They were low on supplies, too, and everyone was hungry as the day wore on. There was no time to stop and hunt for fresh meat, though. Preacher was certain that Cobey and the others would have regrouped by now and would be coming after them.
For a change, though, the odds were even. With Jimpson dead and Stilson badly wounded, that left just Cobey, Arnie, Chambers, and McDermott to go after the treasure. Preacher figured that he, Audie, Nighthawk, and Esteban were a match for them. Add Juanita into the mix—she had proved that she had plenty of pluck, and Preacher knew she could be counted on—and they actually outnumbered their pursuers. There were the two Yaquis to consider, too, if Preacher and his friends could catch up to the wagons before the next fracas. Preacher knew better than to be overly optimistic, but he was starting to feel like they now had a good chance of coming through this alive.
That afternoon they left the mountains behind and found themselves once again in the foothills, heading east toward the vast rolling plains. And as they descended from the mountains, Preacher’s keen eyes spotted the wagons miles ahead of them, so far in the distance they were little more than dots. He called a halt to let the horses rest, and while they were doing that he got out his spyglass and trained it on the far-off vehicles.
Those were definitely the wagons from the Alvarez expedition. He couldn’t see the drivers from this angle, but he was confident they were Pablo and Joaquin. Nor did he see Father Hortensio. But the padre would be there, Preacher knew. After everything that had happened, the priest wouldn’t let that treasure out of his sight.
None of the others seemed to have noticed, so Preacher lowered the spyglass and pointed. “There are the wagons,” he announced.
Esteban and Juanita were standing next to Nighthawk’s pony. They looked up sharply at the sound of Preacher’s voice and followed his pointing finger. Esteban took a step forward, excitement animating his body. “I see them,” he said. “Are you sure they are the ones we seek, Preacher?”
“Certain sure,” Preacher responded. “For one thing, it ain’t likely there’d be another pair o’ wagons out here right now. We’re well west o’ the Santa Fe Trail. For another thing, I recognize ’em, as well as the teams pullin’ ’em.”
Esteban crossed himself and murmured a prayer. “Can we catch up to them before they reach the mission?”
“Probably. Loaded down the way they are, they ain’t movin’ very fast.”
Juanita looked around at him. “Even if we do not catch up to them before then, we know that is where they are going, do we not?”
Preacher nodded. “I reckon.”
“But that bunch of brigands and highwaymen will be coming on quickly, too,” Audie pointed out. “If they catch up while the wagons are still out in the open, they can pick off the mules, pin the wagons down, and make things very difficult for all of us.”
“Dang right,” Preacher agreed. “That’s why we need to catch up and hurry the padre along with those wagons as much as we can.”
A short time later, they mounted up again and rode on, and now there was an even greater urgency goading them through the foothills after the wagons.
Wick ran until he couldn’t run anymore, and then he collapsed facedown on the ground. He wasn’t sure where he was, wasn’t even sure if he was still going the right direction. He couldn’t see the tracks left by the horses.
But he heard the river and knew he had to follow it. He had trouble remembering exactly why he was supposed to follow the river, but he knew he was. After a while, enough of his strength came back to him so that he was able to push himself to his feet and stumble on.
Juanita. Her face filled his thoughts, and his vision of her kept him moving.
He was thinking about her when he passed out again, and this time he didn’t even feel himself hit the ground.
Arnie thought it was odd when they reached the spot where Preacher had jumped them that morning and he didn’t see any sign of Wick. The last time he had seen the giant before they’d been forced to flee before the withering fire of whoever Preacher had with him, Wick had been lying on the ground with an arrow protruding from his back. He had certainly looked dead, and that was how Arnie expected to find him.
The footprints told an obvious story, though. Wick’s feet were huge, like the rest of him, and the tracks he had left showed him heading off to the east, the same way Preacher and the others had gone.
“Wick’s a good boy,” Cobey said when Arnie pointed out what he had discovered. “He’s gone after those bastards.”
More than likely Wick was just thinking about the señorita, Arnie mused. Regardless of that, though, he was glad that Wick wasn’t dead after all.
