Preacher's Showdown

by William W. Johnstone

  He wasn’t going to say anything about it unless he had to, though. Pulling off this job successfully was more important than protecting his feelings.

  Anyway, from what little Fairfax had said about his background during the months they had been partners, he’d never had much luck. Born into a well-to-do family in Philadelphia, Fairfax had clashed with his father and his older brothers, and had eventually been forced to leave the city because of some scandal. Since then he’d led a hardscrabble existence, doing whatever he had to in order to survive. Sort of like Schuyler himself, who had run away from the family farm in Ohio after killing a man during a tavern brawl. Life was just hard all the way around, but now they had a chance to make it better. All they had to do was kill seven or eight men and steal those wagons and the trade goods they were carrying.

  “I want to at least be in sight of the mountains before we strike,” Fairfax went on. “It might even be better to circle around the wagons and wait for them in the foothills.”

  “That means we’ll be followin’ ’em for a month or more,” Schuyler said.

  Fairfax nodded. “Yes, but we brought plenty of supplies with us.”

  Schuyler rubbed his angular jaw, frowned worriedly, and said, “That’s that much more time we take a chance o’ Preacher figurin’ out that we’re followin’ the wagons.”

  “We’ll be careful,” Fairfax said in an offhand, unconcerned manner.

  Schuyler nodded. Still, the idea of Preacher being ready for them when they finally attacked continued to gnaw at his guts. He was beginning to get a bad feeling about this whole deal.

  But it was too late to back out now. Too late to do anything except go ahead and hope that success and a big payoff would be waiting at the end of the trail.

  * * *

  The wagon train reached Westport and laid over there for a day to give the livestock a chance to rest up after the haul from St. Louis. Preacher explained to Corliss and Jerome that they would make several more stops like that during the journey. It was better to spend an occasional day resting than to have the oxen start to break down.

  Westport wasn’t very big, but there were a couple of well-stocked stores. This was the jumping-off point for the trading caravans that headed down to Santa Fe, so a lot of wagon traffic passed through here. A few miles north, the settlement of Independence was also becoming an important departure point. Preacher knew one of the merchants in Westport, though, and was able to get a good deal for the cousins on the supplies they needed to replenish before striking out into the wilderness. If you ran out of flour or bacon halfway across the plains, you were out of luck. There was no place to buy any more.

  Westport was also the last place men could stock up on whiskey and enjoy a little female companionship. The Harts’ drivers all wanted to visit the local saloons and whorehouses. Preacher told them to go ahead. He would stay and watch over the wagons, along with Jake.

  As for Corliss and Jerome, Preacher didn’t know if they were interested in drinking and whoring. Corliss was engaged to Deborah Morrigan, of course, but that didn’t stop some men from carrying on with other women while they were away from their betrothed.

  Corliss climbed into his wagon to sleep, though, and Jerome joined Preacher and Jake. “This is really it, isn’t it?” he said as he sat down on a wagon tongue. “The edge of civilization?”

  “Yep,” Preacher agreed. “From here on, it’s all frontier.”

  Jerome stared off into the darkness to the west. “This seemed like such a good idea back in Chicago. It was going to make us rich men. Now I’m not so sure we should have come out here. There are so many dangers . . .”

  “You plan on gettin’ up tomorrow mornin’?” Preacher asked.

  “What?” Jerome shook his head in confusion. “Of course I plan on getting up.”

  ’Then you’re already runnin’ one hell of a risk, because you don’t know you’ll still be alive in the mornin’. You don’t even know the sun’ll rise, or goeth down in the evenin’, like it says in the Good Book.“

  “In Ecclesiastes,” Jerome said with a chuckle, “also known as the Book of the Preacher.”

  “Smart fella, ol’ Ecclesiastes.”

  “I take your point, Preacher. We take it on faith that the earth abideth forever. So we might as well have faith that our efforts will be rewarded, too.”

  Jake yawned. “Grown-ups sure do like to talk a lot. I think I’m gonna turn in.”

