Preacher's Fortune

by William W. Johnstone

  The horse landed cleanly, and Chambers pulled him into a tight turn that carried them both behind the shelter of the higher portion of the wall. Preacher and Audie had been peering around the edge of that part, and they pulled back as rifle balls began to smack into the thick stone wall, chipping off splinters and throwing out dust, but doing no more damage than that.

  With a tight grin, Preacher said, “I reckon Cobey’s figured out you ain’t on his side no more, Professor.”

  “No doubt. All I can say is that I’m glad to be here.”

  “Ummm!” Nighthawk warned.

  “He’s right, Preacher!” Audie said. “Here they come!”

  “Pick your spots and pick your shots!” Preacher called in a ringing voice.

  Everyone ran to positions they had picked out along the wall, even Father Hortensio. Preacher was a little surprised to see that the priest was going to join the fight, but he remembered how Father Hortensio had blazed away at him with that blunderbuss earlier. Clearly, the padre had decided that he was willing to fight for his faith, and that it was all right with El Señor Dios for him to do so.

  Cobey and his men were making an all-out charge, galloping straight at the old mission. Preacher ordered, “Hold your fire! Let ’em get closer!” Chambers was a few yards to his right. Preacher said to him, “How’d Cobey wind up with the Mexican army fightin’ on his side?”

  “We ran into a patrol searching for the Alvarezes,” the professor replied. “Cobey killed their lieutenant and appealed to the baser instincts of the soldiers. He promised to make them all rich.”

  “That’d likely do it all right,” Preacher said, “with the sort o’ scum Santa Anna forces into his army.” He raised his voice again. “Little bit closer . . . Let ’em have it!”

  Shots rang out along the ruined wall as all nine of the defenders fired. The storm of lead scythed into the onrushing attackers and swept several of them out of their saddles. Four or five of the Mexican soldiers went down, and so did a couple of their horses in a tangle of thrashing legs and hooves. Bert McDermott flipped backward off his horse, flinging his arms out to the sides as blood spurted from his chest. He hit the ground and bounced and rolled in the limp sprawl that signified death.

  But Cobey and Arnie were still coming, along with five of the soldiers. Wick was far behind them, slumped over his mount’s neck but trying to keep up.

  With Cobey in the lead, the remaining attackers reached the wall and leaped their mounts over it, and with a mad swirl of dust and hooves and noise that made a mockery of what should have been a peaceful early morning, they were among the defenders and the battle was suddenly hand to hand, mano a mano.

  Preacher dropped his empty rifle and yanked the two pistols from behind his belt. He fired the left-hand gun at one of the soldiers, and at close range like this, both balls from the double-shotted weapon blew fist-sized holes through the luckless man’s torso, making him fly off the back of his horse. Preacher drew a bead on Cobey with the right-hand gun, but just as he pulled the trigger one of the horses rammed him with its shoulder, throwing off his aim. The balls missed and went harmlessly into the air.

  Cobey’s pistol spurted flame and Joaquin went down, blood fountaining from his neck where Cobey’s shot had torn it open. Pablo lunged at Arnie, reaching up to try to pull him from the saddle, but the fat man planted a foot in the Yaqui’s chest and kicked him back. Pablo stumbled and fell and then screamed as Arnie rode over him, a steel-shod hoof landing in the middle of his face and shattering his skull.

  Esteban reversed his rifle and clubbed one of the soldiers off his horse, breaking the weapon’s stock as he did so. As the soldier landed on the ground, Esteban leaped on him and drove the shattered stock into his face again and again, smashing the life out of him.

  A few yards away, one of the soldiers leaned over and grabbed Juanita, jerking her feet off the ground as she cried out in anger and fear. With a leer on his face he tried to lift her to his horse’s back in front of his saddle, but he stiffened suddenly as an arrow erupted from his throat. The wound spewed blood. Nighthawk’s bow had driven the shaft all the way through the man’s neck from the back. He went limp and let go of Juanita. She tumbled to the ground and rolled desperately to avoid the slashing hooves of the dead man’s horse.

