shot a jab into the man’s face. The blow landed cleanly but barely made his head rock back.

  No, not redwood, Preacher thought. The son of a gun was made of granite.

  The man’s fist thudded into Preacher’s chest and knocked him back a step. While Preacher was a little off balance, the man tackled him, coming in low and catching him around the waist. Preacher suddenly found himself going backward with his feet off the floor.

  The two men crashed into a pile of crates and knocked them over. They sprawled on the floor as Pete yelled, “Hey, be careful, damn it!”

  Preacher was on the bottom. Sensing that his opponent was about to try to drive a knee into his groin, he twisted his body and took the vicious blow on his thigh instead. He hammered his right fist into the man’s left ear.

  That didn’t seem to do much damage, either. Preacher jerked his head aside as a blocky fist came at his face. The punch missed completely, so the man wound up hitting the floor instead. For the first time, he grunted in pain.

  Preacher grabbed the front of the man’s buckskin shirt and hauled hard on it, throwing the man to the side. Preacher rolled after him and hit the man in the belly again three times fast, his arm drawing back and striking like a piston in its cylinder. He was finally doing some damage to the varmint, Preacher thought.

  The next second, the man drew up a foot, planted it in Preacher’s belly, and levered the mountain man up and over him. Preacher let out a yell as he found himself flying through the air.

  The flight didn’t last long. He landed on top of a barrel. The impact drove the air from his lungs and left him gasping for breath.

  His stocky opponent was already up. He grabbed the back of Preacher’s shirt and slung him into some shelves, drawing another angry shout from Blind Pete. The German’s policy was to stay out of any brawls that broke out in his place, but he might take a hand in this fight since it was threatening his merchandise.

  Preacher caught himself against the shelves before he fell again. The man he was battling might not look all that impressive physically, but he was tough as whang leather and obviously an experienced, brutal brawler.

  A little too confident, though. He seemed to think Preacher was just about done, so he rushed in to finish off the mountain man.

  Preacher met him with a hard, straight right that landed square on his nose and pulped it. Blood spurted over Preacher’s knobby knuckles. The man reeled back as a crimson stream flowed from his ruined nose.

  Preacher kicked him in the belly and then planted another savage blow on the varmint’s beezer. This fella wasn’t the only one who could fight hard and mean. Preacher let him have a left and then a right, lambasting him and driving him backward. The mountain man didn’t ease off now that he had seized the advantage, either. He followed, slugging hard and swift with both fists.

  The man crumpled. He might be made of granite, but he had finally been worn down by Preacher’s iron fists.

  As the man lay there bleeding on the floor, the breath rasping and wheezing through his swollen and misshapen nose, Preacher swung around. He had been too busy to keep up with how Lorenzo and Audie were doing against their opponents. He hoped his friends were all right.

  They were more than all right, Preacher saw. They had emerged from the battle triumphant. Audie, in fact, was standing with one foot on the chest of an unconscious man, dusting his hands off against each other in obvious satisfaction.

  A few feet away, Lorenzo leaned against a table and grinned. His hat had been knocked off and he had a few scrapes on his face, but he seemed to be fine otherwise.

  “What a fine display of pugilistic excellence!” Audie said.

  “Is he sayin’ we whupped ’em good?” Lorenzo asked.

  Nighthawk stood nearby with arms folded. He nodded and said gravely, “Ummm.”

  Preacher had lost his hat during the fight. He looked around, saw it lying on the floor, and picked it up. The broad-brimmed, brown felt headgear was pretty shapeless to start with, but it was even more crumpled now because it looked like it had been stepped on a few times. Preacher punched it back to the way it was supposed to be and settled it on his head.

  Pete stalked out from behind the counter and came along the aisle toward them. He stopped, planted his fists on his hips, and said, “Somebody will have to pay for these damages, ja?”

  Preacher swept a hand toward the unconscious men.

  “They started it. I reckon you can check their pockets.”