They pushed on, with Bert leading Chuck Stilson’s horse, since, of course, Stilson didn’t need the mount anymore. It was past the middle of the afternoon when Cobey exclaimed, “What the hell!” and pointed to a large, shaggy shape lying on the ground up ahead.
“That’s Wick!” Arnie said as he urged his horse forward. When he reached the massive form, he swung quickly out of the saddle and dropped to a knee at Wick’s side.
Wick’s back rose and fell as he breathed, so he was still alive. The arrow below his shoulder blade was broken off so that only a few inches of the shaft remained. A large bloodstain soaked his shirt around the wound. Arnie knew that he couldn’t pull the arrowhead out; that would just do more damage. It would have to be cut out, and that would be a tricky job, requiring plenty of light and a good place to work and a lot of bandages and hot water—none of which he had here and now.
“Is he alive?” Cobey asked from horseback.
“Yeah. He’s lost quite a bit of blood, though.”
“Can you wake him up and get him on a horse? We’ve got an extra one, you know.”
They had an extra mount because Cobey had murdered Chuck Stilson. But, all in all, Arnie was willing to trade Wick’s life for Stilson’s. He had known Wick a lot longer, and Stilson hadn’t been very friendly, when you got right down to it.
“I’ll try,” Arnie said. “Somebody gimme a hand. I need to roll him onto his side.”
“We can’t take too long at this,” Cobey cautioned.
“Just give me a few minutes.”
“I’ll help you,” Chambers offered as he dismounted. Together, he and Arnie rolled Wick onto his right side. Then Arnie took out a small silver flask and uncorked it. There wasn’t much in the flask, and it was the last of his whiskey, carefully horded over the past couple of weeks, but Wick needed it now. Arnie pried the big man’s mouth open and poured a little of the fiery liquor in it.
Wick sputtered and snorted and opened his eyes. He tried to roll onto his back, but Chambers was there to stop him. That would have just driven the arrowhead even deeper into his body. Blinking in confusion, Wick said, “A-Arnie . . . ? Where’s Cobey?”
“He’s here, don’t worry,” Arnie assured him. “You’ll be all right, Wick, but you got to get up and get on a horse we’ve got for you.”
“I was . . . goin’ after . . . the señorita . . .”
“So are we,” Arnie told him. “Come with us and we’ll find her.”
“Oh. All right.” Wick tried to push himself upright, but he gasped and slumped down again. “The world sure is . . . spinnin’ around all funny . . .”
“Just take it slow and easy.”
“Not slow,” Cobey snapped.
The sound of his voice made Wick look at him. “Hey . . . Cobey,” he said. “I’m sorry . . . I got hurt.”
“Just get up and get on Stilson’s horse,” Cobey ordered.
“Where is . . . ol’ Chuck?”
“Dead,” Arnie said quietly.
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
“You didn’t have nothin’ to do with it, Wick.” Arnie glanced toward Cobey, who was clearly growing more impatient by the second. He was damned if he was going to ride off and leave Wick here to die by himself. He said, “Come on, Wick, you can do it. Help us, Professor.”
Together, he and
Chambers got Wick on his feet and helped him climb into the saddle on Stilson’s horse. Wick’s horse had run off during the fighting that morning, and they hadn’t seen it since. Stilson’s mount was almost as big and strong, though. It could carry Wick, at least for a while.
“Come on, let’s go, let’s go,” Cobey urged. They set off, riding beside a long, thick clump of brush.
They hadn’t yet passed the brush when the air was filled with the sound of rifles being cocked, and a strident voice ordered, “Alto, señores! Hands up, por favor, or my men will fire!”
It was almost sundown when Preacher and his companions rode down a hill, through a screen of trees, and out into a broad, open park. On the far side of the park were the two wagons. Preacher said, “Come on, Dog!” and heeled Horse into a run that carried him and Esteban swiftly across the open ground. He swung out a little to the side so that as he approached he could see Pablo and Joaquin whipping the teams mercilessly, doing their best to get more speed out of the mules and horses pulling the vehicles.
