Preacher's Slaughter

by William W. Johnstone

  “You sure are,” Preacher drawled, and he figured he probably enjoyed that a little more than he should have.

  Stahlmaske was still fuming—and reeking of buffalo droppings—by the time they got back to the Sentinel. Gunther came out to meet them. The count dismounted and shoved the reins of Roderick’s horse into Gunther’s hand. He stalked past the servant and went across the board that had been laid from the deck to the shore.

  Gretchen Ritter, Margaret Allingham, and Sarah were at the railing on the passenger deck with Captain Warner. The captain called to the group, “I was just about to blow the whistle to let you know we’re ready to go again. Looks like you ran into some trouble.”

  Ludwig and Egon hurried to take charge of the horses as the others swung down. Preacher shook his head to tell them that he would take care of Horse himself. He told Warner, “The count’s a mite shaken up but not really hurt.”

  Stahlmaske probably heard that as he climbed the stairs to the second deck, but Preacher didn’t care.

  Gretchen started toward the stairs to meet Stahlmaske, but Margaret put a hand on her arm to stop her.

  “You might want to leave him alone right now, my dear,” the senator’s wife said. “A man whose pride and dignity have been wounded doesn’t want to be around the woman he’s going to marry until he’s had a chance to clean up a little.”

  Gretchen nodded and said, “Danke. I think you are right, Mrs. Allingham.”

  “I usually am when it comes to men,” Margaret said.

  Preacher overheard that conversation and wondered again if it had been Margaret he had seen sneaking to the count’s cabin a few nights earlier. That late-night visit had not been repeated as far as he knew, but he couldn’t be certain that Stahlmaske and his lover hadn’t gotten together again.

  Preacher unsaddled Horse and led the stallion back onto the barge. Horse’s speed was as responsible as anything else for saving the count’s life today.

  As Preacher stepped ashore after tending to Horse, Allingham approached him and said, “Come up to the salon with me, Preacher. I’d like to buy you a drink.”

  Allingham wasn’t actually buying anything—the American Fur Company was furnishing everything on this trip—but Preacher supposed it was the gesture that counted. He and the senator went aboard the riverboat, climbed to the second deck, and went into the salon where they joined Simon Russell and Captain Warner.

  “Simon’s been telling me about what happened, Preacher,” Warner said. “Good Lord, I never heard of such a thing. Talk about snatching somebody from the jaws of death!”

  “Hooves of death is more like it,” Preacher said with a wry smile.

  “It would have been an ugly way to die, that’s for sure,” Russell said.

  “And quite possibly the ruination of my career,” Allingham added. “The president is counting on me to see to it that Count Stahlmaske enjoys his visit to our country and returns to Washington safely. If anything were to happen to him . . .”

  Allingham shook his head and didn’t complete the sentence, but he didn’t have to. His meaning was clear.

  “Well, I think this deserves a drink,” Warner said, “and then I need to get back up to the pilot house. We’ve got several hours of daylight left, so we can put some more miles behind us.” He paused, then added, “I’d really like to get past Cougar Bluffs tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Preacher was familiar with the stretch of the river known as Cougar Bluffs. He had paddled through there many times in a canoe, bound up or down the Big Muddy. It was about half a mile long, although it seemed longer than that because the stream made several sharp bends as it narrowed down and ran between steep limestone bluffs that rose about fifty feet.

  When they were within a few miles of the bluffs the next day after the ill-fated and almost disastrous buffalo hunt, Preacher climbed to the pilot house and said to Captain Warner, “You reckon you could put in to shore for a few minutes?”

  The captain frowned in surprise.

  “Why would we do that?” he asked. “The engine’s running fine today.”

  “I know that,” Preacher said, although in truth all he could go by was the way the engine sounded. The dials and gauges connected to the engine room and mounted on the wall of the pilot house didn’t mean anything to him. “I’m gonna take Horse and Dog and do a little scoutin’.”

  “You think there might be trouble up ahead at the bluffs,” Warner guessed.

