Preacher wasn’t fully recovered from almost drowning—even a man with his iron constitution needed more time than that—but he had some breath in his body again and was able to set his feet to meet Gunther’s attack. He ducked under a roundhouse swing and stepped in close to deliver a fast left and right to the big man’s belly.
Gunther had some fat on him, but underneath it were slablike muscles so as Preacher hit him it was like punching a wall. The mountain man tried to jerk his head out of the way of a careening fist, but it clipped him and knocked him to the side.
Preacher caught himself, blocked the next punch, and peppered Gunther’s already bleeding nose with a flurry of blows. Gunther howled in pain and rage and bulled forward. Preacher pivoted out of the way and tripped him. It might not have been the most sporting of tactics, but again, Preacher was in this fight to win.
In fact, he would have been more than happy to kick Gunther while he was down, but the Prussian rolled out of the way too fast. He slapped the ground and pushed himself up.
But as he did, his hand fell on a broken branch from one of the cottonwoods, and as he rose he gripped it like a club and swung it at Preacher’s head.
Preacher had to retreat as Gunther whipped the branch back and forth. His pistols had gotten wet, so they would have to be cleaned, charged, and primed again before he could use them. Anyway, he didn’t really want to kill Gunther, and for that reason he didn’t reach for his knife or tomahawk, either. He wasn’t afraid of the law, but he knew if he killed the Prussian, he would have to leave the riverboat. The count would never stand for having him on board. And he had given his word to Simon Russell to try to help.
The crewmen yelled, caught up in the excitement of the fight, and Dog barked thunderously. The big cur couldn’t contain himself anymore. He leaped easily from the deck to the shore and bounded forward, eager to get in on the fray.
“Dog, stay back!” Preacher shouted. If Dog knocked Gunther down, his fangs were likely to rip out the man’s throat before anybody could stop him.
Dog halted but continued snarling and yapping, ready to spring into action if Preacher should fall.
“I bash your head in, then kill that stupid dog, ja?” Gunther said as he paused in his swings with the makeshift club. “You lay a hand on the count, you deserve to die.”
“Seems like a mighty foolish notion to me, Gunther,” Preacher said. “I ain’t sure that stiff-necked aristocrat is worth either of us dyin’.”
Gunther roared again and renewed his attack.
Preacher was ready, though. He twisted out of the way as the branch descended toward his head and grabbed Gunther’s wrist with both hands. Twisting even more, he used the big man’s own momentum against him and hauled him forward, at the same time throwing a hip into Gunther’s body. It was a classic move the Indians used when wrestling with each other for sport.
Out of control now, Gunther flew into the air, turned over, and landed on his back with stunning force. Preacher grabbed the club and tore it out of his hands. He dropped to his knees next to Gunther’s head and pressed the branch into the big man’s throat with enough force to keep Gunther from breathing.
“I can crush your windpipe before you can stop me,” Preacher warned his opponent. “You might beat me, but even if you do, you’ll strangle to death before anybody can do anything about it.”
Gunther tried to growl and couldn’t even do that.
“I’m gonna step back and let you up, but this fight is over, you understand? Come at me again and I’ll kill you. That’s a promise, mister.”
Gunther lifted a hand, but instead of making a fist and striking at Preacher, he used it to wave the mountain man away.
Preacher lifted the branch from Gunther’s throat, stood up, and stepped back. Gunther rolled onto his side and gasped for breath.
Preacher knew the feeling. He had been doing the same thing a few minutes earlier.
“Bravo! What a stirring battle!”
The shout from the boat took Preacher by surprise. He looked up at the passenger deck and saw Roderick Stahlmaske standing there, an excited grin on his round face.
“Roderick!” his older brother snapped from the cargo deck. Roderick suddenly looked like a little boy who had been caught doing something he shouldn’t. He backed hurriedly away from the rail.
“I agree,” Sarah Allingham said from where she stood several yards along the railing. “It was a fabulous display of savagery.”
