Preacher's Fortune

by William W. Johnstone

  Somehow, though, he didn’t believe that was the case. It felt more like he was being trailed.

  He didn’t have any friends up here except Esteban, and if the young man had gotten away from Arnie somehow, he wouldn’t follow Preacher and not announce himself. Preacher had to assume that whoever was dogging his trail wished him harm.

  He was going to have to do something about that, before he got around to dealing with Cobey and the others.

  He rode up a hill into some pines with Dog padding along beside him and Horse. At the top of the slope the land flattened out into a long level stretch, but the trees still grew thickly. Preacher said quietly, “Keep goin’, Horse. You, too, Dog.” Then he reached up, grasped a branch, and pulled himself out of the saddle. He hung there for only an instant before climbing agilely into the tree where the dense foliage shielded him from view. The pine needles pricked him, but he ignored the discomfort. Down below, Horse and Dog moved on through the trees just as Preacher had ordered.

  He waited with the patience of a true frontiersman, who knew that the ability to stay still and quiet was sometimes all that saved a man’s life. He could still hear Horse’s hoofbeats, which was good. That meant whoever was following him could hear them, too.

  Sure enough, a couple of minutes later, Preacher heard another horse coming through the trees. He waited, motionless, until the horse came into view. It was an Indian pony, and that was somewhat surprising. So was the man who rode it. He was a strong-faced warrior with thick black hair pulled back in a couple of braids, and the distinctive markings on the buckskins he wore identified him as a Crow. He was a long way from home. The Crow hunting grounds were hundreds of miles to the north of here. Preacher had had run-ins with members of that tribe in the past, but unlike the Blackfoot, who were almost universally hostile to white men, some Crows got along with the whites. It was impossible to know how this one felt, but the fact that he had been trailing Preacher in such a stealthy manner didn’t bode well.

  When in doubt, ask, Preacher told himself. The next moment, as the Indian rode beneath the tree where Preacher was perched, the mountain man dropped suddenly on him, tackling him and driving him off the back of the pony.

  Both men crashed to the ground. Preacher landed on top, knocking the breath out of the Crow warrior. He planted a knee in the Indian’s belly, locked his left forearm across the Crow’s throat like a bar of iron, and used his right hand to pull the heavy-bladed hunting knife from the sheath at his belt. Preacher held the tip of the keen blade against the Crow’s throat and grated, “Move and I’ll slice you open, mister. Now, how come you’re followin’ me?”

  Under the circumstances, the Crow was going to have a hard time answering the question. But before Preacher could relax the pressure of his forearm and let his prisoner speak, a gun barrel prodded the back of the mountain man’s neck and a deep voice said, “Let him go. The last thing I want to do is kill you.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  It was not yet dawn when Juanita heard the horse coming. The swift rataplan of hoofbeats was loud in the night and roused her from the uneasy half sleep into which she had drifted as she lay on the big, flat rock.

  The noise alerted the rest of the party, too, except for Wick, who had not regained consciousness. From the way he was snoring again, however, Juanita thought the giant had passed from being knocked out to simply being asleep.

  Cobey, Chambers, Bert McDermott, and Chuck Stilson all sprang up and reached for their guns. McDermott had been sitting on a log close to the rock where Juanita lay, standing guard over her as Cobey had ordered. He said quietly to her, “Take it easy, Señorita. Don’t yell out or anything until we know who’s comin’.”

  All four of the men were ready to fight if they found themselves under attack. But a moment later a loud hail came to them, and they knew that wasn’t the case.

  “Cobey! Cobey, it’s me! Don’t shoot!”

  “That’s Arnie!” Cobey exclaimed. “Hold your fire!”

  Although it was awkward because of the way she was tied, Juanita managed to push herself up onto an elbow so that she could see better. The running horse slowed. Arnie Ross rode into the camp. There was just enough light in the graying sky so that Juanita could see he had someone with him, riding double on the same horse. The man was in front of Arnie, leaning forward over the neck of the horse, and seemed to be either hurt or unconscious. Juanita supposed it was George Worthy, who had gone with Arnie to find out where that ledge led.