  “Good night, Jake,” Jerome said. When the boy was gone, he took out his pipe, packed tobacco in it, and smoked for a while as he and Preacher talked quietly about their route for the rest of the journey. Preacher had made sure that both Jerome and Corliss studied the maps they had before they ever left St. Louis, and he wanted them to keep the trail fresh in their minds. After a half hour or so, Jerome went to his wagon to sleep, too, leaving Preacher alone.

  Which he didn’t mind at all. He had always been a solitary sort of gent, happy when he was around other people but happy with his own company, too.

  He was sitting on the ground with his back leaned against a wagon wheel when he saw someone climb stealthily out of one of the other vehicles.

  Preacher drew in a deep breath, but otherwise gave no sign of what he had just seen. That wagon was the one Pete Carey drove, and Carey was off carousing in the taverns and brothels of Westport. Jake, Jerome, and Corliss were all asleep in other wagons, or at least they were supposed to be. The mysterious figure who had just emerged from Carey’s wagon was too tall to be Jake anyway, and not big enough to be Corliss Hart.

  That left Jerome, but Preacher had watched with his own eyes as Jerome climbed into the lead wagon a short time earlier. He supposed Jerome could have slipped out the other side of the vehicle, snuck over to Carey’s wagon, and crawled inside, but for the life of him, Preacher couldn’t think of any reason Jerome would do a thing like that.

  Silently, Preacher came to his feet as the shadowy figure moved away from the wagon. The starlight revealed that whoever it was wore the same sort of rough work clothes as the teamsters, as well as a dark felt hat with a large, round brim.

  Without making a sound, Preacher followed the figure as it went to one of the other wagons and stopped beside a water barrel lashed to the side of the vehicle. The intruder took something that had been slung around his neck on a strap and held it to the barrel. A water skin, Preacher decided. The son of a bitch was stealing water.

  That wasn’t as terrible a crime where they were headed as it was in some of the more arid parts of the country. A lot of streams, some small and some large, would be crossing their trail, so they would have plenty of opportunities to refill the water barrels as they went along.

  But that didn’t matter to Preacher. Stealin’ was stealin’, and anyway, whoever this was had no right to be here, clambering in and out of wagons that belonged to the Hart cousins. Preacher wondered if the interloper had been hiding out in Carey’s wagon all along. Maybe the fella only came out at night, and that was what had roused Preacher from sleep on several occasions, causing him to have those uneasy feelings. It made as much sense as any other answer.

  The answer Preacher wanted now was the identity of the skulker. He moved closer, still as silent on his feet as the Indians who were his friends and sometime enemies, and by the time the intruder finished filling the water skin and turned away from the barrel, Preacher was only a couple of feet away. His hands rested on the butts of his pistols, and he drew them from behind his belt and drew back the hammers as he raised them.

  “Don’t move or I’ll blow holes in you,” he grated.

  The intruder dropped the water skin and cried out in surprise at the sight of Preacher and that menacing brace of pistols, then cringed back against the wagon. With a low moan, the figure crumpled to the ground in what appeared to be a dead faint.

  And Preacher was left standing there with a shocked look on his face, as he realized that the voice he had heard cry out belonged to a woman.

 
; Fourteen

  It took a lot to throw Preacher for a loop. But he was well and truly surprised as he stood there looking down at the woman who had fainted. The broad-brimmed hat had fallen off her head when she collapsed, and the thick dark hair that had been tucked up inside it had spilled out, forming an ebony pool around her face as she lay on her back.

  “Son of a bitch,” Preacher muttered under his breath. He realized he still had his thumbs looped over the hammers of his pistols. He uncocked them and lowered the guns with care, then tucked the weapons behind his belt again. Dropping to a knee beside the woman, he started to put a hand on her shoulder so he could try to shake her back to consciousness, but then he hesitated. It wouldn’t hardly be proper to touch a woman when he didn’t even know who she was.

  But he had a pretty good idea, he thought, and practicality trumped chivalry. He took hold of her shoulder, gave it a good shake, and said in a low voice, “Wake up, Miss Morrigan. Best wake up now.”

  Deborah Morrigan moaned again and tried to lift her head. Her eyes fluttered open, and as she saw Preacher’s dark shape looming over her, a short, sharp cry of fear came from her lips. He clamped his other hand over her mouth, abruptly silencing the sound.