  Pete jerked his shelf-like jaw at the man Preacher had knocked out and asked, “Do you know who that is?”

  “Nope, and I don’t care.”

  “His name is Willie Deaver. That one is Caleb Manning.” Pete pointed at the long-haired man Audie had knocked out to start the ruckus. “I do not know the names of the other men, but they are the same sort as Deaver and Manning. Bad men. You would be wise to leave before they wake up, Preacher.”

  The mountain man bristled.

  “I ain’t in the habit of runnin’ away from trouble. Fact is, the last thing I run away from was my folks’ farm, and that was a hell of a long time ago.”

  “You would not be fleeing,” Pete said. “You would be saving my place from even more damage.”

  Preacher shrugged.

  “Fine. Lorenzo and me didn’t plan to stay the night here, anyway. We just wanted to pick up some supplies.”

  “I will give you a good price if you tell me what you need, so you can load them up and leave.”

  Preacher looked at Audie and Nighthawk.

  “What about you fellas? Are we all ridin’ together and headin’ for Bent Leg’s village?”

  “That strikes me as a more than agreeable course of action,” Audie said. Nighthawk just nodded.

  “All right, Pete,” Preacher said. “We need flour, salt, dried apples, beans, maybe a little coffee and molasses if you got it, and some salt jowl.”

  Pete nodded and said, “I will put everything in a bag.”

  “We’ll go saddle our horses,” Audie said. “Come on, Nighthawk.”

  Ten minutes later, the four men were ready to ride out. Preacher had settled up with Pete for the supplies.

  “Much obliged,” Preacher said after he’d swung up into the saddle on Horse’s back. “Too bad about the trouble.”

  Pete waved that off as he stood on the trading post’s porch. He glanced back over his shoulder. Deaver, Manning, and the other three men were still out cold, but they would probably be coming around soon.

  “Men like that, trouble always follows them,” he said. “You should watch your back, Preacher.”

  “I always do,” Preacher said with a smile. He lifted a hand. “So long, Pete.”

  “Guten tag, mein freund,” Audie called.

  “You talk that Dutch lingo?” Lorenzo asked as they rode toward the gate.

  “Ein bischen,” Audie answered.

  “No, I ain’t bitchin’,” Lorenzo said with a frown. “I don’t care what you talk.”

  “Nein, nein.”

  “Ten,” Lorenzo said. “That’s what comes next. What’re we countin’, anyway?”

  “You might as well give up,” Preacher told him. “He’ll pick at you all day if you let him.” He turned in the saddle and let out a piercing whistle. Dog came running from somewhere in the compound. “Sorry if you didn’t get to do as much visitin’ as you’d like,” Preacher told the big cur. “But we got places to go.”

  They rode out of the stockade, putting the trading post behind them and heading north toward a range of snow-capped mountains. A cool breeze blew in Preacher’s face. It smelled good.

  CHAPTER 3

  Blind Pete leaned on the counter as he laboriously entered numbers in the ledger book that lay open before him. He chewed at the graying blond mustache that drooped over his mouth. He had learned to cipher as
a young boy in Dusseldorf, but it had never come easy to him.

  Despite what Preacher had said, Pete hadn’t taken any coins from the pockets of Deaver, Manning, and the other men to pay for the damages caused by the brawl. If Deaver had woken up to find someone rifling his pockets, there would be hell to pay. Besides, there really hadn’t been that much damage.

  Pete made sure to have a loaded shotgun lying on the counter in front of him when the men regained consciousness. As they came around, groaning and cursing, Pete had told them, “Preacher and the others are gone. There will be no more trouble here, ja?”

  Caleb Manning had looked like he wanted to take out his anger on the proprietor, but Deaver had stopped him.

  “Let it go,” Deaver said. “It ain’t Pete’s fault that Preacher and his friends jumped us. If there’s a score to settle, it’s with them.”

  That reasonable attitude had surprised Pete, but he welcomed it. He was even more surprised a few minutes later when Deaver laid a five-dollar gold piece on the counter and said, “That’s for the whiskey we drank and the trouble we caused. Are we square, Pete?”

