Preacher's Kill

by William W. Johnstone

  “Oliver!” Chessie called from the wagon. “Your father’s awake!”

  Oliver dropped the ax he was still holding and ran toward the covered wagon. Preacher, Hawk, and Pidge followed at a slower pace. Oliver grabbed the tailgate and hauled himself inside. By the time Preacher and the others reached the wagon, the young man was kneeling beside the bunk and had caught hold of his father’s right hand with both of his.

  “I’m right here, Father,” Oliver said. The shadows inside the wagon were so thick Merton might not be able to see him. “I’m here. How do you feel?”

  “Very . . . tired.” Preacher heard Merton’s rasping whisper from where he stood with Hawk and Pidge at the rear of the wagon. “I think I’m about . . . done for, Oliver.”

  “Don’t say that. You’re going to be fine.”

  “No . . . I won’t. Ryker . . . broke something . . . inside me. Getting harder to breathe . . . to think . . . so I want you to know . . . why we came here . . .”

  Preacher leaned forward. He wanted to know that, too.

  “Gold,” Edgar Merton said.

  CHAPTER 37

  “Gold?” Oliver repeated.

  “That’s . . . right. Years ago . . . when I was trapping in these parts . . . I ran into some Indians . . . who chased me into this valley. I was able to . . . fight them off . . . but while I was here . . . I found a nugget that was . . . almost pure gold. It must have . . . washed down the creek . . . from one of those gulches.”

  “That’s why you wanted to come back here? Because of the gold?”

  “There could be . . . a fortune up those gulches, son.”

  “But you’re already a success!” Oliver protested. “You’ve made plenty of money.”

  “Yes, but . . . it’s gold.”

  Preacher heard that note in Merton’s voice and knew what it meant. Sometimes, the desire a man felt for something could become more important than the thing itself. He had never spent much time around men who went searching for precious metal, but he knew the hunt could take hold of them with a lust even stronger than what any man had ever felt for a woman.

  “I want you . . . to have it, son,” Merton went on. “It’s all for you. You’ll be . . . as rich as Midas! You can . . . see for yourself. I have it . . . the nugget . . . kept it all these years . . . it’s in my pack. When you . . . hold it in your hand . . . you’ll understand.”

  The older man let out a long sigh, which caused Oliver to exclaim anxiously, “Father! Father!”

  Quietly, Chessie said, “Let me see . . . he’s still breathing, Oliver. He’s sleeping again.”

  “Passed out, you mean,” Oliver said. “He used up all his strength spinning some foolish yarn about gold.”

  Preacher said, “It didn’t seem foolish to him. A man can’t always help what’s important to him. A thing’ll get under his skin and gnaw away at him for years, and there ain’t a blamed thing he can do to change it.” The mountain man grunted and shook his head, then went on, “Of course, if he ever gets his hands on whatever it is, a lot of the time he finds that it ain’t anything like what he figured it’d be.”

  Chessie said, “I’ll watch him, Oliver, and let you know right away if he wakes up again.”

  Oliver sighed. “All right. We still have to worry about Ryker and his men, after all.” He moved to the rear of the wagon and climbed out, dropping to the ground beside Preacher, Hawk, and Pidge. “Shouldn’t someone be standing guard?”

  “Dog would’ve let us know if anybody was skulkin’ around,” Preacher said. “But we’d best get back to that wall and get ready for trouble. It’ll be here soon enough.”

  They had enough rifles now so that every man was armed with one as they took their positions at the barricade, and loaded extra weapons were leaned against the log wall. There was plenty of powder and shot in the wagons, and enough food to last for a week or more. Without being able to get out and hunt for game to stretch those rations, though, they might run short if Ryker and the others kept them bottled up in here for too long. They could make their water last longer, but sooner or later that would be a problem, too.

  The solution, Preacher mused, would be to make Ryker and his allies reveal themselves.

  Then Preacher and Hawk could go out and kill them.

  “I hate waiting like this,” Oliver said after awhile. “Do you ever get to where it doesn’t bother you?”

