Preacher's Showdown

by William W. Johnstone

  The sounds had been faint, and a breeze had sprung up, making it even more difficult to hear. If those were gunshots, they were several miles away, back to the east.

  Preacher had never quite shaken the feeling that someone was following them. Of course, the possibility that somebody was shooting back there didn’t have to have anything to do with the Harts’ wagon train. Maybe those Arapaho led by Antelope Fleet as the Wind were taking some target practice with the rifles Preacher and his companions had left behind, as agreed. Or there could have been some other Indian hunting party armed with rifles, or some white trappers, or, hell, almost anybody. The prairie was a big place. There was plenty of room for a lot of different people. Preacher’s brain knew that.

  His gut told him that trouble was dogging their trail.

  He waved the wagons forward and rode out to the side, turning Horse so that he could stare back at where they had been. His keen eyes searched the mostly flat landscape for a long time without seeing anything unusual. Nor did he hear any more shots after that brief flurry. Finally, he rode after the wagons, drawing rein and bringing Horse to a walk as he came alongside the wagon driven by Jerome Hart.

  “What’s wrong, Preacher?” Jerome asked. “You must have been looking behind us for a reason.”

  “Thought I heard some shots from back yonder somewheres,” Preacher replied. “Didn’t see nothin’ suspicious, though.”

  “Do you think we’re being followed?”

  “It was no secret, back in St. Louis, that you were comin’ out here with six wagons full o’ trade goods. Some men who ain’t no better’n they have to be would take that as a mighty temptin’ target.”

  “Yes, I can see where they would. But wouldn’t they have attempted to steal our goods before now?”

  “Maybe, maybe not. Depends on what they planned on doin’ with ’em. As long as you’re haulin’ the stuff to the mountains, they might figure to let you go ahead, thinkin’ they could ambush the wagons when you get there.”

  A worried frown creased Jerome’s forehead. “Do you think that’s possible?”

  “There’s a good reason I keep my eyes peeled for trouble,” Preacher said by way of answer. “For now, though, nobody’s chasin’ us, leastways not that I can see, so we might as well keep on pushin’ west.”

  Jerome nodded. “All right, but I think I understand now why it’s so important that we stand guard at night.”

  Preacher didn’t say anything to that. He thought Jerome should have figured it out long before now.

  Nor did he mention what he planned to do once night fell again. After the wagons were circled and everyone had settled down for the night except the men standing watch, Preacher intended to go on a little scouting mission. He had learned the Indian trick of being able to trot along for miles without stopping, tireless in his ground-eating stride. He would leave Horse here but take Dog with him, so that he could double back on their trail and find out once and for all if anybody was following them. If he was able to determine that somebody really was back there and meant harm to the Harts’ party, then Preacher would pay their camp a visit. Like a wraith, he would slip in, unseen in the darkness, and slit a few throats. That might convince the sons o’ bitches to turn back, when they woke up in the morning and found some of their number dead.

  But that was still a ways off, Preacher reminded himself. He couldn’t go skulking around in broad daylight. So he lifted a hand in farewell to Jerome and Jake and heeled Horse into a trot, taking his accustomed position again a short distance in front of the wagons.

  * * *

  Schuyler didn’t run into any more Indians or any other sort of trouble. He found the spot where the wagon train had been camped the night before. Easy to tell that was what it was because of the concentration of droppings from the oxen. Also, the wheel ruts leading west were deeper than the ones coming in because the ground was softer this morning, after the storm of the day before.

  Schuyler turned and rode back to rejoin Fairfax and the rest of the group, arriving at the place where they waited around midday. “It’s safe to go on,” Schuyler reported. “They’re headin’ west again, still followin’ the river.”

  Fairfax nodded in satisfaction. “All right. We’ll hang back the way we’ve been doing. Another week or so and they’ll reach the mountains. That’s when we’ll jump them, there in the foothills.”