  Another soldier raced his mount after Audie, who scampered toward a pile of rocks with grass growing up between them. The Mexican slashed at the little man’s head with the saber that had belonged to the patrol’s lieutenant before Cobey murdered him. Audie ducked under the swipe, stopped short, and reached up to grab the man’s arm. With a heave of broad, muscular shoulders, Audie pulled the man from the saddle and used his own momentum to flip him into the rocks. That was enough to stun the man momentarily, but he sprang up a second later, shrieking in horror. Several long, fat rattlesnakes hung from his arms and torso, their fangs sunk deep in his flesh. Audie had inadvertently tossed him right into a den of the rattlers. One of the diamondbacks was even attached to the soldier’s neck. The man did a grotesque jig that just pumped the load of venom through his veins that much faster, and then he collapsed.

  The lone surviving soldier wheeled his horse toward Esteban and Juanita. Before he could reach them, however, Chambers leaped in front of him. The professor’s pocket pistol cracked wickedly. The soldier jerked back a little, but Chambers’s shot had just grazed his arm. He had plenty of strength left to thrust out the rifle in his hand. The bayonet attached to the end of the barrel drove deeply into Chambers’s chest. He staggered back, pawing at the blade that was still buried in his body. His eyes opened wide in horror and the realization that he was dying. He fell to his knees and then slumped forward. The butt of the rifle struck the ground and held him propped up that way, almost as if he were praying.

  The soldier kept going, aiming his horse directly at Esteban and Juanita, who were now huddled together. In another moment he would have trampled them, but suddenly another rider was beside him, a huge arm lashing out in a smashing blow. At the same instant, Wick rammed his horse into the soldier’s horse. The two men and their mounts went down in a welter of dust. Wick was the only one who came out of the billowing cloud, dragging a broken leg behind him. He hobbled toward Juanita, croaking, “Señorita!”

  Cobey whirled his horse and charged toward them, shouting, “Wick! Get out of the way!”

  Wick turned and held up his hands. “Cobey! Stop!”

  The pistol in Cobey’s hand exploded. Wick staggered back as the ball struck him in the chest. “Cobey . . . ?” he whispered as blood welled from the wound.

  Then he fell to the side like a massive tree toppling.

  On the other side of the ruined sanctuary, Arnie left his saddle in a diving tackle that slammed into Preacher and knocked them both sprawling to the ground. Preacher rolled and came to his feet first, knife in hand, but Arnie was up only an instant later, also brandishing steel. The two men came together in a blur of thrust and parry and counterthrust, their blades ringing together loudly and throwing off sparks as they clashed. Preacher had been in knife fights before, but never had he faced such a whirlwind of steel. Arnie’s knife bit and slashed him in several places, but Preacher dealt out some damage of his own, leaving bloodstains spreading in several places on Arnie’s homespun shirt. Both men knew they were just about evenly matched, and the first slip, the first mistake, would likely decide this deadly match.

  That slip was Preacher’s, as a rock turned under his foot and threw him off balance for an instant. In that shaving of time, Arnie’s blade licked out, aiming true for Preacher’s throat. It took every bit of speed and instinct Preacher possessed to pull his head to the side just in time, so that Arnie’s knife just ripped an ugly gash in the side of Preacher’s neck.

  But that missed thrust brought Arnie in too close to protect himself from Preacher’s counterthrust. Preacher slammed his knife into Arnie’s chest, the keen blade slicing deeper and deeper until it was buried all the way, right up to the “G
reen River” stamped on the hilt. Arnie stiffened and said, “Damn,” and then blood trickled from his mouth and the life went out of his eyes. He sagged against Preacher, who ripped the knife free and shoved Arnie’s body away from him. Preacher turned....

  And saw Cobey standing in front of Esteban and Juanita, both hands filled with pistols. The only thing between him and the two young people was Father Hortensio, who stood there unarmed and said, “In the name of God, I call on you to lay down your arms, henchman of Satan!”

  An ugly grin stretched across Cobey’s face. “God left this place a long time ago, old man. Now there’s just me, and I got one pistol for you, one for the kid, and then it’ll be just me and the señorita.” The left-hand pistol came up toward Father Hortensio.

  Preacher drew back his knife hand. It would be a long throw, but he had to make it.

