Forty Guns West

by William W. Johnstone

  “No man has ever bested me with a blade. No man ever done that.”

  “They’s always someone better, Frenchy. You should have had enough sense to know that.”

  Frenchy sank to his knees. He screamed just as thunder rolled and pealed and echoed around the mountains. His mouth filled with blood and he toppled over.

  Preacher gathered up his weapons, powder, and shot. He looked down at the dead man and thought about his night’s work so far. “Well, I reckon two out of three ain’t all that bad.”

  5

  Preacher took Frenchy’s words to heart about there being no more who would quit and called it a night. He began carefully making his way back to his camp—a hidden cave-like overhang that nature had concealed so well Preacher doubted that any living being had ever before set a foot in the place. The storm was full-blown now, a real rip-snorter. Preacher built a small fire for coffee and food. He saw to Thunder and then stripped down to the buff and dried off, changing into another set of buckskins. He sat by the fire, deep in thought.

  After tomorrow, when Preacher would tell those remaining man-hunters that if they didn’t give up this foolishness and ride on out, it would be shoot-on-sight, he knew he would have to back up his threat with action. Problem was, he just didn’t want to do that.

  “What else can I do?” he muttered, as the bacon sizzled in the pan and the water started to boil for coffee.

  The flames danced silently, offering him no answer to his question.

  “Just do it, I reckon,” Preacher said.

  * * *

  When the missionaries awakened, Preacher was sitting under the canvas over the cooking area, drinking coffee. It gave them only a slight start, since by now they had accepted that Preacher could move like a ghost.

  “I hope y’all brought a whole bunch of medical supplies,” Preacher said without looking up. “This here war is fixin’ to get real nasty.”

  “How did you know we had awakened, sir?” Otto asked.

  “I heard you open your eyes.”

  “That is ridiculous!” Prudence said.

  Preacher shrugged.

  “I believe him,” one of the wounded men said.

  “I suppose you left this lovely valley littered with dead and dying men last night,” Hanna said.

  “Just one. And I give him a chance to ride out ’fore I done the deed. Just like I’m a fixin’ to give the rest of that pack of hyenas out yonder ample warnin’.”

  “And if they don’t heed your warning?” Paul Marks asked.

  Preacher turned his head and stared at the man. The look in the mountain man’s eyes made Paul queasy in the stomach. Without realizing he had done so, he backed up a couple of steps.

  “I’m tired of foolin’ around with these people. I’m tired of bein’ hunted. I’m just by God tired of it. And I ain’t gonna put up with it no more. I can’t just leave. I do that, you folks will be in for a real bad time of it. And I think you women know what I mean. And it ain’t y’all’s fault. You just happened to come along at a real bad time.” He shook his head and poured more coffee. “I just don’t see no other way out of this mess.”

  “There ain’t no other way out, Mister Preacher,” the man with broken legs spoke up. “I’d make a bet that you convinced Cobb and Mack to leave last night. If so, that’s all that’s leavin’. The rest will stay to the last man.”

  “You done some good guessin’,” Preacher said. “I met up with three last night. Frenchy decided to play his hand. His cards run out.”

  Ed Crowe opened his mouth. “I don’t believe you kilt Frenchy, mountain man. I say you’re lyin’.”

  Preacher glanced at the mouthy man. “When you get on you feet, Crowe, you and me is gonna go ’round and ’round. So you got that to look forward to.”

  “You don’t scare me none!” Ed sneered.

  “I’m real glad to hear that. Now shut up. Your whiny voice is gratin’ on me.”

  Ed wanted to say something else. He wanted to pop off real bad. But the look in Preacher’s eyes warned him silent. Ed dropped his gaze from Preacher’s cold stare and shut up.

  Patience and Prudence set about making breakfast—pan bread and bacon—and Preacher ate in silence until one of the wounded men called his name. He looked over at the man.

  “You know them fancy gents is all ’bout half tiched in the head, don’t you?”

  “I figured it.”

  “Crazy as ever seen,” another wounded man said. “And I’ve seen some crazies in my time.”