  Schuyler thought his partner sounded awfully confident about how long it was going to take the wagon train to reach the mountains, especially since Fairfax had never been out here before and was sort of guessing, based on what he had seen of the maps Shad Beaumont had. But Fairfax usually turned out to be right, Schuyler reminded himself, at least enough of the time that they’d been able to get by so far, even if they hadn’t gotten rich.

  Getting rich required more than being smart and ruthless. It took luck, too, and that commodity was something that had always been in short supply in Schuyler’s life. That had changed now, though. Being hired by Shad Beaumont was just the break that he and Fairfax had always needed. Things were going their way now.

  Schuyler told himself that he ought to think about that more often. A lot of times, a man made his own breaks . . . and that started with believing in himself.

  Schuyler believed that he and Fairfax could do this. They could take over that wagon train, kill everybody with it, and take the goods for themselves. Well, for Shad Beaumont actually, but they would get a healthy share of the profits.

  It was worth killing for, being a success at last, he thought.

  * * *

  Even though the wagons didn’t bog down, the softer ground meant that their pace was somewhat slower that day. Preacher estimated that they covered only about five miles before he called a halt late that afternoon. The ground would be slow in drying out, so it might continue to delay their progress for several days. But they would push on anyway and make what headway they could.

  They were able to find enough buffalo chips that would burn in order to make a small fire. Preacher tended to Horse as he normally would while Jerome and Deborah prepared supper. He hadn’t told anyone about the nocturnal scouting trip he planned, and he didn’t intend to let anyone in on it except Blackie, who was the only one of the bunch Preacher fully trusted.

  Nor had he told anyone about what he had witnessed going on between Jerome and Deborah. He watched them together now, as they cooked supper, and everything seemed as proper as it could be. They were friendly with each other, but nothing more. There were no furtive touches on the arm or shoulder, no shared private laughter between them. Jerome was treating her just the way he ought to be treating the betrothed of his cousin and business partner, with courtesy and respect.

  When Jerome announced that the food was ready, everyone gathered around the fire to eat. Corliss said, “What was going on this morning, Preacher? You looked like something was wrong.”

  “Just thought I heard some gunshots off in the distance,” Preacher replied.

  Corliss frowned. “That’s not good, is it?”

  “Don’t necessarily mean a blamed thing. I know when you look around, it seems like we’re the only folks in a hundred miles or more, because the prairie’s so big and open and empty. But that ain’t the way it is. There are Indian huntin’ parties, like the one we saw this mornin’, and fur trappers comin’ and goin’ to the mountains, and even some surveyin’ expeditions every now and then, with an army escort.” Preacher waved a hand to take in the plains around them. “I’ve heard some folks who don’t know no better call this the Great American Desert. Well, it ain’t a desert, which same you can see for yourself just by lookin’ around, and it ain’t deserted neither.”

  “So you’re saying that we don’t have to worry about the shots?” Corliss persisted.

  Preacher frowned. “No, I ain’t sayin’ that at all. Out here, it pays to worry about anything that’s even a mite unusual. O’ course, nine times outta ten, it don’t amount to anything . . . but that tenth
time, you’d danged well better be ready for all hell to break loose.” He nodded to Deborah. “Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am.”

  “That’s all right, Preacher,” she told him with a smile. “I’m familiar with the concept of hell breaking loose, even though I suppose I’ve never really experienced it.”

  Corliss grunted. “If you were back in St. Louis, where you’re supposed to be, you wouldn’t have to worry about such things.”

  “I’m not worried,” Deborah said. “In fact, I’m having a wonderful time.”

  She seemed to be telling the truth about that, too, Preacher thought. She hadn’t complained about any of the hardships, and she had pitched in willingly to do her share of the work. Even though she wore a hat most of the time, her face had gotten enough sun to give it a nice, healthy tan, which just made her prettier than she had been to start with.

  Corliss turned away from the fire, muttering. Deborah’s lips tightened. Jerome looked at Deborah and shrugged as if sympathizing with her. That was the only indication Preacher saw of any sort of connection between the two of them, and it was very fleeting.