  Before he could let fly with the blade, a hamlike hand rose behind Cobey, grabbed the back of his shirt, and jerked him down. Cobey yelled in surprise and twisted frantically, but he couldn’t escape Wick’s grip. The giant closed his other hand around Cobey’s throat and slammed him on the ground. Pale and bleeding heavily, Wick loomed over his former friend. Both hands were around Cobey’s neck now, squeezing for all they were worth. Cobey jabbed both pistols into Wick’s midsection and pulled the triggers. Wick’s body muffled the twin explosions as the balls blew a huge hole all the way through him. His back arched under the impact of the shots.

  But he didn’t let go. His hands remained locked around Cobey’s neck, and with his dying breath he lurched and heaved. Preacher was running toward them, and he heard the sharp crack as Cobey’s neck broke. The muscles in Wick’s arms and shoulders bunched one last time, and he tore Cobey’s head right off his shoulders. As Wick slumped forward over his former friend’s body, the grisly trophy slipped from his fingers and rolled to the side so that Cobey’s eyes stared sightlessly toward the wagons.

  Toward the lost treasure of Mission Santo Domingo, now home again at last.

  THIRTY-SIX

  “Well,” Preacher said to Father Hortensio, “I reckon you got a good start on somethin’ every church needs—a graveyard.”

  “Unfortunately, you are right about that, my son,” the priest replied.

  Along with Audie and Nighthawk, the two men stood beside the last of the numerous graves they had dug and then refilled over the course of the long day. It was nearly sunset, and it had taken that long to lay to rest everyone who had died in the early morning battle. Preacher wouldn’t have minded just throwing Cobey’s body in a ravine somewhere—that was more than the bastard deserved, as far as Preacher was concerned—but Father Hortensio had insisted that everyone be properly buried, even their enemies.

  Somehow, Wick Jimpson didn’t fall into that category anymore. Preacher hoped that somebody would put up a marker for the big man. He had a feeling Juanita would see to that.

  “What are you going to do now, Padre?”

  “My task is to rebuild the mission and bring the word of God to this land once again,” Father Hortensio said. “With Esteban and Juanita to help me, and with the Lord’s blessing, I am sure I will succeed.”

  “They’ve forgiven you for what happened up in the mountains?” Preacher asked.

  Father Hortensio smiled. “Of course. God has filled them with His mercy and understanding.”

  “Well, I reckon I understand,” Preacher said. “I ain’t quite so forgivin’, though.”

  “Then it is fortunate for me that I do not require your forgiveness, is it not?”

  Preacher just grunted. Him and the padre weren’t ever goin’ to get along that good, but he reckoned that was all right.

  He started to turn away, but he paused and looked again at the grave where Professor Rufus Chambers was buried. He supposed Chambers had redeemed himself, too, there at the end, at least a little. Preacher couldn’t bring himself to feel any real regret for the man’s death, though. It was Chambers’s greed that had started all the trouble in motion. But in the end he had come up empty, just like Cobey and Arnie and the others. Preacher suspected that under different circumstances, Arnie wouldn’t have been such a bad fella. They might have even been friends. As it was, though, all Preacher could do was feel a little grudging respect for the man.

  The four of them walked back slowly toward the mission as the sun lowered toward the peaks in the west. Audie asked, “What are your plans, Preacher?”

  “Mosey on back up to the Rockies and go after a good mess o’ peltries, I reckon,” the mountain man said with a shrug. “You and Nighthawk headin’ that way, too?”

  “No, I believe we’ve decided to stay here for a while and help see to it that Father Hortensio gets his mission rebuilt. Then I’d like to see Santa Fe before we head north again.”

  “Ummm,” Nighthawk said.

  Preacher paused and extended his hand. Horse was already saddled and ready to ride. Dog sat waiting beside the big stallion. There was some light left in the day, and Preacher wanted to use it.

  “Reckon this is so long, then,” he said.

  “You’re leaving already?” Audie asked in surprise as he clasped Preacher’s hand. “Esteban and Juanita will be disappointed.”

  Preacher thought about what Audie had said that morning about Juanita. If she really had any romantic notions about him, it would be better for her sake if she put them out of her head.

  “You can say my good-byes for me,” Preacher told him. “I never was much for things like that. Rather ride on without no fuss.”

