Preacher's Kill

by William W. Johnstone

  Hawk grunted. “Thieves. Lower than carrion.”

  “Well, that’s all they’re good for now.”

  Hawk nodded toward the horses and asked, “What are you going to do with them?”

  “Take them with us, I reckon. We can sell them in St. Louis.”

  “If those men have friends, they may recognize the animals and guess that we killed the men who rode them.”

  Preacher blew out a contemptuous breath.

  “Anybody who’d be friends with the likes of those ambushers don’t worry me overmuch.”

  “And what about the dead men themselves?”

  “Buzzards got to eat, too,” Preacher said, “and so do the worms.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Preacher’s estimate was correct. Two more days on the trail found them approaching St. Louis. Above the point where the Missouri River flowed into the Mississippi, he and Hawk crossed the Big Muddy on a ferry run by a Frenchman named Louinet, a descendant of one of the trappers who had first come down the Father of Waters from Canada to this region a hundred years earlier.

  Preacher saw the wiry, balding man eyeing the two extra horses and said, “Found these animals runnin’ loose a couple days ago, back upstream. You have any idea who they might belong to?”

  Louinet shook his head. “Non. Since you found them, I assume they are now yours.”

  “Reckon so. I just figured I’d get ’em back to whoever rightfully owned ’em, if I could.”

  “If those animals were running loose with saddles on them, then the men who rode them almost certainly have no further need for them.”

  “You’re probably right about that,” Preacher said with a grim smile.

  He wasn’t worried about who the two ambushers had been, but if Louinet had been able to give him some names, it might have helped him watch out for any friends or relatives of the dead men. But if they came after him and Hawk, so be it. They had only defended themselves and hadn’t done anything wrong. Preacher was the sort who dealt with problems when they arose and didn’t waste a second of time fretting about the future. It had a habit of taking care of itself.

  That attitude was entirely different from being careless, though. Nobody could accuse Preacher of that, either.

  Once they were on the other side of the river, Preacher and Hawk rode on, with Hawk leading the string that consisted of the pack mule and the extra mounts. They didn’t reach St. Louis until dusk, and as they spotted the lights of the town, Hawk exclaimed softly in surprise and said, “They must have many campfires in this village called St. Louis.”

  “Those ain’t campfires,” Preacher said. “They’re lights shinin’ through windows. Lamps and lanterns and candles. You’ll see when we get there.”

  “Windows, like in the trading posts where we stopped from time to time?”

  “Sort of, but a lot of these have glass in ’em.” Hawk just shook his head in bafflement, so Preacher went on, “You’ll see soon enough, when we get there.”

  More than likely, window glass wouldn’t be the only thing Preacher would have to explain to his son before this visit was over. This was Hawk’s first taste of so-called civilization, which held a lot of mysteries for someone accustomed to a simpler, more elemental life.

  As they rode into the settlement sprawled along the west bank of the Mississippi, Hawk gazed in wonder at the buildings looming in the gathering shadows. He wrinkled his nose and said, “Ugh. It stinks.”

  “You’re smellin’ the docks and the area along the river,” Preacher said. “It’s a mite aromatic, all right. There are a lot of warehouses along there full of pelts, and not everybody’s as careful about cleanin’ and dryin’ ’em as we are. They start to rot. Then you’ve got spoiled food and spilled beer and lots of folks who ain’t exactly as fresh as daisies. It all mixes together until you get the smell you’re expe-riencin’ now.”

  Hawk shook his head. “The high country is better.”

  “You won’t get any argument from me about that, boy . . . but this is where the money is.”

  “This thing you call money is worthless.”

  “Oh, it has its uses, as long as you don’t get too attached to it. Your people trade with each other, and it’s sort of the same thing.”

  “We trade things people can use,” Hawk said. “It is not the same thing at all.”

  “Just keep your eyes open,” Preacher said. “You’ll learn.”

  And the youngster probably would learn some things he’d just as soon he hadn’t, the mountain man thought.