  After everyone had eaten, Preacher told Blackie and Neilson to take the first watch. The men nodded in agreement and picked up their rifles. They headed for opposite sides of the circle of wagons. Everyone else began getting ready to turn in, including Preacher, who planned to make it look like he had gone to sleep before he left on his scouting mission. Once the camp was settled down, he would slip over to Blackie and inform the one-eyed man of his plans.

  To make things look normal, Preacher stretched out on his blankets underneath one of the wagons and listened. It wasn’t long before he heard snoring from some of the vehicles. He waited a while longer, then was about to crawl out and get started, when he looked out and saw a dark shape flitting across the camp.

  Preacher frowned and his jaw clenched. Somebody else was skulking around tonight, and he didn’t like it. This was going to interfere with his plans. He watched as the shadowy figure left the camp. Figuring that he knew what was going on, he wasn’t surprised when a few minutes later someone else slipped away from the circle of wagons, being careful to avoid the places where Blackie and Neilson stood guard.

  Muttering a curse under his breath, Preacher told himself he’d just have to wait until Jerome, Hart and Deborah Morrigan were finished with their clandestine courting. He was sure they were the ones he had seen sneaking out of the camp. They were taking chances, not only with their affair, but also by venturing out onto the plains like that after dark. If they ran into any trouble out there, the odds were they wouldn’t be able to handle it themselves. If a Cheyenne or Arapaho or Pawnee war party came across them, they would lose their hair for sure.

  Preacher debated whether to go after them and keep an eye on them or just hope for the best, when that decision was taken out of his hands. He saw someone else cat-footing across the camp, then stepping over a wagon tongue and vanishing into the darkness. Now what the hell—!

  Preacher slipped out from under the wagon. Looked like there was gonna be a damned caravan of skulkers tonight.

  He was on his way past the wagon shared by Jerome and Jake when the youngster’s head poked out through the flap. “Preacher? Is that you?” Jake asked in a fairly loud voice.

  Preacher shushed him. “Keep it down, boy. Sound carries out here at night.”

  Jake dropped his voice to a whisper. “What’s goin’ on? Is there trouble? I woke up and Mr. Hart was gone. Have you seen him?”

  “Yeah, I know where he is,” Preacher said. “No need for you to worry about him.”

  “I thought maybe the Injuns had come back and there was gonna be a fight. I didn’t want to sleep through it.”

  “No, no Indians,” Preacher told him. “Go on back to bed now.”

  “All right. I guess Mr. Hart just went to answer the call o’ nature.”

  Yeah, it was a call of nature that Jerome was answering, all right, Preacher thought, but not the same sort of call that Jake was talking about.

  He waited until the boy had ducked back into the tent, then turned toward the spot where he had seen the three surreptitious figures disappear into the darkness.

  But he was too late, Preacher realized a second later when he heard Corliss Hart shout, “Deborah! Jerome! Oh, my God!”

  Deborah was about to get that first-hand experience with all hell breaking loose that she’d been talking about earlier.

  Twenty

  Deborah screamed, although the cry sounded more like it was prompted by surprise rather than fear. Preacher bit back a curse and loped toward the commotion. The voices of Corliss and Jerome were both raised in anger as they shouted at each other.

  “How dare you?” Corliss said. “My own cousin!”

  “This has nothing to do with you, damn it—” Jerome began.

  “Nothing to do with me! For God’s sake, it has everything to do with me! That’s the woman I intend to marry, and I find you with your hands all over her!”

  “Deborah will never marry you! She’s a fine woman, and she deserves a lot better than a man who treats her so badly like you, Corliss!”

  “You’re insane! I’ve never done anything to harm her!”

  “No, nothing but scold and belittle her in front of everyone! Good Lord, Corliss, can’t you even see how obnoxious you’ve been to her?”

  “She shouldn’t have come along!” Corliss insisted. “I knew something bad would happen!”

  “The only bad thing that’s happened is that this poor woman made the mistake of accepting your marriage proposal!”

