Preacher's Kill

by William W. Johnstone

  “A man who’s truly good at somethin’, whether it’s knife-throwin’ or anything else, don’t have any need to show off about it, especially if it means puttin’ somebody else in danger,” Preacher had told him, the words clear in the still-hushed tavern. “You’d do well to remember that, son.”

  The young man stared up at him. His teeth were bared in a grimace as he said, “What did you just do . . . old man? Seemed like . . . showing off . . . to me.”

  “Nope,” Preacher had said. “Just did what I had to to keep you from hurtin’ that poor girl.” Finally, he released the man’s wrist and stepped back. The man slumped forward, cradling the throbbing arm against his body. Preacher said, “If I hear about you hurtin’ her or anybody else, I’ll be back to see you.”

  With an effort, the young man had lifted his head and said in obvious pain, “You don’t scare me . . . mister. One of these days . . . you’re gonna be sorry . . . you crossed Hoyt Ryker.”

  “That’d be you?”

  “Damn right!”

  Preacher grinned. “I never knew a man who referred to his own self by name that way to be worth a bucket of warm piss.”

  Then he had turned and walked out of the place. He’d had a hand near the butt of one of the flintlock pistols stuck behind his belt, just in case the young braggart’s pride made him try something else. Preacher had been out of patience by that point, and if anything had happened, he would have gone ahead and killed the man.

  But it hadn’t happened, and Preacher hadn’t seen hide nor hair of Hoyt Ryker since then. The story had gotten around the riverfront, though, about how Preacher had humiliated the young man. He figured Ryker had left town and gone someplace where nobody would have heard about the incident.

  Now Preacher said, “So Ryker’s back in these parts, is he?”

  “That’s right,” Red Mike said. “He came in here with some other men a while back. I didn’t recognize him at first, but somebody told me who he was. Then I could see it, even though that fancy mustache makes him look quite a bit different.”

  Hawk said to Preacher, “Another of those old enemies of yours that seem to be lurking under every rock?”

  Preacher blew out a contemptuous breath. “I had one little scrape with him, that’s all. Ain’t hardly worth rememberin’.”

  “You can bet Ryker’s never forgotten it,” Mike said. “I haven’t seen him around for a few days, though, so maybe he’s moved on.”

  “It don’t matter to me, one way or the other,” Preacher said.

  He wasn’t surprised, though, to hear that the two would-be thieves he had killed had been affiliated with Hoyt Ryker. Most men were a mixture of good and bad, but some were just pure skunk and Ryker fell into that category. Preacher had heard rumors about various robberies and killings that might have involved Ryker. Under the circumstances, it made sense to assume that the men riding with him were the same sort.

  Preacher didn’t have much time to think about that, because just then another commotion caught his attention. He looked around and saw that another man had come into Red Mike’s place. This newcomer was striding across the room, bumping men out of his way, and leaving behind some angry, profane muttering. He was well dressed in high-topped black boots, gray whipcord trousers, and a brown jacket over a fancy vest and white shirt. A black beaver hat sat on dark blond hair. Well-groomed and handsome, he didn’t belong here in this rough frontier tavern. Anybody could see that.

  Anybody could tell what he was after, too. He stalked straight toward Chessie Dayton with a determined expression on his face.

  CHAPTER 5

  Chessie had been moving around the room, talking to the tavern’s customers and collecting empty mugs, while Preacher was talking to Red Mike. Preacher had been aware that Hawk was looking at the girl from time to time. Almost any young man would have a hard time keeping his eyes off a gal like her—and a sizable percentage of older gents would, too.

  Still, Hawk seemed to be unusually fascinated by her, probably because of both her beauty and her novelty. He had never seen anyone like Chessie before.

  She had noticed the fancy-dressed newcomer as well and turned to face him as he approached. Preacher noticed that she held the empty mugs and tankards she had collected in front of her, as if to defend herself with them if she needed to.

  The young man stopped when he was still a few feet away from her and said, “I told you I’d be back to renew our acquaintance, Miss Dayton.”