  Preacher shrugged.

  “River pirates been known to hang around there before. It’s a good place for an ambush.”

  “That’s true. Because of the way the river winds around, you can’t take it very fast, and there are plenty of places to hide, too.” Warner gave a decisive nod and used the speaking tube to call down to the engine room and order a slowdown. He spun the wheel and turned the Sentinel toward the shore.

  By the time Preacher reached the passenger deck, Simon Russell had come out of the salon where he’d been with the others in the party. With a worried frown on his face, he asked, “Is something wrong, Preacher?”

  “I don’t know,” the mountain man replied. “I had a feelin’ yesterday that somebody might be keepin’ an eye on us, and this boat’ll be a pretty temptin’ target when we go past Cougar Bluffs. Thought it might be a good idea to take a look around on horseback before we get there.”

  Count Stahlmaske had followed Russell out of the salon and arrived in time to hear Preacher’s answer. He nodded and said, “A reconnoitering expedition. An excellent idea. I’ll join you.”

  “Don’t recollect askin’ for company,” Preacher said flatly.

  Stahlmaske returned the cool stare that the mountain man gave him. He said, “You forget that I am a military man, Herr Preacher. I have tactical experience.”

  “You never fought river pirates.”

  “I’ve fought the French and the Austrians.”

  Preacher’s grunt told plainly how unimpressed he was by that claim. The count flushed angrily.

  “I will follow your orders,” he said, although Preacher could tell it cost him an effort to make such a promise.

  “You were supposed to do what I told you yesterday, and instead you chased off after those buffalo and almost got yourself killed.”

  “I realize you saved my life,” Stahlmaske said stiffly. “I owe you a debt of gratitude. I will pay it by allowing you to be in command of this scouting foray.”

  “That’s mighty generous of you,” Preacher said dryly. He could tell the count was getting even angrier, so he went on, “All right, you can come with me, as long as you do what I tell you. If you get yourself in trouble, though, don’t expect me to yank you out of it.”

  “Agreed,” Stahlmaske said with a brusque nod.

  Russell asked, “Do you want me to come along, too?”

  Preacher thought about it for a second, then said, “No, you better stay on board, Simon. If there’s trouble, I’d like to know there’s a good fightin’ man here to take charge.”

  “Thanks, Preacher. I can do that.”

  Preacher hoped his old friend was right and that time and city living hadn’t softened Russell too much.

  Once the riverboat was tied up, it didn’t take long to get Horse and one of the other mounts off the barge and saddled up. The count, wearing dark clothes and a black, flat-crowned hat, brought two pistols and a rifle with him. As the two men swung up into their saddles, crew members untied the lines and jumped back aboard. Warner waved from the pilot house and called, “We’ll pick you up on the other side of the bluffs.”

  Preacher waved in agreement and turned Horse away from the river. He and Stahlmaske rode along the shore with Dog ranging ahead of them.

  “Tell me about this place,” the count said. “Why is it called Cougar Bluffs?”

  Preacher described that stretch of the river, then said, “Years ago, when fur trappers were first goin’ upriver to the mountains, there was a cougar that would stand out on one
of the bluffs and yowl at the men as they paddled past in their canoes. It was like he was sayin’ howdy to ’em, or maybe he was mad because they were out there in the river and he couldn’t get to ’em. Either way, fellas got used to seein’ him there, and they started callin’ the place Cougar Bluffs.”

  “Is that a true story, or just a legend?”

  “True story,” Preacher said. “I saw the varmint myself, a time or two when I was young. Then he stopped showin’ up. Everybody figured he got old and died, or else some other critter got him. Whatever happened to him, the name stuck.”

  “I’m surprised none of you rough and ready mountain men shot him.”

  Preacher shook his head.

  “Nobody would’ve done that, because it got to where folks regarded him as sort of a good luck charm. Fellas who live up in the high lonesome for a while, mostly by themselves, tend to get a mite superstitious.”

