Preacher's Quest

by William W. Johnstone

  “If we leave ’em alive, they’ll be right behind us on our trail, just itchin’ to kill us,” Preacher said. “I don’t know about you, but I’m tired o’ messin’ with ’em. They opened this ball. They can damn well dance to the tune they called.”

  “Damn right,” Rip added with a solemn nod.

  “I agree,” Carling said. “These are evil men, Jasper, and I, for one, intend to deal with them in the manner in which they should be dealt.”

  Preacher grinned and clapped a hand on Carling’s shoulder. “You’ve got more sand than I gave you credit for at first, Willard. I reckon you’ll do.”

  Carling rested a hand on the butt of his pistols and said, “Jasper and I will be ready when the time comes for us to make our move, Preacher. You can count on us.”

  “Yep. I believe I can.”

  With that, Preacher and Rip stole off into the darkness, heading for the camp on the bank of the stream. They worked their way around so that they could approach the place from downwind.

  The fire had been out for hours, but a faint, mingled scent of burning wood and roasting meat lingered on the night breeze. Preacher and Rip moved in utter silence, not needing to talk to know what they were doing. Both men had crept through the night intent on dealing death on other occasions. They split up, moving through the tall grass about ten yards apart with such stealth that it appeared the blades were simply rustling in that breeze.

  Several of the men in the camp were snoring loudly. That would help to cover up any slight sounds Preacher and Rip might make. It was an indication, too, of how soundly the kidnappers were sleeping.

  Preacher raised his head enough to get a look at the camp in the starlight. He located the trees where Sinclair and Faith were tied and pointed them out silently to Rip. Then they resumed their slow, careful approach. Preacher drew his knife from its sheath with the barest whisper of steel against soft leather.

  He was behind the tree where Sinclair was tied. As he reached it and began to saw through the rawhide bonds, he heard the sharp intake of breath from Sinclair and saw the way the man jerked a little as he came awake. Preacher’s mind went back to how Sinclair had reacted when the Sioux were holding the Easterners prisoner and Preacher had tried to free them. That night, Sinclair had provoked a bloody battle by yelling out.

  This time, though, after the first startled inhalation, Sinclair was silent. Preacher finished cutting the bonds, and then came up on his knees so that he could put his mouth next to Sinclair’s ear and whisper, “It’s Preacher. When I tell you, get up, grab Miss Faith, and run. Get across the stream if you can. And stay low. Lead’s gonna be flyin’.”

  Sinclair turned his head. “I can stay and fight,” he breathed. Even though his hands were now loose, he hadn’t brought his arms around in front of him yet. He just flexed the muscles in them, getting the feeling back but not revealing to anyone who might be looking that he was free.

  “No,” Preacher said. “Get the girl. Get outta here.”

  After a second, Sinclair jerked his head in a little nod of agreement. Preacher glanced over at the tree where Faith was tied. He couldn’t see Rip because his fellow frontiersman was on the other side of the tree. But Faith was sitting up straighter now and seemed to be wide awake, although it was difficult to be sure in the dim light.

  Preacher sheathed his knife and stood up, staying as close to the tree trunk as he could so that he would blend in with its shadow. When he was on his feet, he wrapped his fingers around the butts of his pistols and pulled them from behind his belt. With his thumbs looped over the hammers, he said softly to Sinclair, “Go!”

  Sinclair lunged upright, leaped across to the other tree, and grabbed Faith as she shook off the bonds that Rip had just cut. One of Snell’s men yelled, “Hey!” He surged up off the ground as Faith and Sinclair splashed into the shallow stream. “They’re gettin’ away!”

  Preacher stepped away from the tree, leveled his right-hand pistol, and fired at short range, the double load blowing a hole right through the man.

  Time for the killin’ to commence.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  One of Rip’s pistols boomed a second later, and another man yelled in pain as he was ventilated by hot lead. Preacher swung to his left and lifted the pistol in that hand. Two more of Snell’s men had jumped up in alarm, and were dumb enough to be standing close together. Preacher pulled the trigger. The double-shotted pistol roared and both men were thrown backward by the impact of the heavy balls that struck them. One was hit high in the chest, while the other doubled over against the horrible pain where his gut was ripped open.