  “Mr. Merton,” she said. “Oliver . . . I . . . I didn’t really think I’d ever see you again.”

  “I always keep my promises.” He held out his right hand toward her. “If you’ll come with me, I’d like to take you to dinner.”

  “Well, I . . . I don’t know . . .”

  A man at a nearby table spoke up, saying, “Hey, mister, can’t you see that Chessie’s workin’? You can’t just waltz in here and steal her way from us.”

  “Yeah!” another of the tavern’s customers added. “You don’t reckon we come in here for the swill Mike serves, do you? It tastes a hell of a lot better when a pretty gal brings it to you!”

  Over at the bar, Preacher asked quietly, “Who’s the fancy pants, Mike?”

  “Young fella’s name is Oliver Merton,” Mike replied. “He’s been in here a few times lately. Seems mighty taken with Chessie, but of course, he ain’t the only one. That’s all I can tell you about him, ’cept that he dresses like he’s got money.”

  Oliver Merton ignored the two men who had protested when he asked Chessie to leave the tavern and have dinner with him. He kept his hand extended toward her and moved slightly closer.

  “It would be a true honor to share your company for the evening, my dear,” he said. “Come back to the hotel with me, or we can go anywhere else you’d care to have dinner. The finest restaurant in St. Louis is none too good for you.”

  She shook her head and said, “It wouldn’t be fittin’ for me to go into a place like that.” She gestured toward her dress. “Not wearing this. I look like a . . . a slattern—”

  “Nonsense,” Merton interrupted her. “Your natural beauty shines through and renders irrelevant any garment fortunate enough to be draped about your exquisite form.”

  Preacher had thought sort of the same thing when he first laid eyes on the girl, although he never would have phrased it in such flowery language.

  The customer who had objected first got to his feet and said, “Damn it, mister, didn’t you hear me? The likes o’ you ain’t welcome in here. You come in here thinkin’ you’re all better’n us and start botherin’ this gal—”

  Merton finally acknowledged the man, who was dressed like he labored on the Mississippi River docks. Merton gave his antagonist a contemptuous look and said, “First of all, it’s up to Miss Dayton to decide whether or not I’m bothering her, and secondly, it’s a matter of mere fact that I am better than all of you—”

  That was as far as he got before the man threw a punch at him.

  Merton leaned aside so that the knobby-knuckled fist shot past his ear. He snapped a sharp blow of his own into the man’s face, landing it with enough force to make the fellow lurch back a step as blood spurted from his nose. Merton was about to follow up that right jab with a left cross when another man jumped on his back.

  Chessie screamed.

  As men leaped up from tables and scrambled to get out of the way, Merton staggered forward under the unexpected weight. The man on his back wrapped his arms around Merton’s neck and locked his legs around the young man’s waist.

  “I got him, Everett!” the man cried. “I’ll hold him, while you teach him a lesson!”

  The man with the bloody nose had caught his balance. He shook his head, sending crimson droplets flying, and balled his fists. With a furious roar, he charged.

  Merton was still stumbling around. He seemed to lose his balance and fall, but then the way he twisted his body made Preacher realize it was a deliberate move on the young man’s part. T
he man on Merton’s back hit first, crashing down on a table that broke under their combined weight. The impact knocked the man’s grip loose as they both sprawled amid the table’s wreckage.

  Merton’s right leg came up. His boot heel caught the charging Everett in the groin. The man howled in pain and doubled over, which brought his jaw within reach of Merton’s left foot as the young man kicked upward again. Everett sailed backward.

  With a fast roll, Merton came up on one knee. He was facing more enemies now as several other men jumped into the fray. Most folks didn’t like an outsider to start with, and Merton had been asking for trouble with his arrogant attitude. As he tried to get the rest of the way to his feet, a hard fist slammed against his jaw. Men closed in around him, swinging punches and launching kicks.

  Preacher figured that Merton was sort of getting what was coming to him, but at the same time, odds of five to one rankled the mountain man. Chessie had backed off. She wasn’t screaming anymore, but she had her hands clapped to her face as she looked on in horror at the lopsided battle. Behind the bar, Mike scowled, obviously upset that this brawl had broken out, but he didn’t show any signs of trying to stop it, and neither did anyone else.