  “Superstitions are for the ignorant peasants,” Stahlmaske said with his customary arrogance. He couldn’t seem to contain it for very long.

  “Maybe so, but like I said, when you get up in that high country you’ll see some things you can’t really explain any other way.”

  The count let out a disdainful snort. Preacher let the subject drop. He knew arguing with Stahlmaske would be a waste of breath.

  He led the count about half a mile away from the river before turning north so they were riding roughly parallel to the course of the stream. He saw the bluffs rising in the distance. From here they were just gray-green humps, mottled because of the thick brush that grew in places on them.

  “Do you really think river pirates may be waiting there?” Stahlmaske asked. He didn’t sound worried about the possibility. If anything, he was hopeful that the Sentinel might be attacked. He was ready for some excitement again.

  “It’s the best place along here to lay an ambush,” Preacher replied.

  “Surely they know that the riverboat captains are aware of the danger.”

  “Probably,” Preacher agreed with a shrug. “But there’s no other way for the boats to go. It ain’t like they can avoid that stretch.”

  “But they can be prepared for trouble.”

  “Pirates don’t care. If they didn’t want to fight, they wouldn’t be pirates in the first place. I reckon killin’ just comes natural to most of ’em.”

  “They sound like the sort of men who make good soldiers, those who are eager to impose their will on others.”

  “I ain’t so sure about that,” Preacher said slowly. “I ain’t been a soldier since the Battle of New Orleans, back in fourteen, but it seems to me a good soldier’s got to be willin’ to take orders, too.”

  “These pirates don’t follow the commands of their leader?”

  “I suppose they do, as long as he’s strong enough that they’re more scared of him than they are of the folks they’re fightin’.”

  Stahlmaske nodded and said, “Exactly. You’re agreeing with me whether you know it or not, Preacher.”

  The mountain man just grunted. He couldn’t help but recall what Gretchen had said about him and Stahlmaske being too much alike. It gave him the fantods to think that she might be right in some ways.

  After a few moments of silence, the count asked, “What are we looking for?”

  “If there’s an ambush, likely the pirates will have some riflemen on at least one of the bluffs, maybe both,” Preacher explained. “They’ll try to pick off the cap’n in the pilot house or at least make him dive for cover so he won’t be able to handle the wheel. The rest of the gang will be waitin’ in canoes just around one of the bends where they can’t be seen until the boat’s almost right on top of ’em. They’ll paddle out and jump aboard and try to wipe out any of the crew that puts up a fight. In every bunch there’s nearly always a fella who can steer a boat and another who can run the engine. They’ll take over, bring the boat to shore, and loot whatever they want off of it.”

  “They sound like barbarians.”

  “That’s a pretty good description of ’em,” Preacher agreed.

  “Sooner or later they’ll be wiped out. Civilization always triumphs over barbarism.”

  Preacher knew better than that. He figured it was the other way around. But a man like Stahlmaske could never understand that.

  That was one way they were different, anyway, the mountain man thought with some degree of satisfaction.

  After a few more minutes, Stahlmaske asked with a note of worry creeping into his voice, “These pirates . . . what will they do if they take over the boat and find women aboard?”

  “You’re just now thinkin’ about that?”

  “Answer the question,” Stahlmaske snapped.

  “They’ll do just what you’d think they’d do,” Preacher said. His voice took on a grim edge, too. “Most of ’em are just as bad as what you’d expect, and they ain’t gonna treat the ladies gentle-like.”

  The count muttered something in German, then said, “Then we must hurry and make sure the boat is not steaming into a trap!”

  “That’s what we’re here for,” Preacher said. He lifted his head a little as he heard the distant wail of a steam whistle. “That’s Cap’n Warner lettin’ us know the Sentinel’s almost at the bluffs. I told him to signal me so I could tell where the boat is.”

  He turned Horse and started up a slope that led to the limestone outcroppings over the river. Trees and brush covered the way ahead. Preacher took his rifle from the sling that held it and rode with the weapon across his saddle, ready for use. Stahlmaske followed suit as he fell in alongside the mountain man.