  From the way Arnie shoved the man off the horse, though, and let him fall limply to the ground, it didn’t seem likely the man was an ally. That was confirmed a second later when Arnie said, “Better tie him up. It’s the Alvarez kid.”

  Fear shot through Juanita. She twisted herself into a sitting position and cried out, “No! Esteban!”

  “Bert, keep an eye on her,” Cobey snapped as he bent over the man Arnie had dumped on the ground. “It’s Alvarez, all right. Chuck, help me tie him up.”

  Juanita’s heart pounded so hard in her chest, it seemed as if it were about to burst out of her body. She wondered wildly what had happened, how Esteban had gotten captured by Arnie Ross. What was going to happen to them now?

  And where was Preacher?

  Cobey and Stilson quickly lashed Esteban’s ankles and wrists together. Then Cobey dragged him over to the rock where Juanita sat and dumped him in front of her. Even though she couldn’t see the sneer on Cobey’s face, she could hear it in his voice as he said, “I reckon your lovin’ brother just couldn’t stay away from you, Señorita.”

  “Please,” she begged. “Do not hurt him.”

  “Long as he behaves himself, he’ll keep on livin’ . . . for a while.” With that chilling statement, Cobey swung toward Arnie and demanded, “What the hell happened? Where’s Worthy?”

  “Preacher killed him,” Arnie said bluntly. “Blew half his head off with a pistol. And that damn dog of his about chewed my arm off.” Arnie held up his left arm. The sleeve of his shirt was shredded and dark with dried blood. “If I hadn’t got lucky and walloped the critter with my gun, he’d have worked his way up to tearin’ my throat out.”

  “Where’d you run into Preacher and the Alvarez kid?”

  “At the other end of that ledge. We followed the trail along it until it sloped down into the valley again. One place looked like it had been blocked by a rock slide, but we were able to get through. I reckon Preacher must have cleared the slide away.”

  “What about the priest and those Yaquis? And the treasure?”

  Arnie shook his head. “Didn’t see hide nor hair of the priest or them Injuns. I think Preacher and Alvarez were by themselves.” He looked around. “Hey! Where in blazes are the wagons?”

  Cobey gave a disgusted grunt. “They were gone when we got back down here. Best guess is that the Yaquis slipped back here and stole ’em.”

  Arnie nodded slowly and said, “Yeah, I reckon that makes sense. As much sense as anything, anyway.”

  “I don’t understand how come Preacher and the kid weren’t with the others, though.”

  Chambers spoke up. “It’s quite evident that the good padre prevailed on his swarthy sycophants to assist him in appropriating the treasure.”

  “What?” Cobey asked. He sounded irritated.

  Chambers sighed. “Father Hortensio and the Yaquis betrayed Preacher and young Alvarez and stole the loot. I suppose Father Hortensio knew that Preacher intended to trade the treasure for Señorita Alvarez, and he wanted to prevent that at all costs.”

  Juanita frowned as she listened to the exchange. Could Father Hortensio have really done such a thing? It would explain a great deal. The priest and his Yaqui servants could have taken the treasure and left before Preacher reached the shelf again after negotiating the exchange with Arnie Ross. Esteban would have tried to stop them, and it was possible that one of the Yaquis, acting on Father Hortensio’s command, might have knocked him unconscious or incapacitated him in some other way. Then,
when Preacher found Esteban and discovered that Father Hortensio and the Yaquis were gone and had taken the treasure with them, Preacher and Esteban would have gone after them....

  It all fit, but Juanita took no satisfaction in piecing the puzzle together. All that really mattered was that she and Esteban were both now the prisoners of these desperate men, and the treasure they sought was gone, spirited away by Father Hortensio. That left her and Esteban to whatever fate awaited them at the hands of their captors.

  Except for the fact that Preacher was still out there somewhere, loose and able to cause trouble.

  Juanita sensed that there was no more dangerous wild card in this deadly game than the man called Preacher.

  “What do we do now, Cobey?” Arnie asked.