  Preacher dropped the empty pistols and yanked out knife and tomahawk as Rip’s second gun blasted. Whirling, Preacher slashed a man’s throat and caved in another’s skull with the tomahawk. At that moment, hoofbeats thundered and four horses raced into the camp, two being ridden by Willard Carling and Jasper Hodge, the other two being led by the Easterners. Several of Snell’s men had to leap aside to avoid being trampled. Carling shot one of them and kicked another in the chest. That kick sent the man staggering backward so that Rip Giddens could loop an arm around his neck from behind, jerk his chin up, and swipe a keen knife blade across his throat, cutting so deep the steel grated on the luckless man’s upper spine. Rip flung the blood-gushing corpse aside.

  Preacher heard Snell bellowing curses. He didn’t know how many of the enemy were left, but a couple of the men broke and run, undoubtedly terrified by this unexpected, bloody raid out of the darkness. Preacher didn’t think either of them were Luther Snell, so he was willing to let them go.

  They didn’t go far, though, because more shots rang out and more hoofbeats sounded. Preacher lifted his tomahawk, ready to throw it, as three men rode into the camp. He relaxed a little when he recognized them as Lieutenant Corrigan and the two wounded soldiers, who had finally caught up with Preacher and the others just in time to cut down the fleeing men.

  “Where’s Sinclair?” Corrigan asked as he reined his horse to a halt.

  “Where’s Faith?” Carling added.

  Preacher started to reply that they had fled across the creek when a frightened scream came from that direction. The voice belonged to Faith Carling.

  “Faith!” her brother yelped in alarm.

  Preacher was the closest to the stream. He splashed across it and saw a couple of figures lunging around as they struggled desperately with each other. He heard Snell cursing in a low voice and figured that was Chester Sinclair he was wrestling with. “I’ll kill you!” Snell babbled. “Kill you both!”

  Willard Carling ran past Preacher, yelling, “Faith! Faith!”

  “Willard!” she cried. She was sprawled on the ground not far from Sinclair and Snell. Carling dashed over to her and caught her up in his arms.

  Preacher warily circled the battling men. He couldn’t risk a throw with his knife or tomahawk for fear of hitting Sinclair. The Easterner was bigger than Snell, but he wasn’t as experienced and didn’t fight with the same sort of maniacal fury as the smaller man. Starlight suddenly flashed on steel as Snell managed to sink his knife into Sinclair’s body. Sinclair gasped in pain and staggered back a step as Snell ripped the blade free. Sinclair lost his balance and fell. Snell loomed over him, ready to strike again.

  That was when Preacher stepped in front of him and said, “Luther.”

  Snell looked up, raising his head slightly. He opened his mouth to say something, perhaps Preacher’s name. His eyes widened—

  Then the head of Preacher’s tomahawk struck squarely between them, cleaving flesh and bone and burying itself in the putrid mass of Luther Snell’s brain.

  Preacher let go of the tomahawk and stepped back. Snell stood where he was for a second, twitching as the rest of his body caught up to the fact that he was dead. Then he folded up like a rag doll, crumpling onto the ground never to rise again.

  Preacher turned away, no longer caring about the lifeless hulk that had been Luther Snell. He had felt an
instant of fierce satisfaction as he avenged the death of Mountain Mist, but that was over now. He had other things to worry about.

  Kneeling next to Chester Sinclair, he helped the big Easterner sit up. “How bad did he get you?” Preacher asked.

  “Not . . . too bad . . . I don’t think,” Sinclair rasped. He had a hand pressed to his left side, with blood welling darkly between the fingers. “Faith . . . is Faith . . .?”

  “I’m here, darling,” she said as she threw herself down on Sinclair’s other side. She put her arms around him and hugged him close, sobbing in mingled relief and fear. “Oh, God, Chester,” she sniffled, “don’t you die on me! Don’t you dare die on me!”

  Sinclair chuckled through his pain and said, “I don’t reckon . . . you’ll get rid of me that easy.”

