Preacher's Showdown

by William W. Johnstone

  “You lyin’ son of a bitch,” Foster grated.

  “Prove it,” Preacher said.

  With a roar of rage, Foster whipped the rifle to his shoulder, earing back the hammer and tightening his finger on the trigger.

  Nine

  Moving with blinding speed, Preacher sprang toward Foster. His left hand shot out and grabbed the flintlock’s barrel, wrenching upward so that when the rifle exploded, the heavy lead ball flew harmlessly into the air. At the same time, Preacher swung his right fist in a powerful punch that crashed into Foster’s jaw. The big, red-bearded man stumbled backward.

  Preacher tore the rifle out of Foster’s hands and rammed the stock into the man’s belly. Foster doubled over in pain. Preacher dropped the rifle, grabbed Foster’s shoulder, and brought his knee up into Foster’s face. Foster toppled onto his back and lay there groaning as blood welled from his broken nose.

  Preacher hooked a toe under Foster’s shoulder and rolled the stunned man onto his belly. “Leave him layin’ on his back and he’d be liable to choke on his own blood,” Preacher exclaimed. He wouldn’t have lost a lot of sleep over it if Foster died. The man had attacked a woman, and he had deserted his partners and left them to die. Either of those things would have damned Foster in Preacher’s eyes. Put ’em together and there was no doubt in Preacher’s mind that the fella was one no-account son of a bitch.

  But it was bad enough already that that Deborah Morrigan was standing there with a horrified expression on her face because of the violence that had occurred. She had delicate sensibilities, not those of a woman accustomed to life on the frontier, and Preacher was just chivalrous enough not to want to shock her anymore by standing by and allowing Foster to strangle to death on his own blood.

  Corliss Hart grabbed Preacher by the shoulder. “You had no right to do that!” he said. “You’ve injured our guide!”

  “Blast it, Corliss!” Jerome burst out. “Didn’t you hear what Preacher said? This man’s not trust-worthy!”

  “Oh, no? How do you know that Preacher’s telling the truth?”

  Preacher looked down at the hand on his shoulder and said in a low, dangerous voice, “I don’t cotton much to bein’ grabbed, Hart. I like it even less when the fella doin’ the grabbin’ hints that I’m a liar.”

  Corliss let go of Preacher and took a hasty step back, his face paling a little in the light from the cooking fire. “That’s not what I meant and you know it,” he said. “I just mean that we don’t know you any better than we do Foster here. We’ve no reason to distrust him and yet accept everything you say.”

  “You got the best reason in the world,” Preacher said. “He’s a no-good, lyin’ skunk, and to top it off, he don’t know the mountains that well neither. Even if he didn’t double-cross you, he’d be liable to get you lost or wind up with a war party chasin’ you, wantin’ to lift your hair.”

  Deborah shuddered. “Do things like that really go on, Preacher, or are they just stories to scare small children?”

  “You’d better believe they go on, ma’am, and it ain’t just youngsters that need to be scared. A little fear’s a mighty healthy thing when you’re dealin’ with the frontier.”

  Merrick Foster groaned and tried to push himself onto his hands and knees, succeeding after a moment’s effort. He shook his head groggily. Strings of blood dangled from his smashed nose.

  Preacher gripped Foster’s arm and hauled the man to his feet, lifting Foster’s weight without any noticeable effort. “Get on outta here,” he said as he gave Foster a shove and sent him stumbling back toward the settlement.

  “Damn it, you can’t just waltz into this camp and start giving orders!” Corliss complained.

  “He can if he’s going to work for us,” Jerome said. “As our guide, Preacher would be in charge of the wagons and everything to do with our journey. Isn’t that right, Preacher?”

  Preacher grimaced as he looked around. He saw the eager expressions on the faces of Jake Brant and Jerome Hart and the keen-eyed interest of Deborah Morrigan. He saw as well the irritation on Corliss’s face and the outright hatred blazing in the eyes of Merrick Foster.

  Circumstances had reared up and walloped him yet again. He hadn’t found the men he was looking for, but after revealing Foster’s true colors, he almost felt an obligation to help these greenhorns. If he didn’t, then there was a chance Foster would worm his way back into their good graces, or in their inexperience they might hire somebody else who would be just as bad as Foster or even worse.