  The pelts were the most important thing to deal with, so Preacher headed first for the local office of the American Fur Company. Founded by John Jacob Astor in the early part of the century, the enterprise had grown into a virtual monopoly controlling all the fur trade in the United States. In recent years, the company had declined in its influence and control, a trend not helped by Astor’s departure from the company he had started. But it was still operating, led now by a man named Ramsay Crooks, and Preacher knew he wouldn’t get a better price for the furs anywhere else.

  Despite the fact that night was falling and some businesses were closing for the day, the office of the American Fur Company, located in a sturdy building with a sprawling warehouse behind it, was still brightly lit. Preacher reined Horse to a stop in front of it and swung down from the saddle.

  “Tie up these animals and keep an eye on ’em,” Preacher told Hawk. “I’ll go inside and talk to Vernon Pritchard. He runs this office, unless somethin’s happened to him since the last time I was here.” He added, “Dog, you stay out here, too.”

  Preacher wasn’t sure it was a good idea to leave Hawk alone on the streets of St. Louis, but the youngster had to start getting used to the place sooner or later. Besides, Dog wouldn’t let anything happen to him or any of the horses. Preacher took the steps leading up to the porch on the front of the building in a couple of bounds, then glanced back at Hawk, who was peering around wide-eyed, one more time before going into the building.

  A man in a dusty black coat sat on a high stool behind a desk, scratching away with a quill pen as he entered figures in a ledger book. He had a tuft of taffy-colored hair on the top of his head and matching tufts above each ear, otherwise was bald. A pair of pince-nez clung precariously to the end of his long nose. He looked over the spectacles at Preacher and grinned as he tried to straighten up. A back permanently hunched from bending over a desk made that difficult.

  “Preacher!” he said. “I didn’t know if we’d see you this season.”

  “You didn’t think anything would’ve happened to me, did you, Henry?”

  “Well, of course not,” the clerk said. “You’re indestructible, Preacher. I fully expect that forty or fifty years from now, you’ll still be running around those mountains out there, getting into all sorts of trouble.”

  Preacher laughed. “I’m gonna do my best to prove you right.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Right now, though, I’ve got a load of pelts out there. Vernon around to make me an offer on ’em?”

  Henry’s smile disappeared and was replaced by a look of concern. “You just left them out there?”

  “Dog’s guardin’ ’em. And I told my boy to keep an eye on ’em, too.”

  “You have a partner now?”

  “My son,” Preacher said.

  That news made the clerk look startled again. He hemmed and hawed for a moment and then evidently decided he didn’t want to press Preacher for the details. Instead he said, “Mr. Pritchard is in the warehouse. You can go on around.”

  “Thanks.” Preacher paused. “Henry, why’d you say that about me leavin’ the pelts outside, like it wasn’t a good idea?”

  “St. Louis has gotten worse in the past year, Preacher. There are thieves and cutthroats everywhere. I hate to walk back to my house at night.” Henry reached down to a shelf under the desk and picked up an ancient pistol with a barrel that flared out at the muzzle. He displayed the weapon to Preacher and went on, “Tha
t’s why I carry this.”

  “Put that sawed-off blunderbuss away,” Preacher said. “You’re makin’ me nervous.”

  “Preacher being nervous.” Henry shook his head. “I’ll never live to see the day.”

  Preacher lifted a hand in farewell and went back outside. Just as he stepped onto the porch, he heard a harsh voice say, “Damn it, Nix, Jenks, look at that. That’s a redskin sittin’ there with a nice big load o’ pelts. Hey, Injun, where’d you steal them furs?”

  Preacher paused and eased sideways, out of the light that spilled through the door. He drifted into a shadow thick and dark enough to keep him from being noticed easily. He wanted to see what was going to happen.

  Hawk had dismounted long enough to tie the animals’ reins to the hitch rail in front of the office, then swung back up onto his pony, which he rode with a saddle now rather than bareback or with only a blanket, the way he had when he was younger. He stared impassively at the three men who swaggered toward him, but didn’t say anything.