  “It’ll be gettin’ light soon,” Cobey said. “Can you find your way back to the place where you ran into Preacher and Alvarez?”

  Arnie nodded. “I reckon I can.”

  “If we’ve got everything figured right, that’ll be the same spot the priest and the Injuns started from after they loaded the treasure in the wagons. We’ll pick up their trail there.”

  “So we’re still goin’ after ’em?”

  Cobey gave a harsh, humorless laugh. “Damn right we’re goin’ after ’em. You didn’t think I was gonna give up on that treasure, did you?” He raised a hand and clenched it into a fist. “That loot’s gonna be ours, and I don’t care who has to die along the way.”

  Preacher didn’t move when the gun barrel poked the back of his neck. He kept the knife at the Crow’s throat and said to the unseen man who had threatened him, “I don’t want you to kill me, neither. But I reckon even if you pull the trigger, I’ll still have time to shove this knife right through the Injun’s neck.”

  The man with the gun hesitated a second before saying, “I suppose you might, at that. There’s a heartbeat of time between the firing of the priming charge and the ignition of the main charge in the barrel. That might be enough of an interval for a man with sufficiently swift reflexes to carry out such a threat.”

  “So we’ve got us a standoff,” Preacher said. “You could call it a Nuevo Mexican standoff.”

  “If you wanted to make a play on words,” the other agreed. “I think we can bring it to a satisfactory conclusion, however. You are the man called Preacher, aren’t you?”

  It surprised Preacher that this fella, whoever he was, knew his name. But he said, “That’s right.”

  “Then I don’t see any reason why we can’t be friends. To prove it, I’ll take my rifle away from your neck. You can reciprocate by removing your knife from my companion’s neck.”

  “You’re askin’ me to trust you,” Preacher pointed out. “You can move that rifle and still shoot me with it.”

  “The alternative is to wait here all day and see who tires first. I doubt if you want that.”

  “Damn right I don’t,” Preacher said. He took a deep breath and then nodded. “All right. It’s a deal.”

  The rifle barrel went away from the back of his neck. Preacher lowered his knife and pushed himself up off the Crow. So far, the Indian hadn’t made a sound, and no expression had crossed his impassive face. But now he reached up and touched the tiny spot of blood where the tip of Preacher’s blade had pricked his neck. He looked at the smear of crimson on his fingertip and said, “Ummm.”

  Keeping the knife in his hand, Preacher turned toward the man with the rifle. He planned to flip the knife underhand if he thought the fella intended to shoot him. Preacher’s eyes narrowed, though, and he stiffened in surprise as he got his first good look at the man.

  The gent wore buckskins and a coonskin cap, marking him as a typical frontiersman. There was nothing else typical about him. He was only about three and a half feet tall, the size of a child. His heavily muscled torso, short legs, and bearded face told Preacher that he wasn’t a child. He was full-growed, as much as he ever would be.

  “Son of a bitch,” Preacher said.

  “Indeed.” The man tucked his rifle under his arm. The barrel had been cut down some so that it would be easier for him to handle, but the pistol tucked behind the man’s belt was full size, and so was the sheathed hunting knife at his waist and the tomahawk that he carried behind his belt as well.

  Preacher heard the Crow getting up, and moved a little so that he could keep an eye on both of them. “Who are you boys?” he asked.

  “My name is Audie,” the little man said. He nodded toward the Crow. “This is Nighthawk.”

  “Ummm,” the Crow said.

  “We’ve seen you around at Rendezvous,” Audie went on, “but we’ve never been introduced.”

  “You’re fur trappers?” Preacher asked.

  “That’s right. If Jeb Law or Dupre were here, they would vouch for us, I assure you.”

  Those names carried some weight with Preacher. Jeb Law and Dupre were good friends of his. But anybody could throw out their names as Audie had just done. That didn’t really mean anything.

  “I wish ol’ Jeb was here,” Preacher said. “I could use a hand right about now.”

  “If you have a problem, Nighthawk and I would be glad to assist you. I realize we got off on the wrong foot, so to speak—”

  “You mean the way the two of you were trailin’ me like you meant to cause trouble for me?”