  “You get used to it,” Preacher said. “I ain’t sure you ever get to where you don’t feel it, though. A man never knows what life’s got in store for him, but most of the time he’s too busy to worry about bein’ uncertain. When you’re just standin’ around, though, and you know folks are on their way to try to kill you . . . hard not to think about that.”

  More time dragged past. The sky began to lighten in the east. Pidge gave a prodigious yawn, then apologized for it.

  “I’m not sleepy, Preacher,” he insisted. “I swear it.”

  “It’s fine if you are, Pidge,” the mountain man assured him. “I reckon we’re all a mite worn out by now.”

  Oliver said abruptly, “I’m not sure what my father thought I was going to do. I’m not a miner. I wouldn’t know how to go about finding gold, even if there’s really any around here. What do you think about that? Have you ever heard of anyone finding gold in this area?”

  Preacher didn’t have to answer that, because the next instant, another sound came clearly through the night and made all four men catch their breath as their muscles stiffened in surprise.

  Somewhere not too far away, a man had started screaming in agony.

  “What the hell!” Oliver said.

  “I don’t like that sound,” Pidge said. “It scares me, Preacher!”

  “It ain’t good,” Preacher agreed.

  The screaming continued, but it was punctuated suddenly by a pair of gunshots. Preacher put his eye to one of the gaps between the logs and peered across the creek at the woods on the far bank. The shadows were still thick under the trees. Another shot blasted, and this time he caught a glimpse of an orange spurt of muzzle flame.

  A moment later, a man burst out of the trees and ran toward the creek as if all the devils of hell were after him.

  They might as well have been. Twisted gray shapes bounded out of the forest almost on the heels of the fleeing man. Preacher’s teeth ground together in anger. He had believed they’d left those varmints far behind them.

  “Outcasts!” Hawk said. He was looking through another gap, as were Oliver and Pidge.

  “That’s Hoyt they’re chasin’!” Pidge yelled.

  It was true. Enough predawn light had seeped into the heavens for Preacher to be able to make out Hoyt Ryker’s tall form as the man ran for his life with half a dozen outcasts right behind him.

  “Ryker!” Preacher bellowed. “Over here!”

  Ryker splashed across the creek, water flying high around him, and veered toward the log barricade.

  “Pepper those little bastards with lead!” Preacher ordered. “Slow ’em down or he won’t make it!”

  As much as he hated Hoyt Ryker, the idea of not offering sanctuary to the man never crossed Preacher’s mind. As long as there was a chance of Ryker reaching safety, Preacher couldn’t stand there and watch him being torn to shreds by the animal-like creatures that had once been human. He wondered fleetingly how many of the outcasts had followed them all the way up here in search of their primitive vengeance. More than the ones who were chasing Ryker, because more men were screaming in the gloom now, and Preacher knew that a terrible fate had befallen Ryker’s companions.

  A volley of shots rang out from the men behind the logs. Rifle balls raked through the group of outcasts and knocked three of them off their feet. Another stumbled but managed to stay upright. Preacher lowered his empty rifle and stuck a pistol through the gap. It boomed and cut down another of the outcasts. This time the remaining two retreated.

  They had come almost within grabbing distance of Ryker, but now he was able to
dash to the barricade and start climbing it. A tomahawk flew through the air and struck only a foot to his right, sticking in the log. Ryker hauled himself up and over and fell inside the makeshift fort, safe for the moment . . . but only for the moment.

  Because a great howling came from the woods on the other side of the creek as the screaming of the white men fell eerily silent. The outcasts still wanted blood, and this was the only place they could get it.

  None of the creatures were in sight at the moment except the ones who had been killed or badly wounded. Those four were sprawled on the ground between the creek and the barricade. Preacher said, “Get all the guns reloaded you can. Ain’t no tellin’ how long we’ve got before the rest of ’em come stormin’ up here.”