  That sort of left things up to Preacher.

  Or so he thought, but then a second later he realized he was wrong about that. Whether Merton really deserved it or not, somebody was fixing to give him a hand.

  Hawk charged into the fracas.

  He tackled a man who was drawing back his leg to kick Merton in the head. The impact drove the man off his feet. As he landed on the rough floor, he writhed around and tried to punch Hawk. The young warrior ducked inside that looping blow and headbutted the man in the face. The man went limp and lay there stunned, out of the fight for the moment.

  Hawk rolled, caught hold of another man around the knees, and with a quick yank upended him. The man banged his head hard against the floor when he landed, and he didn’t seem to be in any hurry to get back into the fracas, either.

  That improved the odds against Oliver Merton, and although he was still outnumbered three to one, Merton was able to struggle to his feet and start throwing punches again. The attitude he’d displayed earlier left a lot to be desired but at least he was a fighter. Preacher had to give him credit for that.

  Merton knocked one man away from him, but he absorbed punches from the other two. His hat was long gone, knocked off during the fight, and his expensive clothes were rumpled and dirty. Blood from his own wounds and those of his opponents had spattered onto his frilly white shirt. He caught his balance, set his feet, and hooked a hard right into the belly of one of his attackers. An instant later, a fist exploded against his ear and sent him reeling.

  Hawk was there to catch Merton and prop him up. Merton glanced at him. Preacher saw a look of distaste cross the young man’s face. Merton must have just realized he had an ally—and that that ally was an Indian.

  Prejudiced or not, Merton was still facing a superior number of foes. Practicality won out. He and Hawk stood back to back, trading punches with their attackers as four men closed in, two on each side. The spectators had fallen silent, so for a long moment there was no sound in Red Mike’s tavern except harsh breathing from the combatants and the constant thudding of fists against flesh and bone.

  Hawk and Merton each knocked down one of the men facing them. The remaining two, who hadn’t been part of the battle originally, backed off and held up their hands, palms out in surrender. Now that the odds were even, they didn’t want any more part in this ruckus.

  “That’s it,” one of them panted. “We’re done.”

  “That’s right,” the other man said. “We’ve had enough.”

  “Then get out of here,” Merton snapped. “And take your scurvy friends with you.”

  Preacher could tell the young man was putting up a brave front. He was exhausted, and he had taken quite a pounding. As for Hawk, this was the second battle against superior odds he had fought in the past couple of hours, and that had taken a toll on him, as well. He and Merton both looked like they were about to collapse, but pride and grit kept them on their feet.

  That was enough. The half-dozen men who had been mixed up in the fray on the opposite side struggled to their feet and stumbled out, moaning and cussing and leaking blood as they went.

  Merton swayed and put a hand on the back of a chair to support himself as he turned to give Hawk a curt nod. That was his only expression of gratitude. Then he looked around, clearly searching for Chessie.

  She was nowhere in sight. She must have slipped out during the commotion, Preacher thought. Even he hadn’t seen her go, and he didn’t miss much.

  Oliver Merton came over to the bar. He tried to stride imperiously across the room, but he was still too shaky to pull that off. He wound up having to lean on the hardwood with both hands when he got there.

  “Where’s Miss Dayton?” he demanded of Red Mike.

  “I dunno,” the Irishman said. “I didn’t see her go, but she must’ve left while you and Hawk were brawling with those men.”

  “Hawk?” Merton repeated. “Is that the savage’s name?”

  “Hawk That Soars is my Absaroka name,” the young man in question said as he came up beside Merton. “At least, that is how white men say it. And I am not a savage, except when the situation calls for it.”

  “I didn’t ask for your help,” Merton said sullenly.

  “Those men would have killed you,” Hawk said, “and there would have been blood all over the floor. My father’s friend would have had to clean it up. This seemed unnecessary to me.”

  “And in case you ain’t figured it out,” Preacher drawled, “I’m Hawk’s pa. They call me Preacher.”