But even though Horse had to be a little tired, the big stallion seemed to enjoy stretching his legs. He ran easily, eating up the gap between him and the wagons.
Esteban rode behind Preacher, holding on to the mountain man. Over the thundering hoofbeats, he called out, “What are we going to do?”
“Stop them wagons until your sister and the others catch up!” Preacher replied. They had almost reached the rear wagon.
“Look out!” Esteban suddenly cried.
Preacher had already seen Father Hortensio poke his head out the back of the wagon. The priest had some sort of weapon in his hands. As Preacher galloped closer, he saw that it was an old blunderbuss. Smoke spurted from the barrel of the ancient gun. A touch of Preacher’s heels sent Horse swerving sharply to the side. He heard a humming in the air as the heavy, slow-moving ball went past them.
Father Hortensio had claimed that he was a man of peace and could not resort to violent measures. Obviously that didn’t hold true when he believed he was doing the Lord’s work. But the important thing was that he didn’t have time to reload before Preacher caught up to him.
“Get ready to take the saddle!” the mountain man told Esteban.
“All right, but what—”
They drew even with the rear of the wagon. Preacher vaulted out of the saddle, leaping the short distance to the wagon. He caught hold of the tailgate, and his lean muscles bunched as he pulled himself inside the vehicle. Father Hortensio was fumbling with the blunderbuss, trying to reload it, when Preacher crashed into him, knocking the gun out of his hands and driving him backward onto a stack of gold ingots. Those heavy bars with their dull sheen might look pretty, but they didn’t provide a sort place to land. Father Hortensio groaned and lay there, half-stunned.
Preacher looked through the opening in the canvas cover at the front of the wagon and saw Joaquin looking back at him over his shoulder, wide-eyed with fear and surprise. Preacher pulled a pistol from behind his belt, leveled it, and ordered, “Stop this wagon—now!”
Joaquin hauled back on the reins. The wagon began to slow. Father Hortensio regained his wits and came up off the pile of gold bars to lunge at Preacher with his hands outstretched. “No!” he shouted. “You cannot have the treasure! It belongs to the Holy Mother Church!”
Preacher put his free hand on the priest’s chest and held him off even as Father Hortensio flailed punches at him. A shove sent Father Hortensio stumbling back against the ingots again. As he tried to catch his balance, the wagon lurched to a halt.
Looking past Joaquin, Preacher saw that Esteban had caught up to the other wagon on Horse and managed to get Pablo to stop, too, probably at gunpoint.
“Damn it, settle down!” he snapped at Father Hortensio. “We ain’t come to steal the treasure. You’d know better if you’d just stop and think about it.”
“You must not take the holy relics,” Father Hortensio babbled. “And the gold will rebuild the Mission Santo Domingo and do many good works—”
“That’s fine,” Preacher cut in. “But that won’t happen unless you listen to me, Padre. Larson and his bunch are still behind us somewhere, and they still want to get their hands on that loot.”
“You cannot trade it to those men for Señorita Juanita’s safety. I am sorry, but—”
“They don’t have the señorita anymore, blast it! She’s with us now.”
That finally got through to Father Hortensio. Preacher pointed, and the priest looked across the park to where Juanita, Audie, and Nighthawk were riding quickly toward them.
“A savage!” Father Hortensio exclaimed. “And . . . a child?”
“Nope. He may be little, but he’s all man. That’s Audie, and the redskin with him is called Nighthawk. They’re friends o’ mine. They helped me get Esteban and Juanita back from Larson’s bunch.”
Father Hortensio looked confused. “But . . . Esteban was at the cave where the treasure was stored. . . .”
“A whole heap has happened since then,” Preacher said curtly, “and I ain’t got time to explain it all. Come on out for a minute, and then we’ll get goin’ again.”
They couldn’t afford much of a delay, but he wanted to be sure Father Hortensio and the two Yaquis understood the situation. When everyone was gathered beside the wagons, Preacher spoke swiftly.