  Deborah tried to struggle against him, but his firm grip on her shoulder pinned her to the ground. Leaning closer to her, Preacher hissed, “Settle down, blast it! I ain’t gonna hurt you. I just don’t want you raisin’ a big ruckus before I find out what in blazes is goin’ on here.”

  Deborah’s attempts to free herself subsided. Preacher went on. “If I take my hand away from your mouth, are you gonna scream or anything foolish like that?”

  She shook her head.

  “All right. I’m gonna take your word for it.” Preacher lifted his hand from her mouth.

  Deborah drew in a quick, sharp breath, and for a second Preacher thought she was about to yell. Instead, she said in a quiet voice, “Will you help me up?”

  Preacher got to his feet, grasped her hands, and lifted her with ease, even though she wasn’t what he would call skinny. She was a woman with a bit of heft to her, which just made her even more attractive. He was uncomfortably aware of how the tight trousers she wore molded the curves of her hips and thighs.

  “I suppose you wonder what I’m doing here,” she said.

  “Nope,” Preacher replied. “You’re showin’ Corliss Hart that just because you’re engaged to marry him, that don’t mean he can tell you what to do, and he sure can’t forbid you from doin’ something you want to do.”

  “Well, that’s not all of it, of course. I really don’t want to be separated from him for a year or more.”

  “So you figured you’d just come along no matter what anybody said.” Preacher’s voice was grim. “You been hidin’ in Pete Carey’s wagon all along, ever since we left St. Louis, and sneakin’ out at night to get some air, and maybe some food and water.”

  “There’s food in the wagon,” Deborah said. “I brought my own supplies. And I have a water skin with me and I’ve been making it last. But tonight I drank the last of the water and had to refill it.” She sighed. “I thought everyone was asleep. I overheard you earlier telling Corliss and Jerome that it wouldn’t be necessary to post any guards tonight, so I thought it would be safe to come out and stretch my legs for a while.”

  “What I want to know is how you managed to hide from Carey.” Preacher paused as realization dawned on him. “You didn’t hide from Carey, did you. He’s known all along you were ridin’ in his wagon. He must have.”

  Deborah nodded. “He knew. But please don’t be angry with him. I begged him to help me.”

  And Pete Carey, like most fellas, had never learned how to say no when some good-lookin’ female came to him begging for help, Preacher reckoned.

  “Come on,” he said, his voice gruff.

  Deborah hung back. “What are you going to do?”

  “Let the fella who’s gonna be your husband decide what in blazes to do with you,” Preacher snapped.

  “No! You can’t tell Corliss!”

  “He had to find out sooner or later, didn’t he?”

  “Yes, but... but we’re still too close to St. Louis!” A note of panic came into Deborah’s voice. “He’s liable to send me back!”

  That sounded like a good idea to Preacher, but it wasn’t his decision to make.

  When Deborah still hesitated, he said, “Don’t make me drag you over there, ma’am.”

  “You wouldn’t dare! ”

  “I reckon it’d be better if we didn’t find out what I’ll dare and what I won’t.”

  “Oh, all right.” She sighed. “I suppose I might as well face up to this.”

  “Always best to meet trouble head-on,” he told her.

  They crossed to the other side of the circle, where Corliss’s wagon was parked. Preacher rapped his knuckles against the sideboards and called in a low voice, “Hart! Wake up.”

  A moment later, muttering groggily, Corliss stuck his head out through the canvas flaps at the rear of the wagon. He leaned over the tailgate and said, “Preacher? What the hell’s going on? Is there trouble?” His sleep-blurred gaze landed on Deborah. “Who’s that with you? It looks like—My God! Deborah!”

  Corliss’s startled shout did away with any chance of settling this problem without rousing the whole camp. He scrambled over the tailgate and dropped to the ground. Grabbing Deborah by the shoulders, he demanded, “What in heaven’s name are you doing here? Why are you dressed like that?”

  “Please, Corliss,” she said in a strained voice. “You’re hurting me.”