  He stalked over to Ryker, who still lay on his back, gasping for breath after his mad dash across the creek. Ryker froze, though, as Preacher laid the keen edge of a knife across his throat.

  “What happened out there?” the mountain man asked.

  “Those . . . those maniacs must have been following us all along,” Ryker said. “We didn’t know . . . they were anywhere around. They had the others . . . before I could do anything to help them.”

  Preacher didn’t know whether to believe that—he thought it was more likely Ryker had run for his life as soon as he realized they were in danger—but he supposed it didn’t matter now.

  “Step aside, Preacher,” Oliver Merton said. “I’m going to kill him.”

  Oliver held a pistol pointing down toward Ryker. Preacher shook his head and said, “No, you ain’t. I don’t like the son of a bitch any more’n you do, but he can pull a trigger and that’s what we need right now.”

  “That’s right,” Ryker agreed immediately. “You fellas saved my life. Any problems between us are over. I’ll never cause trouble for you again. I give you my word on that.”

  Preacher for sure didn’t believe that. Ryker’s word was worth less than a big pile of grizzly droppings. He would betray them again as soon as he believed it was safe to do so.

  That would be dealt with when the time came. Right now, the outcasts represented a bigger threat. Preacher took the knife away from Ryker’s throat and said, “I’ll have one eye on you the whole time. Do anything that looks the least bit funny, and I’ll kill you right away without ever askin’ any questions.”

  “You don’t have to worry—” Ryker began.

  From the barricade, where he was watching the creek, Pidge yelled, “Better give him a gun, Preacher. Here they come!”

  Preacher grabbed one of the extra pistols and shoved it into Ryker’s hand. “Make your shots count!”

  Preacher turned back to the barricade as Ryker sprang up. He thrust a rifle barrel through the gap and saw at least two dozen outcasts charging toward the barricade. They were running straight into a deadly storm of lead, but that probably never occurred to them. Their minds were too full of their killing frenzy to be rational.

  The first volley of shots ripped through the attackers. Several went down as blood flew in the air. In the predawn light, it was black instead of crimson as it splattered across the bodies of the outcasts who ran behind the wounded men. That carnage blunted the charge, but only for an instant.

  That delay, brief though it was, gave Preacher time to drop the empty rifle and snatch up a loaded one. The outcasts had just reached the creek as more shots rang out, this time in a ragged fashion. Preacher saw the man he had targeted double over as the rifle ball punched into his midsection. The mortally wounded outcast pitched forward into the creek.

  More were down in the stream, some of them still alive and thrashing in their agony, sending sprays of water high in the air. Hawk blasted the first man across the creek, the rifle ball to the chest throwing him backward as his arms and legs flung out wildly before he splashed down on his back.

  But for every outcast that fell, it seemed that two more took his place. An apparently endless horde poured out of the woods. In moments all the guns would be empty, and there wouldn’t be time to reload.

  Oliver’s face was already grimy from powder smoke as he panted, “I have to go protect Chessie and my father!”

  “The best way you can protect ’em is to stop those bastards right here!” Preacher told him. When they had finished cutting down the trees to form the barricade, they had leaned the axes against the logs. “Grab one o’ those axes!”

  Preacher snatched up one of the long-handled tools and swung it just as the first of the outcasts scrambled up the front of the barricade and sprang over. The ax head swept under the creature’s chin and sheared right through his neck, causing his head to pop up into the air while his body flopped lifelessly to the ground with blood fountaining from the decapitating wound. Preacher let the swing’s momentum carry the ax around and back up, and when it came down again it split the skull of another outcast like a man chopping open a pumpkin.

  Hawk and Oliver had axes as well and flailed around them as more of the outcasts bounded over the wall. If the defenders had been fighting with knives and tomahawks, they might have been overrun and pulled down. The longer axes kept the outcasts somewhat at bay, though.