“Hush!” her mother scolded her. “And what are you doing out here in your nightdress? This is scandalous! Get back in the cabin right now.”
Stahlmaske jumped with athletic grace from the deck to the shore and stalked toward Preacher and Gunther. Preacher thought at first that he was going to help Gunther up, but then he realized he should have known better when the count strode past the still-gasping servant.
“My man’s crude defense of my honor changes nothing,” Stahlmaske said as he came to a stop in front of Preacher. “My challenge to you still stands.”
“You ain’t fixin’ to slap me again, are you?” Preacher asked. “I wouldn’t take it kindly.”
“I’ve already issued the challenge. There is no need to repeat it. It would have been more fitting had I had a gauntlet with which to strike you, but one must make do in a backward country such as this.”
“I got no interest in fightin’ a duel with you, Count. It’s a downright stupid idea if you ask me.”
Stahlmaske trembled with anger as his hands balled into fists at his side. He said, “Are you declaring yourself to be a coward, then? That is what refusing my challenge will amount to.”
Preacher glanced at the boat. He could tell from the faces of both Russell and Allingham that the two men wanted him to find some way out of this. They wanted the incident smoothed over.
Russell was an old friend and Preacher liked Allingham more than he’d expected to when he found out the man was a politician. But there were some things he just wasn’t going to do, even out of friendship.
“Nobody’s ever made me say I was yellow, and it sure as hell ain’t gonna start with you,” Preacher said. “I accept your challenge, Count. If you want a duel, you got one.”
Up on the cargo deck, Russell cursed softly. “Excellent,” Stahlmaske said. “As the challenged party, you have the choice of weapons. Will it be pistols or sabers?”
With pistols, Preacher was pretty sure that one or both of them would wind up dead. He might stand more of a chance of defeating the count in a knife fight without killing him. And a saber was just an overgrown knife, wasn’t it?
“I reckon sabers will do,” he said.
“Excellent!” Stahlmaske looked genuinely pleased. “Tomorrow morning at dawn we cross steel—in a duel to the death!”
CHAPTER 12
“Preacher, have you lost your mind?” Simon Russell asked a short time later.
Preacher was in Russell’s cabin, along with Senator Allingham and Captain Warner. The meeting had the atmosphere of a council of war, Preacher thought. Given the evidently delicate nature of the relationship between the United States and the Kingdom of Prussia, maybe that was a good description of it.
Allingham said, “Without being quite so blunt about it, this does seem to be a bad idea, Preacher. It’s going to cause trouble for a lot of people if you kill Count Stahlmaske in a duel.”
Preacher was using a rag to wipe off some of the slime that had gotten on his hat when Gunther knocked him into the river. Without looking up from the task, he said, “I don’t plan on killin’ him. That’s why I picked sabers instead of pistols. I got a hunch he’s a pretty good shot, so the only way I could be sure of him not killin’ me would be to blow a hole in him first.”
“But he’s an excellent duelist,” Allingham said. “Good Lord, he trained at Heidelberg!”
“And I’ve fought in scraps from New Orleans to the Pacific Ocean,” Preacher drawled. Satisfied that he had gotten most of the mud off his hat, he put it
on.
“But have you ever fought a duel with sabers before?”
“Not to speak of. But a saber’s just a big ol’ knife, ain’t it? I’ve been in plenty of knife fights.”
Russell sighed.
“You heard what the count said, Preacher. He’s going to be trying to kill you. You won’t have any choice but to defend yourself.”
“Unless you take your animals and leave the boat tonight,” Allingham suggested.
“Wait just a damned minute,” Warner said. “I sort of like the idea of having Preacher along on this trip.”
“So do I,” Russell agreed. “I just didn’t think this much would go wrong so fast. We just left St. Louis this morning!”
“Look,” Preacher said, “all I’ve got to do is knock that pigsticker out of his hand, and the fight’s over. Just because he wants to kill me, there’s nothin’ sayin’ I have to kill him.”