  “We were simply curious,” Audie explained. “We saw you riding along, and Nighthawk said that he thought he recognized you. Isn’t that right, Nighthawk?”

  “Ummm.”

  “So it’s true that we followed you,” Audie continued, “but we meant you no harm, Preacher.”

  Preacher was still dubious. “If the two of you are trappers, what’re you doin’ off down here instead o’ bein’ further north where the pelts are better?”

  Audie smiled and said, “Wanderlust, pure and simple. We’d heard about this country and wanted to see it for ourselves. I must say, it’s rather enchanting.”

  Something jogged in Preacher’s memory, and he said, “I recollect hearin’ about a fella named Audie. Story went that he was some sort o’ teacher back East before he came to the mountains.”

  “That would be me. I was an instructor at a school in Pennsylvania before I decided to follow my restless nature.”

  “Fella who told me about you didn’t say nothin’ about . . . well . . .”

  “About me being a midget, you mean?” Audie grinned. “Well, that was certainly an important element of the story to leave out, wasn’t it? But I assure you, I am the man you’ve heard about.”

  Preacher was beginning to believe him. His instincts were telling him, too, that Audie spoke the truth about wanting to help him. Preacher had lived as long as he had by relying on his hunches, as well as his ability to judge a man’s character. In the case of Audie and Nighthawk, he sensed that both of them would do to ride the river with.

  He slipped his knife back in its sheath and then held out his hand. “All right,” he said. “I’m pleased to meet you boys, and if you ain’t got somewheres else you need to be right now, I could sure use your help.”

  Audie reached up to clasp Preacher’s hand. His grip was sure and strong. So was Nighthawk’s when Preacher shook hands with the Crow.

  “Tell us about it,” Audie suggested.

  Preacher quickly sketched in everything that had happened over the past week or so. Audie’s eyes lit up at the mention of the treasure, but not with greed or avarice.

  “Fascinating,” he murmured. “Such artifacts must have great historical value, in addition to their intrinsic worth.”

  “They mean a whole heap to Father Hortensio, that’s for sure,” Preacher said. “He was willin’ to leave the señorita in the hands of those no-good bastards rather than try to trade the loot for her.”

  “Ummm,” Nighthawk said, and he managed to convey a considerable amount of disapproval with the grunt.

  “The one who really angers me is this Professor Chambers you mentioned,” Audie said. “Imagine,
a scholar, a man who should be devoted to learning, a man who once inhabited the ivy-covered halls of Harvard, stooping to such ruthless behavior. He sounds like a disgrace to the entire teaching profession.”

  “He’s pretty disgraceful, all right,” Preacher agreed.

  “So what we have to do is extricate the young señor and señorita from their captivity and then perhaps give some thought to recovering the treasure.”

  “The treasure’s already recovered,” Preacher pointed out. “It was goin’ back to the Church anyway, except for what Esteban and Juanita had comin’ to ’em for helpin’ out. Since Father Hortensio’s got the loot and seems to be headin’ back to the old mission, I don’t reckon we have to do anything about that.” Preacher paused and then added, “Much as I’d like to pay him back for what he did to those kids.”

  “Even with the lead he’s established, won’t it take the father several days to get back to Mission Santo Domingo?”

  Preacher nodded. “I reckon it will. Loaded down like they will be, those wagons can’t move too fast.”

  “So it’s possible that this gang of thieves, once they figure out what’s going on, will pursue the wagons and make another effort to steal the treasure?”

  “I’d say it’s mighty likely,” Preacher agreed grimly.

  Audie frowned. “And they’ll bring the two young people with them, to use as hostages if necessary.”

  “That’s what I’m hopin’. That’ll give us a chance to snatch ’em back.”

  “And of course there’s a good likelihood we’ll also have to protect the treasure along the way.”

  “Yep.” Preacher chuckled. “That’s all.”

  Audie rubbed his hands together and said, “Well, we’ve certainly got our work cut out for us. Perhaps we should give some thought to—”