  Well, it wasn’t like he was never coming back to St. Louis, he told himself. He would be back in the fall with another load of pelts. And just because he hadn’t found the men who killed Abby didn’t mean that he never would. They were obviously hiding out, and if he was gone for a while, they might let their guard down so that it would be easier for him to find them when he got back.

  Anyway, he had a long memory. The grudge could still be settled four or five months from now.

  “All right,” he said. “You’ve got a deal. I’ll take you to the mountains.”

  Jerome grinned, and Jake let out an excited shout. Foster shuffled off, cursing. Corliss just glared until Deborah led him away, talking softly to him as she tried to calm him down.

  Preacher shook hands with Jerome. “You won’t regret this decision,” the man from Chicago said, “and neither will we.”

  Preacher hoped he was right about that.

  * * *

  Shad Beaumont had advanced Schuyler and Fairfax enough money to rent themselves a room in a run-down boardinghouse where nobody asked any questions and nobody paid any attention to the tenants’ comings and goings either. For a few extra coins, the slatternly landlady had agreed to bring their meals up to their room on a tray, so they didn’t have to come down to the house’s dining room. With Preacher looking for them, the fewer people who knew where they were, the better.

  According to Beaumont’s information, the wagons belonging to the Hart cousins were leaving in a couple of days, early in the morning. That gave Schuyler and Fairfax time to figure out exactly how they were going to get their hands on the wagons. Actually, Colin Fairfax would do the figuring out. He handled most of the thinking chores for the partners, and that was the way Schuyler liked it.

  It would be best if they and some of Beaumont’s men could lie in wait somewhere and ambush the wagons. They could kill all the drivers, or at least most of them, before anybody knew what was going on. That ambush would be easier to set up, though, if they knew exactly which trail the wagons were going to follow.

  That realization prompted Fairfax to come up with an idea. Arranging the ambush would be even easier if they had someone with the wagon train working with them.

  Schuyler was the one who suggested Merrick Foster. He had known Foster casually for a while, and knew that the man was game for almost anything if the price was right. Foster already had sort of a bad reputation among his fellow mountain men, but those greenhorns from Chicago wouldn’t know that. And since the exact details of the fate that had befallen Foster’s former trapping partners were unknown, folks tended to keep their mouths shut about him, even though they might suspect him of deserting his companions.

  Schuyler got word to Foster through the landlady, and he came to the boardinghouse, climbing the back stairs to visit Schuyler and Fairfax without anybody else seeing him. Foster had agreed readily to the arrangement. He would try to get the job as guide for the wagon train full of supplies, and if he did, he would lead the wagons with their valuable cargo right into the ambush set up by Schuyler, Fairfax, and other members of Beaumont’s gang. All he had to do was insinuate himself into the cousins’ party somehow.

  Schuyler and Fairfax were waiting to see what the results of Foster’s efforts would be. Schuyler was restless. Hiding out like this was a tiresome, difficult business. He was bored. He wanted to go to a tavern. They had a jug of whiskey, so Schuyler could take a slug from it any time he wanted, but he craved company,
maybe a friendly game of poker, definitely a pretty serving gal hovering over him, bumping into him from time to time with a plump breast or a nicely curved hip. Instead, he was stuck here in this little room, staring at the walls.

  So he was glad for the diversion when a soft knock came on the door. Fairfax went over and leaned close to it, clutching a loaded pistol in his hand. “Who’s there?” he asked in a harsh whisper that disguised his natural voice.

  “Foster,” came the reply, and Schuyler thought there was something wrong with the man’s voice. It was thick somehow, as if he were having trouble talking.

  Fairfax swung the door open, and when Foster came in, Schuyler saw why he sounded that way. Foster’s lips were swollen, his face was bruised, and there was dried blood in his beard. Somebody had walloped him several good ones.

  “What the hell happened to you?” Fairfax asked as he closed the door behind Foster.

  Schuyler added, “You look like you been kicked by a mule.”