“He’ll be insulted,” Allingham warned. “He’ll still be nursing a grudge against you.”
Preacher chuckled.
“I can live with that.”
“I don’t see what else we can do other than hope for the best,” Russell said. “Preacher, we’re depending on you.”
“Reckon I’ll go ashore and turn in,” Preacher said. “The count wants to have this little ruckus at dawn, and I’d like to get some shut-eye before then!”
He took his bedroll and Dog and left the boat, which was now quiet and dark except for a few lamps turned down low. He spread his blankets on a level piece of ground under the trees and stretched out on them with his pistols, rifle, knife, and tomahawk all within easy reach right beside him.
Dog lay down on his other side. Preacher knew he could sleep soundly, confident that if any enemies came skulking around, Dog would know about it and wake him.
It took a lot to make Preacher lose any sleep at night, and the run-ins he’d had so far on this trip didn’t rise to that level. He dropped off quickly, falling into a deep, dreamless slumber.
When Dog growled sometime later, however, Preacher was awake instantly and completely alert. Soundlessly, he reached out and closed his hand around one of his pistols. He looped his thumb over the hammer but didn’t ear it back as he raised the weapon. He kept the hammer mechanism well-oiled, but it made a sound anyway when it was cocked. That couldn’t be helped. Preacher didn’t want to warn a keen-eared enemy that he was awake.
He put his other hand on the back of Dog’s neck, and the big cur fell silent. He wouldn’t make another sound until Preacher released him.
“Preacher?” a voice whispered. “Preacher, where are you? I know you’re out here somewhere.”
Preacher rolled his eyes in the darkness and didn’t reply. He recognized the voice and hoped that if he didn’t say anything, Sarah Allingham would give up and go away.
She kept coming, though, until she was practically on top of him. She whispered his name again.
“Careful,” Preacher said. “You’re fixin’ to step on me.”
Sarah gasped in surprise, but instead of jumping back as Preacher expected her to, she rushed forward. One of her feet thumped into his leg and she lost her balance. She fell and landed squarely on top of him. He barely got the pistol out of the way in time so the barrel didn’t jab her in the belly.
He had been in some pretty odd situations over the years, he thought, but this was the first time he’d ever had a nubile young woman who happened to be a senator’s daughter squirming around on top of him.
From a purely physical standpoint, it was a mighty pleasurable predicament. Sarah’s nightdress was thin and she didn’t seem to be wearing anything else. She was a well-packed armful of warm female flesh, too.
But she was an armful of trouble at the same time, so he rolled her off of him and sat up. She said, “Ooof !”
“Pipe down,” Preacher told her. “What in blazes are you doin’ out here?”
Her nightdress was tangled around her. She kicked her legs and straightened it out so she could sit up, too. The skin of her bare legs flashed in the dappled moonlight that came through the overhanging branches of the cottonwoods.
“Make up your mind,” she said. “Do you want me to be quiet, or do you want me to tell you why I’m here?”
“I reckon you better tell me. Just keep your voice down as much as you can.”
Sarah laughed.
“Really, Preacher. Can’t you guess?”
“If I had to guess,” Preacher replied grimly, “I’d say you’re tryin’ to get your pa to come after me with a shotgun. That wouldn’t be a good thing for anybody.”
“My father doesn’t care what I do,” Sarah said. “He just wants to stay in the good graces of the president. He has his eye on the job himself some day, or at least vice president.”
“Oh, I reckon he’d be upset, no matter what you think.”
“There’s no reason for him to be. I’m hardly the blushing maiden he believes I am.”
Preacher didn’t want to hear any of this. He didn’t want this brazen hussy of a girl involving him in any of her scheming. He pointed toward the river and said, “You’d better get back on the boat right now.”
“I’m liable to get caught.”
“You were able to sneak off of there without anybody noticin’. I reckon you can sneak on.”