  Preacher put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “You’ll be all right, Chester,” he said. He got up and turned back toward the others, who had all come across the creek from the corpse-littered camp. “Rip?”

  “They’re all dead,” Rip answered, knowing what Preacher was asking. He scratched at his beard. “You reckon it’s really over this time, or will we have to fight some Injuns a time or two ’fore we get to wherever we’re goin’?”

  Preacher threw back his head and laughed. “Hell,” he said, “I don’t even know where we’re goin’!”

  In the end, they went to St. Louis, because Lieutenant Corrigan insisted on it. But that wasn’t until they had buried Snell and the other dead men and spent several days camped a short distance downstream from the site of the battle, allowing the wounded members of the party to heal a little before resuming their journey.

  Chester Sinclair had a deep gash in his side, but with Faith nursing him night and day, Preacher had little doubt that Sinclair would be just fine. The same held true for Corrigan and the two soldiers, although they didn’t get the same sort of loving care that Sinclair did.

  When Corrigan started making noises about doing his duty and delivering Sinclair to St. Louis, Sinclair said bluntly, “I don’t want to go.” He held up a hand to forestall Corrigan’s inevitable protest. “But I will. I’ll meet with my uncle’s lawyers and sign anything they need me to sign, but I’m not staying in St. Louis and I’m not going back to Boston.”

  Corrigan frowned at him. “Then what are you going to do?”

  “I’m coming back out here.”

  “That’s a splendid idea!” Willard Carling said. “While I’m in St. Louis, I’m going to outfit a whole new expedition, since I didn’t get to finish the first one. Chester, I’ll still need an assistant.... No, wait a moment. You’re a rich man now, I hear. I don’t suppose you’ll want to be my assistant anymore.”

  “I could be your partner,” Sinclair suggested. “I’ll furnish all the supplies, and you can furnish the talent . . . Willard.”

  Carling grinned and stuck out his hand. “It’s a deal!”

  Faith pointed out, “Neither of you have asked my opinion about this.”

  Both men instantly looked crestfallen. Sinclair said, “I really want to go back to the mountains, Faith . . . but I suppose if you have your heart set on returning to Boston . . .”

  She smiled and shook her head. “I’d prefer not to live in the wilderness permanently . . . but after everything that’s happened, I think I can manage for a while longer.”

  Rip turned to Jasper Hodge and asked, “How about you, Mr. Hodge? You goin’ back to the mountains with the rest of us?”

  “Good Lord, no,” Hodge said without hesitation. “I already have more than enough material for the book I plan to write.” A little shudder went through him. “The sooner I put this savage country behind me, the better.” He suddenly looked thoughtful. “The savage country . . . you know, that might just work as the title of my book.”

  Carling turned to Preacher and said, “You’ll come with us, won’t you, Preacher?”

  “Yeah, I believe I will,” he replied. With a grin, he added, “Somebody’s got to come along and keep you folks out of trouble.”

  Rip nudged him in the side with an elbow and grinned. “Seems to me like you’re the one trouble’s followin’ around, Preacher. It pops up pert-near ever’where you go.”

  “Yeah,” Preacher said slowly as he rubbed at his bearded jaw and frowned. “It does, don’t it?”

  Two months later ...

  Preacher already knew that the Teton Sioux village was gone. Lieutenant Corrigan had told him about how the soldiers, along with Snell’s men, had attacked the place and killed Badger and the rest of the warriors. Preacher wanted to hate Corrigan for that, but the lieutenant had been taken in by Luther Snell. Corrigan had been duped, but he wasn’t evil.

  Preacher was glad, though, when the young officer stayed in St. Louis. Corrigan had some more growing up to do before he would be ready for another assignment on the frontier. Preacher hoped his superior officers had the sense to see that.

  Willard Carling painted a picture of the remains of the destroyed village. Preacher thought it was mighty fine and said so. Carling nodded and said, “I want people to see this for themselves. It’s the beginning of the end for the Sioux and all the other red men, isn’t it, Preacher?”

  “More than likely,” Preacher agreed. “This is a mighty big country and ought to be big enough for everybody . . . but you can already see signs that ain’t the way it’s gonna be.”