  “And both Bones and Lige has some real crazy folks ridin’ with them,” the first man continued. “Lucas and his buddy, Willie, they’re ’bout two boards shy of a straight picket fence, if you know what I mean. But they’re dangerous.”

  “They like to kill, you mean.” Preacher did not put it as a question.

  “Yeah. I believe so.”

  Preacher nodded his head. “’Preciate it.” He rinsed out his plate and placed it on a table. “I’ll see you folks later on. You best get some bandages ready. You gonna be needin’ ’em.”

  He mounted up on one of the horses of the wounded men and rode out. Otto had told him about Cobb and Cornay. The two men had staggered into the camp late the night before, both of them frightened out of their wits. They hadn’t even paused for coffee. Just went straight to the picket line, saddled up, and rode out. They headed south. Said they were leaving the mountains and it would be a cold day in hell before they ever returned.

  Otto had volunteered to ride over to the man-hunters’ camp and tell them that Preacher wanted to speak to the men, all of the men. Preacher told him where to have the men meet him.

  Preacher was sitting on a ledge overlooking the valley when the men rode up. En masse. He was taking a chance that one of them might take a shot at him, but it was a risk he was willing to take to put an end to this foolishness.

  “All right, boys,” Preacher called from the rock ledge. “Gather in close and perk your ears up good. By now you prob’ly found Frenchy and you know that Cobb and Cornay is gone. Here’s the deal. Listen up, ’cause I ain’t gonna say this but one time. You boys has wooled me around long enough. I’m done playin’. You can ride on out of here right now, and live to tell your grandkids about this stupid hunt. Or you can stay and die. If you ain’t packed up and gone from here by mid-afternoon, I’m gonna start killin’ you wherever and whenever I find you. No more deals after this one. That’s all I got to say. Git the hell out of these mountains.” Preacher turned and vanished from the sight of those below him.

  The group of men sat their horses for a moment. No one spoke.

  Tom Evans broke the silence. “You think he means all that, Bones?”

  Bones thought for a moment and then nodded his head. “Yeah, I do, Tom. I think this hunt just took a bloody turn.”

  The royalty twisted in their saddles and looked the men over. Sir Elmore called out, “Any of you men want to leave?”

  Slowly, the men began shaking their heads. They were all making more money on this hunt than they could possibly make back where they came from. And they all stood a chance of making a small fortune. They weren’t about to give that up.

  “Preacher’ll be on the prowl come the night,” Van Eaton opined. “We best get back and get ready for him.”

  But Preacher had changed his tactics. He wasn’t about to enter that valley after the man-hunters. They were going to have to come to him. He’d taken his pirate glass and studied the man-hunters’ camp late that same afternoon. “Fools,” he muttered. “Plain damn fools. You was warned, boys. Now you gonna learn these mountains is mine!”

  A man named Jeff, from Lige’s bunch, found that out the hard way the following afternoon. He decided he’d go kill him a deer, for they were all tired of smoked fish and jerky. He hadn’t gotten five hundred feet off the valley floor when Preacher’s rifle boomed. Jeff tumbled out of the saddle and hit the ground hard. When he opened his eyes, he was in a world of pain and looking up into the col
d eyes of Preacher.

  Those back at the camp had heard the single shot and exchanged wary glances. They all knew what it meant, and it didn’t mean that Jeff would be bringing in any venison.

  “Don’t ... leave me here to die alone!” Jeff gasped.

  “Why not?” Preacher asked, a hard edge to his voice. “You come a-huntin’ me, not the other way ’round.”

  “I got ... information.”

  “Then you better talk fast, boy. ’Cause you ain’t got long.”

  “Them down yonder is ... gonna take you alive and ... torture you. Then when they’s had their fun ... they’s gonna turn you a-loose nekked and hunt you down.”

  Preacher shook his head in disgust. “How did you ever agree to go along with something like that?”

  “It was my idee!”

  Preacher could but stare at the man for a moment. “Anything else?” He asked wearily.

  “Yeah. Them good-lookin’ wimmin is gonna get used hard. After ... we ... them ... is done with you. Pass ’em around ’til we git tarred of ’em. Kill the men slow to make ’em holler.”