  They hadn’t reached the bluff when Preacher saw a sudden puff of smoke from the trees. A second later he heard a rifle ball hum past his head.

  “It’s an ambush, all right!” he called to Stahlmaske as he kicked Horse into a run. “Come on!”

  CHAPTER 19

  Claude Binnion waited in the middle of the lead canoe, his hands wrapped tightly around the flintlock rifle he held. Behind him was Big Wedge, the most powerful paddler in the gang. In the front of the canoe sat a man named Hiram Bracknell, also a strong paddler and a good shot with both rifle and pistol.

  The other canoes bobbed on the river just behind the spot where Binnion’s canoe floated. A few yards away, the rocky bluff jutted out into the Missouri, forming one of the sharp bends that the stream took as it passed through Cougar Bluffs. Because of that bend, Binnion couldn’t see the approaching riverboat but he could sure hear it, both the rumbling engine and the splashing paddle wheel at the back of the vessel.

  Binnion looked around at his men and grinned in anticipation. Some of them had been a little surly since the day before when he had vetoed the idea of attacking the riverboat while some of the male passengers were gone. Binnion had stuck stubbornly to his plan, though, and now they were all going to see that he had made the right decision.

  He looked up at the bluff on the near side of the river. Two riflemen were posted up there, good marksmen who would pepper the pilot house with shots. A third man was on the far bluff, charged with the same task. If any of them got a clear shot at whoever was handling the wheel, Binnion had told them to go ahead and kill him. At the very least their shots would make the pilot dive for cover.

  That wouldn’t make the engine quit, of course, but with no one at the wheel the Sentinel would have to come to a halt. The river was too narrow here—no more than fifty yards across—and had too many bends to risk steaming on blindly. The boat would crash into the bluff on one side or the other unless it stopped.

  As soon as the boat began to slow, the men waiting in the canoes would spring into action. Wedge and the other paddlers could drive the sleek, lightweight craft across the river’s surface at a fast rate of speed. They would pull alongside the Sentinel before the crew could mount a defense and leap aboard to wipe them out.

  Then would come the best part: gathering up the loot.

  Which in this case included women.

  Binni
on’s heart slugged heavily in his chest at the thought. It had been a while since he’d had a woman. He intended to claim the best-looking one for himself, and none of the others would dare to argue with him.

  Anyway, they all knew they could have her when he was done with her. They would just have to be careful not to kill her. She would be worth money when Binnion got around to selling her. Any white woman was, out here on the frontier.

  The boat’s engine was loud enough now that he knew it would be only a matter of minutes, maybe even seconds, before it rounded the bend. He could even see the black smoke from its stacks rising above the bluff.

  Binnion glanced back at Wedge and asked, “Ready?”

  The big man grinned and nodded.

  The Sentinel’s bow came into view, followed by the passenger deck and pilot house and the twin stacks.

  From atop the bluffs, shots boomed, echoing back from the limestone cliffs. Binnion saw the figure in the pilot house disappear. The man was either hit or had dropped to the floor to get out of the line of fire. The paddle wheel began to slow down.

  “Go!” Binnion shouted to Wedge and Bracknell. “Get us out there!”

  Powerful muscles drove paddles into the water, and the canoe sprang forward. The others were right behind.

  Shots banged from the riverboat’s cargo deck. The crew was ready to do battle, Binnion realized. They hadn’t been taken by surprise after all. Somebody on board had suspected that they might be steaming into an ambush.

  But it didn’t make any difference. Everything in life carried risks. As far as Binnion was concerned, a man had never really lived until he had put his own life on the line and seized whatever he wanted.

  Rifle balls plunked into the muddy water not far from the canoes, raising little splashes. The lightweight bark craft were moving so fast, though, that it was difficult to draw a bead on them. Binnion always launched his attacks at an angle, too, so the man in the middle in each boat who wasn’t paddling had an unobstructed line of fire at the defenders.