  Corliss let go of her and took a step back. Even in the faint light from the stars and the low-rising moon, Preacher could see that his eyes were wide with shock.

  “What’s going on out there?” Jerome called from the next wagon. “Corliss? Preacher? What’s wrong?”

  “You’d better get out here, Jerome,” Corliss replied. “We’ve got a problem.”

  Jake had been sleeping under Jerome’s wagon, but the commotion had awakened him, too. He crawled out as Jerome climbed down, and together they came over to the little group beside Corliss’s wagon.

  “Miss Morrigan?” Jerome exclaimed when he saw Deborah. Jake just let out a whistle of surprise.

  “My goodness,” Deborah said. “You all act like you’ve never seen a woman before.”

  “I certainly didn’t expect to see you here, Miss Morrigan,” Jerome said. “How in the world did you get here?”

  “She’s been travelin’ with us all along, ever since we left St. Louis,” Preacher explained. “Hidin’ out in Pete Carey’s wagon.”

  “Carey!” Corliss said. “I’ll thrash him!”

  “You’ll do nothing of the sort,” Deborah said as her chin tilted in defiance. “He’s been very helpful to me, and he’s conducted himself like a perfect gentleman. You have no reason to be angry with him.”

  Jerome said, “Other than the fact that he knew you weren’t supposed to be here, and yet he brought you along anyway and helped you hide from the rest of us.”

  Deborah shrugged.

  “Don’t worry about Carey right now,” Preacher suggested. “What’re you gonna do about the lady here?”

  “Send her back to St. Louis, of course,” Corliss snapped. “The frontier is no place for a woman. You said so yourself, Preacher.”

  So he had, but Preacher had been thinking the situation over, and he realized now that the problem was even worse than his first impression of it had been. The solution wasn’t as simple as Corliss made it sound.

  ’Just how do we go about doin’ that?” he asked.

  “Doing what?”

  “Sendin’ Miss Morrigan back to St. Louis.”

  “Well, we just—” Corliss stopped short and frowned. “I suppose we could . . . surely there must be some way . . .”

  ’Wait just a moment,“ Jerome said. Obviously, he had been thinking about the problem, too. ”We don’t have any extra men. Everyone
except Preacher is needed to drive the wagons, and we have to rely on Preacher to scout out our route and guide us.”

  Preacher nodded. “That’s right. You can’t spare a man to go back with Miss Morrigan, and you sure can’t make her start out across Missouri on her own.”

  Corliss was thinking hard, trying to come up with an answer. “Maybe we can hire somebody here in Westport to accompany her,” he suggested.

  “You’d trust one of these frontiersmen to escort your fiancée all the way back to St. Louis?” Jerome protested.

  “I won’t go,” Deborah said.

  The men ignored her. Corliss said to his cousin, “No, I suppose that wouldn’t be a very good idea. Maybe she could stay here in Westport instead of waiting for me in St. Louis.”

  It was Preacher’s turn to shake his head. “Westport may be a settlement, but it’s still a mighty rough place. No place for a gal by herself unless she’s plannin’ on goin’ to work in one of the houses.”

  “I beg your pardon!” Deborah burst out. “How dare you make such an insinuation!”

  “I ain’t insinuatin’ nothin’,” Preacher said. “I’m just sayin’ it wouldn’t be a good idea to leave you here by yourself for the next year or so.”

  Jerome shook his head. “We have no choice. We’ll all just have to turn around and take the wagon train back to St. Louis. Then we can start west again.”

  “But that means we will have wasted two weeks!” Corliss said.

  “Do you have a better idea?” his cousin shot back.

  Corliss didn’t say anything, but Preacher did. He could hardly believe the words were coming out of his mouth as he said, “Take her with us.”

  Corliss, Jerome, and Jake all turned to stare at him. So did Deborah, for that matter. They all seemed to be struck speechless.

  Finally, Corliss said, “Take her with us? Preacher, have you gone mad? We all agreed back in St. Louis that the frontier was no place for a woman, especially not for one as pampered and helpless as Deborah!”

  “I can take of myself!” she said. “Haven’t I proven it by making it this far without being discovered?”