  “Them fancy-pants foreigners go along with that plan?”

  “Oh ... yeah. They lookin’ forward ... to it.” Jeff closed his eyes and died.

  Preacher went through the man’s pockets and found a handful of gold coins. He kicked a few rocks and leaves over the body and took Jeff’s horse. He rode straight to the missionary camp. First thing he noticed was that Ed Crowe was gone. There were six men still out of action due to broken bones. Preacher gathered the men and women around him, within earshot of the wounded men, and laid it on the line for them. He was blunt and left nothing that Jeff said out.

  “No, by God, they won’t!” a man spoke up, his voice angry. “We would have died if it hadn’ta-been for these good folks here. I done a lot of mean things in my life, but I ain’t never put a hand on no good woman nor gentleman like these men is. We got our guns and ample powder and shot and patches. You go on and don’t worry none about these folks. Bones and them will have to kill us to get to them. Right, boys?”

  The three other men were very vocal in their defending the missionaries. Preacher eyeballed each of them, finally concluding that they meant it. It takes a sorry type of man to molest a woman, and these men were several cuts above that. No angels, mind you. But not gutter-slime, either.

  “You boys’ll do,” Preacher told them.

  “You’ll stay for food?” Patience asked Preacher.

  The mountain man shook his head. “Too risky for y’all. By now, Ed Crowe’s done told Bones and the others about these boys here talkin’ hard aginst this hunt and their decision about not comin’ back to their camp.” Preacher held up a finger and thought for a moment. “But I tell you what I’ll do to tip the balance some. I’ll just wing me four or five tomorrow and then they can’t do nothin’ to y’all if some of their own men is here bein’ taken care of by us. How’s that sound to you?”

  Patience stared up at him. Finally she found her voice. “Well, that certainly is an idea that none of us would have ever thought of.”

  “Good. Tomorrow I’ll go bust some arms and legs and such and they’ll have to bring them here. You make damn sure you get their guns from them and hide them good, you hear?”

  “Whatever you say, Preacher.”

  “Y’all get ready for some new patients ’bout noon tomorrow.” Preacher turned and left the camp.

  * * *

  That night, Preacher crept up close to the camp of the man-hunters and began taunting them. He cussed them loud and long and then he shifted locations, slowly circling the camp. He traced the ancestors of the nobility back to apes swinging from vines in the jungle and got them so mad they had to be physically restrained inside the camp.

  “All of you is lower than a snake’s belly!” Preacher shouted out of the darkness. “You couldn’t whup a bunch of old women—none of you. I never seen such a bunch of yeller-livered cowards in all my borned days. Man-hunters, my butt! Ain’t none of you ever fought a man ’til you come up on me. And you’re all so skirred of me you can’t sleep at night. I’ve bested ever’ one of you so many times I’m feelin’ plumb ashamed of it. I’m gonna go cut me a switch to use on you when I catch you. All of you act like a bunch of foolish children.”

  “Tomorrow you die!” Baron Zaunbelcher screamed out into the night.

  “Stick it up your nose,” Preacher told him. “You better leave these mountains, buzzard-breath. You best tuck your tail ’tween your legs and run on back to mommy and daddy in the castle and hide under the bed. That is, if you have enough sense to find the bed.”

  Zaunbelcher was so furious he was jumping up and down and screaming oaths.

  Preacher then started in on the other gentry until the blue-bloods were livid.

  Then Preacher started in on Lucas and his friend Willie, comparing them to an ape and a monkey. And that was the nice thing he said about the pair. Willie grabbed up weapons and fired blindly into the night while Lucas, trembling with rage, beat on the ground with his huge fists and roared out curses and threats until he was hoarse.

  Preacher laughed and taunted the men until he had nearly the entire camp of man-hunters in an uproar of anger. Then he faded into the night. He had a hunch that come the morning, they’d be out looking for him.

  “Damnit, it’s a trick!” Bones said to the royalty. “Can’t you see that? Preacher was tossin’ insults at us to make us mad. He knows if we get mad we’ll do somethin’ stupid. And we can’t afford to do nothin’ stupid.”