  Foster gave an angry grunt and said, “A mule named Preacher, damn his eyes!”

  Fear welled up inside Schuyler as he looked at Fairfax, who appeared to be equally startled by Foster’s words. “Preacher?” Schuyler practically yelped.

  “What are you talking about?” Fairfax snapped. “What does Preacher have to do with this?”

  “You know who he is?” Foster asked.

  Fairfax nodded. “Of course we do.” He glanced at Schuyler. “Everyone in St. Louis, ah, knows of Preacher.”

  Schuyler realized that Fairfax didn’t intend to tell Foster about their problems with Preacher. That wasn’t anybody else’s business. Certainly not Shad Beaumont’s. Beaumont probably wouldn’t have hired them if he’d known that Preacher was looking for them.

  “Yeah, well, those damn pilgrims have hired him as their guide,” Foster went on.

  Fairfax winced, and the worry inside Schuyler grew stronger.

  “I managed to get in good with Corliss Hart. Him and his cousin tried to hire Preacher first, and he put ’em off, claimed he had some business here in St. Louis to take care of.”

  Schuyler and Fairfax exchanged another glance. They knew all too well what that business was. Preacher was looking for them.

  “Corliss was tired of waitin’ for Preacher to make up his mind,” Foster continued, “so he hired me and said he’d get his cousin to go along with it. But when we got out to the wagon camp, Preacher was there, and he started tellin’ ’em all sorts of lies about me. Said they shouldn’t hire me, and that little weasel Jerome believed him.”

  “So you got in a scuffle with Preacher,” Fairfax guessed.

  Foster’s eyes narrowed. “He hit me while I wasn’t lookin’.”

  Schuyler doubted that; Preacher had no reputation for such treachery. On the contrary, he was known far and wide as an honorable man.

  “So he gave you a thrashing and sent you slinking away with your tail between your legs,” Fairfax said with a scornful glare. “And then he accepted the job with the Harts after all, I take it.”

  “He took the job. I hung around outside the camp long enough to hear that. But I didn’t slink away, damn it! I’ll settle the score with that son of a bitch if it’s the last thing I do!”

  “Well, I’m glad to hear that anyway.” Fairfax rubbed his chin. “Perhaps we can make use of you. The wagons aren’t leaving until the day after tomorrow. If something were to happen to Preacher between now and then, the Harts might not have any choice but to give you the job after all.”

  Foster’s eyes narrowed. “You reckon?”

  “What can it hurt to try?” Foster asked with a smile. “And at the very least, you’ll have the satisfaction of revenging yourself on Preacher.”

  Foster’s eyes burned with hatred as he nodded. “Damn right.” He smacked his right fist into his left palm. “I’ll do it! You care how?”

  Fairfax shook his head. “As long as we don’t have to worry about Preacher interfering with our plans, that’s all we care about. Isn’t that true, Schuyler?”

  “Uh, sure,” Schuyler said. “Just get rid of him, Merrick, and we’ll owe you one.”

  “Don’t think I won’t collect.” An ugly grin stretched across Foster’s face. “There was a really pretty gal with those cousins. I don’t know if she’s goin’ along on the trip or not, but if she is, I claim her, you hear?”

  “She’s all yours,” Fairfax assured him. “All we care about are the wagons and the goods they’ll be carrying. ”

  After a few more minutes of ranting about Preacher, Foster left. When he was gone, Schuyler looked at Fairfax and asked, “You really think he can get rid of Preacher for us?”

  “He’s your friend. You tell me.”

  Schuyler shrugged. “Merrick’s tough, and it don’t bother him to shoot somebody in the back or any other way he can. But goin’ up against Preacher . . . I just don’t know. Lord, when we got that job with Shad Beaumont, I thought we’d be gettin’ away from Preacher!”

  “So did I. Fate takes some mysterious turns, my friend. But with any luck, Foster will kill Preacher, and we won’t have to worry about him any longer. And if he doesn’t, well, we haven’t lost anything.”

  Maybe not, Schuyler thought, but that wouldn’t be true of Merrick Foster. Foster stood to lose a lot if he tried to kill Preacher and failed.