  They were big and roughly dressed. Preacher could tell that much in the gloom. He didn’t need to see the details to know what sort of men they were. The clerk had warned him about the ruffians now making St. Louis a dangerous place, and Preacher knew he was looking at three examples of that.

  “I’m talkin’ to you, redskin,” continued the man who had spoken earlier. “I want to know where you stole them furs. I know good an’ well a lazy, good-for-nothin’ Injun like you didn’t work to trap ’em.”

  Hawk said something in the Absaroka tongue. The three men clearly didn’t understand a word of it, but Preacher did. Hawk’s words were a warning: “You should go away now, before I kill you.”

  One of the men laughed and said, “I guess he told you, Brice—although I ain’t sure just what he told you.”

  Brice, the one who had spoken first, stepped forward enough so that the light from the doorway revealed the scowl on his face. He said, “Don’t you jabber at me, boy.” He waved an arm. “Go on, get outta here! You don’t need them furs. Leave them here for white men, and those horses, too.” He sneered. “You can keep that damn Injun pony. It probably ain’t fit to carry a real man.”

  After spending months with Preacher, Charlie Todd, and Aaron Buckley, Hawk spoke English quite well. Only occasionally did he stumble over a word or have to search for the right one. So Preacher knew Hawk understood everything Brice said.

  He also knew that Hawk had a short temper and probably wasn’t going to put up with much more of this.

  Brice came closer. “Are you not listenin’ to me, boy? I said git! We’re takin’ those pelts.”

  “They are . . . my furs,” Hawk said in English, slowly and awkwardly as if he wasn’t what he was saying. “Please . . . do not . . . steal them.”

  In the shadows on the porch, Preacher grinned. Other than that, he was motionless. Hawk was baiting those would-be thieves, and Preacher had a pretty good idea what the outcome was going to be. He wouldn’t step in unless it was necessary.

  “Don’t you mouth off to me, redskin,” Brice blustered. “Get outta here, or you’re gonna get the beatin’ of your life.”

  “Please,” Hawk said. “Do not hurt me.”

  Brice grunted in contempt and reached up.

  “You had your chance,” he said. “Now I’m gonna teach you a lesson, you red ni—”

  He closed his hands on Hawk’s buckskin shirt to drag him off the pony.

  Then, a split second later, he realized he might as well have grabbed hold of a mountain lion.

  Hawk’s leg shot out. The moccasin-shod heel cracked into Brice’s head and jolted his head back. As Brice staggered a couple of steps away, Hawk swung his other leg over the pony’s back and dived at the other two men.

  They both let out startled yells when Hawk kicked their friend, and one of them clawed at a pistol stuck behind his belt. Before he could pull the weapon free, Hawk crashed into them and drove them both off their feet.

  He hit the ground rolling and came upright as Brice recovered his balance from the kick and charged at Hawk with a shout of rage. The young man darted aside nimbly as Brice tried to catch him in a bear hug that would have crushed his ribs.

  Hawk twisted, clubbed his hands together, and slammed them into the small of Brice’s back as the man’s momentum carried him past. Brice cried out in pain and arched his back, then stumbled and went down hard, face-first, plowing into the hard-packed dirt of the street.

  Hawk whirled to face the other two men, who were struggling to get up. One of them he met with a straight, hard punch that landed squarely on the man’s nose. Even from where Preacher stood on the porch, he heard bone and cartilage crunch. The man went back down a lot faster than he had gotten up and stayed down this time.

  The third man had a chance to spring toward Hawk and managed to get his right arm around the youngster’s neck from behind. He clamped down with the grip and used his heavier weight to force Hawk forward and down. His left hand grasped his right wrist to tighten the choke hold. He brought up his right knee and planted it in Hawk’s back. That move proved the man was an experienced brawler, because now with one good heave, he could snap Hawk’s neck.

  CHAPTER 3

  Preacher wasn’t going to stand by and do nothing while his son was killed. He had two flintlock pistols shoved behind the broad leather belt around his waist. He reached for the guns, then realized that if he blew a hole in the man about to break Hawk’s neck, there was a good chance the heavy lead balls would pass on through his body and into the youngster. Preacher couldn’t risk that.