  “I suppose we can honor your wishes.”

  Preacher turned to Nighthawk and shook hands with the Crow warrior. “I got a feelin’ we’ll be runnin’ into each other again, somewheres down the trail,” he said.

  Nighthawk nodded and said solemnly, “Ummm.”

  Preacher started toward Horse, but Father Hortensio stopped him by saying, “Wait.”

  Preacher turned back. “Sorry, Padre. I figured you wouldn’t want to shake hands with a heathen.”

  “Even a priest makes mistakes from time to time,” Father Hortensio said as he held out his hand. “Though I still find your name somewhat improper, you are no heathen, my son.” With his other hand he brought a small pouch from somewhere inside his robes. “I want you to have this, too.”

  Preacher clasped the priest’s hand and then took the pouch, frowning at the little clinking sounds its contents made. “Some o’ the lost treasure?”

  “No longer lost, thanks to you. Take it with the Church’s gratitude . . . and with mine.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t want to insult the Church’s generosity,” Preacher said as he slipped the bag of coins inside his buckskins. He added, “Or yours.”

  A moment later, he was mounted up. He turned Horse and rode north, with Dog trotting alongside. Looking back, Preacher lifted a hand in farewell, and Father Hortensio called after him, “Vaya con Dios!”

  Preacher smiled and rode on, heeling Horse into a ground-eating lope. By the time night fell he would be miles to the north, well on his way to somewhere else, content in the knowledge that despite what he had left behind, he had a fortune of his own in this wild, beautiful country that would forever be his home.

  AFTERWORD

  Notes from the Old West

  In the small town where I grew up, there were two movie theaters. The Pavilion was one of those old-timey movie show palaces, built in the heyday of Mary Pickford and Charlie Chaplin—the silent era of the 1920s. By the 1950s, when I was a kid, the Pavilion was a little worn around the edges, but it was still the premier theater in town. They played all those big Technicolor biblical Cecil B. DeMille epics and corny MGM musicals. In Cinemascope, of course.

  On the other side of town was the Gem, a somewhat shabby and run-down grind house with sticky floors and torn seats. Admission was a quarter. The Gem booked low-budget “B” pictures (remember the Bowery Boys?), war movies, horror flicks, and Westerns. I liked the Westerns best. I could usually be found e
very Saturday at the Gem, along with my best friend, Newton Trout, watching Westerns from 10 A.M. until my father came looking for me around suppertime. (Sometimes Newton’s dad was dispatched to come fetch us.) One time, my dad came to get me right in the middle of Abilene Trail, which featured the now-forgotten Whip Wilson. My father became so engrossed in the action he sat down and watched the rest of it with us. We didn’t get home until after dark, and my mother’s meat loaf was a pan of gray ashes by the time we did. Though my father and I were both in the doghouse the next day, this remains one of my fondest childhood memories. There was Wild Bill Elliot, and Gene Autry, and Roy Rogers, and Tim Holt, and, a little later, Rod Cameron and Audie Murphy. Of these newcomers, I never missed an Audie Murphy Western, because Audie was sort of an antihero. Sure, he stood for law and order and was an honest man, but sometimes he had to go around the law to uphold it. If he didn’t play fair, it was only because he felt hamstrung by the laws of the land. Whatever it took to get the bad guys, Audie did it. There were no finer points of law, no splitting of legal hairs. It was instant justice, devoid of long-winded lawyers, bored or biased jurors, or black-robed, often corrupt judges.

  Steal a man’s horse and you were the guest of honor at a necktie party.

  Molest a good woman and you got a bullet in the heart or a rope around the gullet. Or at the very least, got the crap beat out of you. Rob a bank and face a hail of bullets or the hangman’s noose.

  Saved a lot of time and money, did frontier justice.

  That’s all gone now, I’m sad to say. Now you hear, “Oh, but he had a bad childhood” or “His mother didn’t give him enough love” or “The homecoming queen wouldn’t give him a second look and he has an inferiority complex.” Or “cultural rage,” as the politically correct bright boys refer to it. How many times have you heard some self-important defense attorney moan, “The poor kids were only venting their hostilities toward an uncaring society?”