  “A vanished way of life,” Carling murmured. “But I’m going to capture as much of it as I can, so that people won’t completely forget it.”

  That struck Preacher as a good thing to do.

  The best thing that came out of his return to this scene of so much tragedy and death was his reunion with Horse and Dog. Both animals had been waiting for him. They had been living off the land for a couple of months, but they were both fat and happy since it was summer and the grass and the rabbits were plentiful.

  One evening as the sun was going down, Preacher climbed to the top of a small hill overlooking the camp that had been set up down below. He heard Faith and Sinclair laughing together, and saw Willard Carling standing in front of a canvas propped on an easel, hard at work on a landscape depicting a setting sun over the rugged, beautiful mountains. Preacher sat down on a rock, and Dog sat on the ground beside him. He scratched behind the big cur’s ears. He would stay with the expedition for the rest of the summer, he supposed, but come fall, the others would be returning to St. Louis and ultimately Boston. Faith had already started talking about a wedding sometime during the winter, and Sinclair sure wasn’t disagreeing with her.

  They would go back without Preacher, though. He had missed most of the spring trapping season, and didn’t intend to miss the one this fall.

  He had been thinking, too, about what Rip had said about trouble following him around. His mind went back over the years, and he knew it was true. Ever since the night he had slipped out of his folks’ house back on the farm and started walking away from that settled life, he had seen more trouble, more blood and death, than most men would see in several lifetimes. And as he gazed off into the evening shadows, he seemed to see even more ahead of him. Phantom images danced in those shadows . . . beautiful women and evil men, stalwart friends and those who would betray him, good and bad, hope and despair, love and death . . .

  And always, always, in those fading shadows, the blaze of guns...

  Beside him, Dog whined softly, and Preacher shook those phantoms out of his head. “You’re right,” he told Dog. “It’s about time for supper.”

  He stood up, and together they went down the hill.

  Frank Morgan, The Last Gunfighter,

  is back in this action-packed new novel!

  Turn the page for an exciting preview of:

  THE LAST GUNFIGHTER: AVENGER

  From USA Today bestselling author

  William W. Johnstone with J. A. Johnstone

  Coming in March 2007!

  The Last Gunfighter: Avenger

  ISBN 0-7860-1737-6<
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  Available wherever Pinnacle Books are sold

  Chapter One

  Once, for a brief moment in time, this place had been a boomtown, a trail-drive town, the railhead where thousands upon thousands of cattle had been loaded on trains to begin their long journey to the slaughterhouses of Chicago.

  But then the railhead had moved on farther west, taking the hell-on-wheels with it, and in the twenty-some-odd years since then, the town had settled down into a sleepy little farming community where nothing much ever happened.

  On this Tuesday morning, that was all about to change.

  Six men rode in about eight o’clock. The eastbound train was due at nine. The men tied their horses at the hitch rack in front of the depot and walked across the street to the hash house run by the Chinaman, Ling Wo. They had flapjacks, scrambled eggs and bacon, and coffee as they sat at a table and talked quietly among themselves. Nobody paid much attention to them. At first glance, they were ordinary-looking men.

  That was because their coats covered the butts of their six-guns. Those guns gleamed with care, and the walnut grips were well worn from long use.

  The men took their time eating. Around five minutes to nine, one of them took out a big fancy pocket watch, flipped it open, and checked the time. He looked around the table at the other men, nodded, and snapped the watch closed. As he stood up, he slipped the timepiece back in his pocket. The other men got to their feet as well.

  The purposeful way in which they moved toward the door of the hash house was the first hint that something might be wrong. The strangers were brisk and businesslike now. As they stepped out of the building, the sound of a train whistle came clearly through the morning air. The easthound was on schedule.

  Hell, it was even a couple of minutes early.

  The men crossed the dusty street to their horses and shucked Winchester repeaters from saddle boots. Then they walked around the red-brick depot building to the platform, instead of going through the lobby. A few townspeople stood on the platform, waiting to either board the train or meet somebody who was getting off. Some of them glanced curiously at the strangers.