“I think Larson’s only got three men left who are fit to fight,” he said. “So that’s four o’ them against seven of us, eight if you count the señorita. We got the upper hand, but not if they catch us out in the open. That’s why we got to get back to the mission as fast as we can. If we can get the wagons inside what’s left of the sanctuary, those old walls will give us good cover.”
“You think we will have to fight those men?” Father Hortensio asked.
“I’d count on it, if I was you,” Preacher replied with a grim nod. “Cobey ain’t gonna give up as long as there’s breath in his body. He’s crazy-mad now, not just for the gold but for our scalps as well. That’s why we got to fort up.”
“But . . . Santo Domingo is a mission, not a fort,” the priest protested. “It is a holy place. There should not be a battle fought there.”
“But, Father,” Esteban said, “what better place for good men to struggle with evil?”
“True, true,” Father Hortensio murmured. After a moment, he nodded. “Very well. We will reach the mission as swiftly as possible and make our stand there.”
“Now you’re talkin’,” Preacher said. “Let’s get these wagons movin’. We’re all on the same side again.”
“The side of the angels,” Father Hortensio said.
Preacher just hoped that before it was all over, the angels wouldn’t be singing for them.
THIRTY-FOUR
Cobey, Arnie, and the others sat rigidly in their saddles as a dozen men in white trousers, blue uniform jackets, and stiff black hats emerged from the brush carrying rifles. They were Mexican soldiers, members of the army of the dictator, General Santa Anna. Their leader was a slim young officer who carried a saber.
“I am Lieutenant Fernando Escobar,” he announced. “We are looking for a young señor and señorita who are supposed to be in this area. Have you seen any wagons recently, Señores?”
Cobey didn’t answer the question. Instead he asked one of his own. “Why are you lookin’ for ’em?”
“It was reported that they might be in danger, and since they are from an old family with influence in the capital, we were sent to search for them. It was lucky my patrol was close by when the report was made by the man who owns the trading post near the pass into the Sangre de Cristos. We have been riding around here for several days, searching for Señor and Señorita Alvarez.”
It was pure luck that had kept Preacher and the others from running into these Mex soldiers, Cobey knew. If they had, any hopes he had of latching onto that treasure would be gone now. As it was, though, he might be able to take advantage of this chance encounter. He remembered hearing that
nearly all of the troops in Santa Anna’s army were conscripts. Many of them had, in fact, been taken out of prisons in Mexico City and elsewhere and forced into service as soldiers. As he looked at them now, Cobey saw that with the exception of Lieutenant Escobar, the patrol was composed of men who might as well have been cutthroats and brigands.
Men with whom he had something in common, in other words.
“Arnie, you speak pretty good Mex,” Cobey said quietly to his second in command. “Tell those soldiers that if they come to work for me, I’ll make ’em all rich men. Ricos.”
His use of that word perked up some interest among the stolid-faced troops. Escobar flushed and said, “Señor, what is this you say? These men are under my command—”
“Tell ’em, Arnie,” Cobey cut in.
In a torrent of rapid Spanish, Arnie blurted out Cobey’s offer. The Mexican soldiers instantly looked interested. Cobey was a gringo, which meant he was not to be trusted, but he was promising wealth, and besides, they were hundreds of miles from Mexico City and Santa Anna, as feared as he might be, could do nothing to them over a distance such as that. Cobey could practically see those thoughts going through their heads, and he saw the greed that sparked in their eyes.
“Tell you what,” he said. “I’m gonna kill the lieutenant, and then they won’t have to worry about him no more.”
The young officer yelped in panic and began to claw at the pistol holstered at his waist.
Cobey drew, cocked, and fired before Escobar could come close to getting his own weapon out. The ball slammed into the lieutenant’s chest and picked him up off his feet, driving him backward into the brush. His legs twitched a few times where they stuck out, and then he lay still.
A few of the soldiers looked surprised, but none of them seemed overly concerned about the unexpected fate of their commanding officer. Cobey smiled at them and said, “You boys work for me now. Ricos, each and every one of you.”
Arnie translated. One of the soldiers thrust his rifle into the air above his head and shouted, “Viva el gringo!”
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