She leaned closer to him and said, “Maybe I want to get caught. Did you ever think about that? Everyone knows you’re camping here under the trees. If they find out I’m coming back from here, what are they going to think? You know the conclusion they’ll leap to.” She reached up and rested a soft hand against his beard-stubbled jaw. “If you’re going to be damned for something whether you do it or not, doesn’t it make sense to go ahead and take whatever pleasure you can?”
Preacher took hold of her wrist and moved her hand away from his face.
“That way of thinkin’ gets people in trouble. There’s right and there’s wrong, and you can’t just argue one around into bein’ the other.”
“Why . . . why, you’re just a stiff-necked old Puritan!”
“Not hardly. But I’ve got sense enough not to get mixed up in somethin’ that can’t end no other way but bad.”
Sarah blew out her breath in an exasperated sigh. She stood up and hugged herself as if she were suddenly cold in the thin nightdress.
“All right,” she said. “I’ll go back to the boat. And if anybody catches me, I’ll say that I was just taking a walk and that I didn’t go anywhere near you. Satisfied?”
“That’s fine. It’d be better if you managed not to get caught, though.”
She snorted disgustedly and flounced away.
Preacher scratched Dog behind his ears and said, “You’d think a gal like that wouldn’t have no interest in a hairy, smelly old scoundrel like me. Like I said, there just ain’t no figurin’ women.”
Dog whined as if in agreement.
Preacher stayed awake long enough for Sarah to get back on the Sentinel. When he didn’t hear any commotion from the riverboat, he assumed she had made it onboard without being discovered. He dozed off again and slept soundly the rest of the night, until the sky began to lighten in the east with the approach of dawn.
Count Stahlmaske wanted to fight the duel at sunup, so Preacher went onboard and climbed the stairs to the passenger deck. When he went into the dining room, he found a gloomy Simon Russell already there, sipping from a cup of coffee.
Preacher poured himself a cup from a pot that sat on a sideboard and joined Russell.
“I reckon we’re goin’ through with this fool business,” the mountain man said.
“I haven’t heard any different,” Russell replied. “Are you sure there’s no other way out of this, Preacher?”
“The count called the tune.”
“I know. And I can’t really blame you.”
Preacher drank some of the strong, black brew and said, “I recollect a time when you would’ve done the same thing I’m doin’, Simon. When thing
s got rough, nobody ever made you back down.”
Russell sighed.
“That was a long time ago.”
“Not really. Just a few years.”
“Yeah, well, even a few years of working for wages and spending a lot of your time in town will change a man.”
Preacher shrugged in acceptance of that. At least Russell was wise enough to know that he wasn’t the same man he’d once been.
“Where’s this duel going to take place?” Russell went on.
“Don’t know. Wherever the count wants to fight it, I reckon. There’s room on the cargo deck right now, since it ain’t full of pelts yet, or we could go ashore.”
The dining room door opened and Captain Benjamin Warner came in.
“Gentlemen,” he greeted them with a nod.
Preacher grinned and said, “Folks seem to keep mistakin’ me for one of them critters.”
That brought a chuckle from the captain as he joined them.
Preacher didn’t eat any breakfast. He didn’t want anything weighing him down. Although he was confident in his own ability to meet any challenge, he knew that he had never used a saber before, while Count Stahlmaske was an expert with one. The count intended to kill him, too, if he got the chance.
Stahlmaske must not have had much of an appetite, either. He didn’t show up in the dining room. After a while, though, his Uncle Gerhard came in and said, “My nephew awaits you on the lower deck, Herr Preacher, if you are ready.”
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Preacher said as he drank the last of his coffee and got to his feet.
The eastern sky was full of beautiful reddish-gold light as Preacher emerged from the dining room. The sun hadn’t quite peeked over the horizon yet, but it was close. With Russell, Warner, and Gerhard Stahlmaske following him, Preacher went down the stairs to the cargo deck.
The count stood in the middle of the large open space forward. He wore high-topped boots, tight black trousers, and a blousy white shirt. His head was bare. He held a saber that he whipped back and forth. The blade made a faint keening sound in the early morning air.
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