  The name clearly meant nothing to Merton. He had no idea Preacher was the most famous mountain man since John Colter and Jim Bridger, at least in some circles. He turned back to Mike and asked, “Where does Miss Dayton live?”

  “That’s none of your business, mister,” Mike replied.

  “I’m making it my business. I intend to see her again while I’m in St. Louis.” Merton reached inside his jacket, brought out a small leather pouch, and dropped it on the bar. Coins clinked inside it. “I’ll pay well if you tell me where to find her.”

  Mike’s face flushed angrily to almost match his hair. “No offense, Mr. Merton,” he said, “but I think ’tis time for you to be leavin’ my tavern.” He poked a blunt fingertip against the pouch. “And you can take your filthy lucre with you.”

  “There’s nothing filthy about money.”

  “Depends on where it comes from and what you use it for.”

  The two men glared at each other across the bar for a long moment while Preacher and Hawk looked on. Then Merton shrugged, picked up the pouch, and tossed it gently on the palm of his hand, making the contents clink again.

  “It’s your choice,” he said.

  “Damn right it is, because this is my place,” Mike said.

  Merton sneered, shoved the pouch back inside his jacket, and turned away. Preacher reached out and stopped him with a hand on his jacket sleeve.

  “Hold on there,” the mountain man said. “Are you headin’ back to the hotel where you’re stayin’?”

  “What business is that of yours?”

  “Some of those fellas you and Hawk licked just now might be waitin’ around outside, just hopin’ they’ll get another chance to stomp you. Probably be a good idea if we walked along with you.”

  “You think I need the protection of a ruffian and a . . . a redskin?” Merton laughed. “Please. After the thrashing I gave them, those cowardly louts are long gone.”

  “You willin’ to bet your life on that?” Preacher said.

  “I’m armed,” Merton said. He slipped a couple of fingers inside a pocket on his vest and brought out a single-shot derringer. “I don’t have anything to fear.”

  The little pistol wasn’t much bigger than something a man might carve out of wood for his kid. Probably
not much more dangerous than that, too. But Preacher shrugged and said, “Suit yourself.”

  “I generally do,” Merton snapped. He pointed a finger at Red Mike. “Tell Miss Dayton that I’ll be back to see her.”

  “Keep wavin’ that finger in my face and I’m liable to break it off,” Mike said.

  Merton snorted and stalked out of the place, steadier on his feet now.

  “There goes a fella who’s just naturally gonna get himself killed before he gets too much older,” Mike said.

  “You’re probably right,” Preacher said, “but I reckon I’ll trail along after him and try to see to it that he lives through the night.”

  “Why would you do that?” Hawk asked. “He is an unpleasant man, and he was bothering the girl.”

  Hawk didn’t care for the attention Oliver Merton had been paying to Chessie, and Preacher supposed he couldn’t blame him for that. A girl like Chessie was going to leave a lot of jealous hombres in her wake.

  But he told Hawk, “I’ve heard it said that the Good Lord looks after damned fools because somebody has to. I reckon tonight I’m standin’ in for the Lord and doin’ His work. That boy may be a dyed-in-the-wool son of a bitch, but he fought hard and he don’t deserve to have his guts stomped out in an alley.”

  Hawk thought about that for a second, then shrugged and said, “We will go after him.”

  CHAPTER 6

  St. Louis boasted a few oil-burning streetlamps, but not in the area where Red Mike’s was located. The only lights there came from the buildings. A yellow glow spilled through a window here and there, making the illumination that greeted Preacher and Hawk as they set off after Oliver Merton haphazard.

  Despite that, both men spotted Merton almost right away. He strode along as if he owned the street . . . which, in his mind, maybe he did.

  By this time of the evening, most of those who were out and about were up to no good. Merton encountered several prostitutes who tried to entice him into nearby alleys. Preacher was glad to see that the young man passed them by without even a glance. If he had succumbed to temptation and followed one of them into the deeper darkness, likely he would have found the woman’s male accomplice waiting for him, ready to club him over the head or cut his throat and then steal everything he had of value.