  Pete’s first impulse was to pick up the coin and bite it to make sure it was real, but he suppressed that and nodded instead. “Ja, we are square.”

  “So we’re welcome back here?”

  Pete understood now. Deaver didn’t want to be banned from the trading post, a ban that Pete could enforce with his cannon if he chose to.

  “Ja, of course.”

  “Obliged.” Deaver had turned to his companions and snapped, “Come on. We’re ridin’.”

  Night had fallen now. The trading post’s other customers had gone on their way, except for a couple of trappers who were spending the night in the little rooms at the back of the building. They would be moving on come morning. The gate in the stockade fence was closed and barred, and one of the men who worked for Pete was on guard duty. The other three workers were probably asleep in their quarters in the barn by now.

  The only light in the main room of the trading post was the candle that burned on the counter and cast its flickering light on the ledger. Pete dipped his pen in the inkwell and wrote a few more numbers in his cramped, precise script.

  The front door swung open.

  Pete looked up in surprise. It was rare for him to have customers this late. And the guard in the tower would have blown on the trumpet that was kept up there to announce visitors. Anyone who rode up in the dark would be challenged before they were let into the compound.

  Clearly that hadn’t happened, because two men strode into the trading post and started toward the counter where Pete stood.

  Through the thick spectacles that perched on his nose with a ribbon attaching them to his collar, he recognized the newcomers. Deaver and Manning. Seeing them here again made a cold ball of apprehension form in the pit of Pete’s ample belly.

  “Mein herrs,” Pete greeted them. “I did not expect to see you again so soon.”

  “I’ll bet you didn’t,” Deaver said. His hat was thumbed back so that his thatch of straw-colored hair stuck out from under it. “I realized that we forgot something when we left this afternoon.”

  “Oh? What was that?”

  “We forgot to ask you if you know where Preacher and his friends are goin’.”

  Pete placed both hands flat on the counter and leaned forward slightly. He shook his head from side to side, even though he had heard Preacher say that they were going to the village of Chief Bent Leg of the Assiniboine.

  If he told that to Deaver and Manning, though, they might follow Preacher and the other men and cause more trouble. Pete didn’t want that.

  “They never mentioned where they were going,” he said. “They just bought some supplies from me and rode out.”

  “Did you see which direction they headed?”

  “Nein. No.”

  Deaver smiled and shook his head.

  “Now, see, Pete, I’ve got a problem. I think you might be lyin’ to me.”

  “You have no right to speak to me in such a way,” Pete said with an angry glare.

  “Oh, I’ll talk to you any way I want, you big fat Dutchman.” Deaver flicked a glance at Manning and nodded.

  Pete knew he was in trouble. He started to straighten and reach under the counter for the shotgun he had placed there earlier, but before he could move, Manning whipped out a hunting knife and plunged it down into the back of Pete’s right hand. The point of the blade penetrated cleanly all the way through the hand and buried itself in the wood, pinning Pete to the counter.

  Pete let out a bellow of pain and tried for the shotgun with his other hand. Before he could reach it, Deaver brought out a pistol and fired.

  The heavy lead ball smashed into Pete’s left shoulder, shattering the bone. Pete roared. The agony he felt might have caused him to collapse, but the knife holding his hand on the counter kept him upright.

  “Now, see, you should have convinced me right off that you were tellin’ the truth,” Deaver said. The ugly smile never left his face.

  One of the trappers who was renting a bunk came running into the trading post’s main room, drawn by the yelling and the shot. He carried a flintlock rifle slanted across his chest and wore only a pair of long underwear.

  Before the man could even demand to know what was going on, Manning pulled a pistol with his right hand. He used his left to keep the knife planted firmly in Pete’s hand, which had blood puddling under it. Manning lifted the gun and fired, the dull boom of the shot filling the room.