  But his friend Van Eaton sided with the others. Preacher had been especially hard on Van Eaton, calling the man some terrible names.

  “That mountain man dies tomorrow,” Van Eaton said, pushing the words through clenched teeth. “That’s it, Bones. He dies tomorrow.”

  But a lot of people had spoken words along the same lines. Preacher had buried them. If he felt like burying them, that is.

  6

  The man-hunters left ten guards at the camp, chosen by drawing lots, and the rest pulled out just after dawn. They were all angry to the core but most had tempered their wild anger down to a hot bed of coals. Bones had prevailed upon them to cool down: don’t go after Preacher unless they had a clear head.

  Preacher had laid down sign, albeit not too obvious, for he knew there were some real woodsmen in the bunch, and was waiting. He figured they’d come up on him sometime about mid-morning. He had chosen his spot with caution, taking pains to ensure himself several ways out. And he had made up his mind that if he got even the smallest opportunity, he was going to put a ball or two into some of those blue-blooded snooty-nosed gentry. Right in the butt, if he could. ’Cause that’s what they’d become to Preacher: a royal pain in the butt.

  Preacher was under no illusions. He knew he was in terrible danger. He knew that the slightest miscalculation on his part, and he’d be dead. Or worse, taken alive for torture. If anyone were watching, it would seem that he was taking this manhunt much like a game. They would be very wrong in that assumption. Preacher worked out in his mind every move in advance. He was confident, but only because he’d lived and survived by his wits and skill ever since he was a young boy.

  Preacher waited.

  Bones had spread his group out into teams, a good tracker with each team. He alone felt in his gut that Preacher was up to something. But he’d asked the trackers if the sign was too obvious and to a man they had agreed it was not.

  “He ain’t doin’ this a-purpose,” one had said.

  “It’s just that he ain’t as good as he thinks he is,” another one had opined.

  But Bones still had his doubts. By now he had reached the conclusion that Preacher really wasn’t as good as people said he was—he was better!

  “I’m going over there to scout!” Prince Juan Zapata shouted, pointing toward a rise just at the edge of the valley, before the earth began to swell into mountains.

  Before Bones could yell for him not to leave
the group, the rich, spoiled Spaniard had spurred his mount and was gone at a gallop.

  “Fool!” Bones muttered.

  Juan topped the rise and dismounted to stretch his legs. He looked all around, and then bent over to pick a flower to place in his hat. Preacher’s rifle boomed and the Prince took a heavy caliber ball right in one fleshy cheek of his royal butt.

  Zapata jumped about three feet into the air and commenced to squalling loud enough to wake the dead.

  Preacher had not been sure he could even make the shot because of the long distance, but he held high and was right on target. It surprised the hell out of the mountain man. Because of the distance, the ball had lost much of its power when it impacted with Zapata’s regal ass, but it still had enough zip to imbed deeply in his rear end.

  Preacher never in his life saw so many people leave so many saddles in that short a time.

  “Sure a bunch of skittish folks,” he muttered, reloading the fancy hand-made rifle that had once belonged to one of the Frenchmen. He tried not to remember which one it was. “Fine shootin’ rifle. Be a damn shame to shoot a feller with his own rifle,” he said with a grin.

  He watched as the men began moving through the grass to the aid of the still-squalling Prince. Preacher took a chance that he might hit something and sighted it just ahead and above the head of a growing snake-like path in the tall valley grass. He gently squeezed off a round.

  A man jumped up and grabbed at one leg. Preacher grinned. Looked like another one of those fancy-pants folks.

  “My leg!” Duke Burton Sullivan screamed. “He shot me in the leg!” he yelled as he fell down to the ground.

  “Smart, Preacher,” Bones muttered, his face pressed against the coolness of earth. “Now I know why you done what you did last night. Fill up the hospital and we have to keep the missionaries alive to treat the wounded. You no-good, miserable ...” He cussed for a moment, then added, “For an ignorant mountain man as I was told you was, you sure have a headful of smarts.”