  Most notably, his life, because in that case, Preacher would sure as hell kill him.

  * * *

  Preacher spent the evening at the wagon camp, getting to know Jerome and Corliss Hart and getting a better idea just where it was they wanted to go. Once he knew that, he was better able to figure out which trail would be best for them to follow. He told them some of the obstacles they would face, both natural and in the form of possibly hostile Indians, but the cousins seemed unfazed by the potential for danger. Preacher would do his best to keep them safe, but sooner or later it was likely they’d have to fight. Corliss nodded almost eagerly when Preacher said that, but Jerome looked a mite nervous.

  When they were through talking, Preacher said good night to Jake and headed back toward Ford Fargo’s tavern. He hadn’t given up on finding the two men he was looking for before the wagon train left St. Louis. Since the wagons wouldn’t be rolling out until the day after tomorrow, Preacher intended to spend one more day searching the settlement for his quarry. If he didn’t find them then . . .

  Well, vengeance would just have to wait, he reckoned.

  The life he had led since leaving the family farm a little more than two decades earlier had taught him to always be watchful. When a stray cat suddenly dashed out of the black mouth of an alley Preacher was just about to pass, he stopped short, thinking that the cat must have been spooked by something else in that alley. Preacher twisted away from the dark maw of an opening and reached for the butt of the pistol stuck behind his belt.

  Before he could grasp the gun, a large, dark shape hurtled out of the alley, mouthing curses, and the gloom of night was split open abruptly by the glare of muzzle flame spurting from the brace of pistols the attacker thrust at Preacher.

  Ten

  Even as the guns roared, belching flame and lead, Preacher was twisting and falling away. He heard the heavy hum of a pistol ball passing through the air, close beside his ear. He didn’t know where the other shot went, but he was sure it hadn’t hit him.

  He landed on his shoulder and rolled, and as he came up he drew his own pistol and eared back the hammer as he lifted it. The weapon bucked in his hand as he pressed the trigger and its charge of black powder ignited.

  Most of the time, Preacher double-shotted his pistol, but since St. Louis was a crowded place and he didn’t want to spray lead around where it might strike an innocent person, tonight he had just one ball rammed down the pistol’s barrel atop the powder charge. Even as he fired, the man who had ambushed him was already ducking back into the alley. Preacher growled a curse as the varmint vanished without breaking stride. His return shot had missed.

&
nbsp; But that didn’t mean Preacher was going to let the bastard get away. He sprang to his feet and dashed after the ambusher, shoving his pistol back behind his belt as he did so. The man had fired both of his pistols, so his guns were empty, too. Preacher wasn’t going to take the time to reload when he had a perfectly good knife and tomahawk on him as well.

  Of course, the fella could have a rifle or another pistol stashed back in the alley, in which case Preacher might be running right into the face of another shot . . . but the mountain man would rather risk that than take a chance of the man getting away. It had already occurred to Preacher that the ambusher might be one of the two men he had been looking for. He had been hoping that they would come after him.

  Then there was the possibility that the second man could be lurking in that alley, too. A savage grin touched Preacher’s mouth as that thought crossed his mind. He didn’t care how many enemies were waiting for him. Bring ’em on. As long as his cause was just, that was all that mattered.

  The running footsteps he heard belonged to only one man, though. The fella was fleeing, rather than staying to put up a fight. Typical of somebody who would strike from hiding like that. Preacher’s keen eyes could see almost as well in the dark as those of the stray cat that had run out of the alley to inadvertently warn him. He picked out the shape of the running man up ahead as the varmint dashed through the shadows.

  Preacher plucked his tomahawk from behind his belt, paused, and then let fly with the Indian weapon, putting a lot of strength behind the throw. The ’hawk revolved through the air, turning over and over with blinding speed. With a solid, meaty thunk! it struck the man who had tried to kill Preacher. With a yell of pain, he went down. A clatter filled the alley, probably from garbage the man had knocked over as he fell.

  Preacher ran forward again. The ambusher struggled up to his feet, surprising Preacher a little. The man had a lot of strength and stamina. Most fellas would have stayed down after being hit by a tomahawk like that.