  Instead he grabbed the tomahawk that was also stuck behind his belt. A perfect throw would lodge the sharp flint head in the back of the man’s skull without endangering Hawk.

  As it turned out, the mountain man didn’t need any of his weapons. Hawk writhed like a snake, and his opponent couldn’t hold him. Hawk worked his way out of the grip seemingly by magic and dropped to a crouch. His elbow drove back sharply into the man’s groin, causing a startled, high-pitched yelp of pain. As the man began to double over, Hawk turned and lifted an uppercut with all the deceptive strength in his slim body. His fist crashed into the man’s jaw and made his feet come off the ground as he flipped over backward, out cold.

  A voice said, “That was as fine a display of pugilism as I’ve seen in a long time, lad!” A man with a thatch of gray hair and bushy side whiskers came toward Hawk. He must have been watching the fight from the corner of the building. “Who are you, my friend? Do you speak English?”

  “I speak the white man’s tongue,” Hawk said. He pointed toward the porch. “And I travel with him.”

  Preacher chuckled and moved forward to the top of the steps. “You knew I was up here watchin’ the whole time, didn’t you, Hawk?”

  “Of course. I am not blind as so many of your people seem to be.”

  The newcomer looked up at the porch and said, “Is that you, Preacher?”

  “Howdy, Vernon,” Preacher said by way of answer. “Good to see you again. The sprout over there”—he nodded toward Hawk—“is Hawk That Soars.” Preacher paused. “My son.”

  “Is that so?” Vernon Pritchard said. He thrust out his hand toward the youngster. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Hawk That Soars.”

  Hawk hesitated, still not entirely comfortable with the customs of the white men, but he gripped Pritchard’s hand and shook it.

  “I didn’t know you had any children, Preacher,” the trader went on.

  Preacher scratched his jaw and said, “You and me both. But I’ve never been good at keepin’ up with that sort of thing.”

  “I take it those are your pelts on that pack mule?”

  “Mine and Hawk’s and a couple of other fellas. You want to make us an offer on ’em?”

  Pritchard went over to the mule, opened one of the packs enough to check the furs bundled inside it, then said, “All of them the same quality?”

  “Yep.”

  With
the keen eye of an experienced trader, Pritchard estimated the load’s weight, then stated a figure.

  “You can do a mite better than that,” Preacher said.

  Pritchard laughed. “You drive a hard bargain, my friend. I’ll raise my offer by . . . ten percent.”

  “Twenty-five.”

  “Fifteen,” Pritchard countered.

  “Done,” Preacher said.

  “I’ll have my men unload. What about the mule?”

  Preacher pointed along the street and said, “We’re gonna take the horses down to Fullerton’s. If one of your boys can bring the mule along when you’re done, I’ll tell Fullerton to be lookin’ for him.”

  “I can do that.”

  Preacher nodded toward the three men lying sprawled in the street. They were starting to come around, stirring a little and letting out an occasional moan. The bubbling noises coming from the one whose nose Hawk had broken sounded miserable.

  “You know these varmints?” the mountain man asked.

  “Not to speak of. There are dozens of crooked brutes just like them around now. Do you want me to send for the constable so you can have them arrested?”

  “No, I reckon Hawk already dealt ’em out enough punishment for bein’ stupid.”

  “I considered killing them,” Hawk said, “but I thought the other white men might be upset and cause trouble for you, Preacher.”

  “Don’t ever hold back on killin’ somebody who needs it on account of me,” Preacher advised. “If I worried overmuch about what other folks think, I never would’ve taken off for the tall and uncut when I was still just a younker.”

  With the deal for the furs settled, Preacher and Hawk walked toward the stable, leading the four horses. Dog padded alongside the mountain man.

  After a minute or so, Hawk said, “I am pleased you did not try to help me back there. I can fight my own battles.”

  “Never doubted it,” Preacher replied. He didn’t say anything about how he’d been preparing to take action when Hawk got loose from the third man. His help hadn’t been needed . . . but he had been ready if it was.