  Deborah screamed again, but this time it was in words rather than an incoherent outcry. “Stop it, both of you! Just stop it!”

  Preacher heard shouts of confusion and alarm from the wagon camp behind him as the uproar roused everybody else. Not only that, but if there was anybody who meant them harm within hearing distance, then they knew what was going on, too, and might choose this moment as an opportune one to strike.

  “All of you hush, damn it!” Preacher ordered as he came up to Corliss, Jerome, and Deborah. Jerome stood with his left arm draped protectively around Deborah’s shoulders. She had both hands pressed to her mouth. Corliss stood a few feet away, glaring at them. Both of his hands were clenched into fists.

  Jerome turned his head enough to look at the mountain man. “This is a private matter, Preacher—”

  “Not anymore it ain’t,” Preacher broke in. “Not the way the two of you been bellerin’ like stuck pigs. I’d say that everybody within half a mile knows exactly what’s goin’ on.”

  “I’m sorry we disturbed the camp—” Jerome said.

  “What about me?” Corliss asked. “I’m disturbed! Hell, the way you two were going, you’d have been rutting on the ground like animals in another couple of minutes!”

  Deborah gasped. “That’s not true!” she said. “Jerome is a gentleman! He’s never done anything except . . . except kiss me. Even though I wanted him to . . . do more.”

  Corliss stared at her, aghast. “You . . . you trollop!” he said when he recovered from his apparent shock.

  Jerome took his arm from around Deborah’s shoulders and stepped forward. “How dare you!” he said. “You can’t talk to Deborah like that!”

  “Why not?” Corliss asked with a sneer. “Obviously, that’s what she is.”

  “Oh, hell,” Preacher muttered. He knew what was likely to happen next, and although he tried to get between the cousins, Jerome moved faster than Preacher expected him to. Jerome’s fist smashed into Corliss’s mouth, rocking the larger of the cousins back a step.

  Corliss caught himself and lifted a hand to rub his mouth where Jerome had struck him. An ugly grin stretched across his face as he said, “I’m glad you did that.”

  “Apologize! ”Jerome responded as if in his rage he hadn’t even heard Corliss’s comment. “I demand that you apologize to Deborah!”

  “Go to hell, both of you,” Corliss said.
>
  Then he launched himself in a diving tackle at Jerome.

  Both men went down hard as Corliss crashed into his cousin. Preacher stood there and shook his head as they rolled on the ground, punching and gouging at each other. Deborah clapped her hands to her mouth again and let out another horrified scream as everyone else in the group came pounding up, including Jake. The boy tugged at Preacher’s sleeve and asked, “What’s goin’ on? How come Mr. Corliss, and Mr. Jerome are fightin’? And ain’t you gonna stop ’em, Preacher?”

  “Too late for that, I reckon,” Preacher said. “They got to get out what’s inside of ’em, and the only way to do that is what they’re doin’ now.”

  “Yeah, but how come they’re whalin’ away on each other? Somethin’ happen to make ’em mad?”

  Gil Robinson snickered and said, “I reckon that gal happened.”

  “You mean Miss Deborah?”

  Preacher frowned at Robinson to keep the man from making some leering reply. He didn’t like Robinson much to start with. He wasn’t a hard worker, and he had caused trouble before this. Problem was, they needed him. If anything happened to Robinson, or any of the other men, they’d be short-handed. They should have brought more fellas with them from St. Louis, Preacher thought, but the Hart cousins had been responsible for hiring the crew.

  And now Corliss and Jerome were responsible for the fracas going on, although Deborah had had a part in it, too, Preacher told himself. She had to bear some responsibility for this awkward situation, first because she had come along on the journey when she wasn’t supposed to, and second because she had decided that she wanted Jerome instead of Corliss, the man she had promised to marry.

  The whole thing was a recipe for disaster if Preacher had ever seen one.

  Now they would just have to make the best of it. He turned to the others and said, “You boys go on back to the wagons. This ain’t any of our business, and those trade goods don’t need to be sittin’ over there without anybody watchin’ ’em.”