  As the outcasts swarmed around Pidge, he bellowed and caught one of them by the neck with one hand. He shook the man and snapped his spine like a dog snapping the neck of a rat. Then Pidge literally tossed the dead man up in the air, caught hold of his ankles, and waded into the others, swinging the corpse like a gigantic club. He mowed down half a dozen men with his first swing, then did it again. He stomped into the middle of them, knocking them right and left, cracking skulls every time his massive, booted feet came crashing down.

  Dog was in the middle of the melee, too, snarling and slashing with his razor-sharp teeth, hamstringing the creatures and then ripping their throats open when they fell.

  Preacher had fought battles like this before, bloody contests where he was vastly outnumbered and the sleeves of his buckskin shirt were smeared with blood to the elbows. Each time he had figured he was going to die, so he might as well fight to the last breath and take as many of the enemy with him as he could. And each time, through some providence, he had survived.

  So far.

  Today looked like the day his luck was finally going to run out. There were just too many of the outcasts, and they were being driven on by the screeches of a gnarled older man who had jumped on top of the barricade and balanced there. Preacher caught a glimpse of him through the fighting, and for one bizarre instant, it appeared that the man had two heads, one sitting on top of the other.

  As a matter of fact, the outcast had fashioned a grisly headdress out of a human skull, small enough that it could have belonged to a child. Rage welled up inside Preacher at the thought. He didn’t know if the outcasts had medicine men like the other tribes did, but there was a good chance they did, and that ugly varmint had to be one. Preacher had seen in the past how a tribe’s medicine man could work the warriors up into an unthinking, murderous frenzy. He had a hunch that was what was going on here, and without thinking more about it, he acted, drawing back the ax and letting it fly.

  Throwing an ax was a different skill from throwing a tomahawk or knife, but Preacher had mastered just about every way there was to kill on the frontier. The ax revolved in midair and the head came around to smack cleanly into the medicine man’s breastbone, splitting it wide open. The ax head lodged there as blood gushed from the wound. The medicine man’s eyes opened wide. He screeched again, but this time in mortal agony. The eyes of all the outcasts turned toward him as he swayed on the barricade.

  That gave Hawk, Oliver, and Pidge the chance to kill even more of them. Then the medicine man’s bulging eyes rolled up in their sockets and he toppled backward off the logs.

  The other outcasts wailed and began trying to flee. The older man’s death meant their medicine had turned bad. All they wanted now was to get away from these accursed white men. Hawk and Oliver chopped down a couple more of them with the axes, and Pidge wrung anoth
er pair of necks.

  Then the surviving outcasts were over the wall and moving so fast across the creek and away from there that Preacher knew they would never come back to this scene of ignominious defeat.

  All four defenders were so splattered with blood it was difficult to tell if any of them were seriously wounded. Preacher was about to ask if anybody was hurt when another scream ripped through the air. This one came from the direction of the wagon. Preacher whirled around and looked for Hoyt Ryker. There was no sign of the man.

  But Preacher knew he hadn’t gone far. That was Chessie who had screamed, and the mountain man knew Ryker had to be in the wagon.

  CHAPTER 38

  “Chessie!” Oliver cried. He ran toward the wagon, limping as he did so because he had sustained a wound in his right thigh during the battle with the outcasts. He had taken only a few steps, though, when Hoyt Ryker appeared in the opening at the back of the wagon, his left arm tight around Chessie’s throat and a knife held to her chest, the blade poised to plunge into her heart.

  “Stay back!” Ryker yelled. “I don’t want to kill her, but I will if I have to.”

  Preacher said, “You gave me your word, Ryker.”

  The man grinned over Chessie’s shoulder. “You should’ve known better than to believe that, Preacher.”

  “Oh, I knew better, all right,” the mountain man said. “I figured you’d double-cross us as soon as you got the chance. I didn’t figure it’d come quite this quick, but them damn outcasts gave you a pretty good distraction, didn’t they?”

  “That’s right, and I’m finally going to find out why we’re all here. I want to know what’s so important about this place. Merton must have told you by now. Spill it, and I’ll let the girl live.”

  “What about the rest of us?” Hawk asked. “Will we live as well?”