  The ball punched into the chest of the man who had just run into the room. He staggered back a step, dropped his rifle, and fell to his knees as a bloodstain bloomed vividly on the long underwear. He pitched forward on his face and didn’t move again.

  “My men …” Pete rasped. “They will—”

  “They won’t do a damned thing,” Deaver said. “The rest of the boys have finished cuttin’ their throats by now. You should’ve posted a better guard, Pete. That poor fella up in the tower was wearin’ a bloody grin from ear to ear before he knew what was happenin’ to him.”

  Pete groaned. His employees were dead, and so was one of his customers. He didn’t know where the other trapper was. Probably hiding, hoping these vicious animals would overlook him.

  “I’ll ask you again, and you better not lie to me,” Deaver said. “Where was Preacher goin’?”

  “I don’t—” Pete began.

  Manning leaned on the knife and twisted it. The razor-sharp blade cut deeper in Pete’s hand. Pete couldn’t hold in the scream that welled up his throat.

  His wounded shoulder was bleeding heavily. He felt the hot flow dripping down his arm as it dangled uselessly at his side. He knew he would pass out soon, so if he was going to fight back, it had to be now.

  He suddenly jerked back as hard as he could with his right arm, putting his considerable strength behind it. The knife sliced through muscle and bone and filled Pete with pain worse than any he had ever known existed, but abruptly his hand was free. He had forced the knife to cut its way right out.

  He couldn’t make a fist with that ruined hand, but he could swing his whole arm. He threw himself forward over the counter and crashed his forearm against the side of Manning’s head. The blow knocked Manning into Deaver, and both of them got tangled up for a minute. That gave Pete time to roll off the front of the counter and land on his feet.

  He kicked Manning in the groin and barreled into Deaver, knocking the smaller man off his feet. If he could get outside, Pete thought, he might be able to give Deaver’s men the slip in the darkness. He would probably still bleed to death, but at least he would have a chance to get away.

  He was only halfway to the front door when a pistol roared behind him. Something smashed into the back of his left knee, knocking that leg out from under him. He tumbled to the floor, knocking over some boxes that clattered down around him.

  Pete tried to lift himself, but neither of his arms worked well enough now
. Deaver rushed up and kicked him in the jaw. Stunned, Pete rolled onto his back.

  Deaver leaned over him, cursing.

  “I’ll kill you, you blasted—”

  “Wait a minute,” Manning croaked. He stumbled into Pete’s view, which was blurry now because his spectacles had fallen off. Pete could still see well enough to know that Manning was clutching himself where he’d been kicked, and Pete felt a little bit of satisfaction from that, anyway.

  Manning went on in a pain-wracked voice, “Let me … work on him. He’ll tell us … what we want to know.”

  “Yeah,” Deaver said. “That’s a good idea. Let’s cut these trousers off of him.”

  Pete started to bellow in outrage even before he felt the touch of the cold steel. Once he did, the bellows turned to shrieks of pain.

  And in the end, of course, he told them how the mountain man and his companions had talked about spending the winter in the Assiniboine village. Deaver and Manning believed him this time. After being tortured like that, no man could have uttered anything except the truth.

  Pete knew there was no hope for him now. He was hurt too badly to recover. But he managed to husk out, “Go ahead … and kill me.”

  Deaver shook his head and grinned.

  “I don’t think so. That’d be too easy. There are some knives over there in a case, Caleb. Get a couple of them and we’ll stake him out.”

  They spread his arms, and Manning drove a knife through the palm of each hand, then used a maul to hammer the blades even more deeply into the floor.

  “What about his feet?”

  Deaver shook his head.

  “He ain’t goin’ anywhere, just like that.” He jerked a thumb at the rooms in the back. “Go check those out and make sure nobody else is back there. We’re not leavin’ anybody alive except for the Dutchman here, and he won’t be alive for very long once we burn this place down around him.”

  Pete groaned. Bad enough they were going to kill him, but did they have to destroy the business he had worked so hard to build, too?

  Clearly, nothing was beyond the viciousness of animals such as these.