Brotherhood of Evil

by William W. Johnstone

  Wendell was fully dressed except for his boots, since the night hostler never knew when he might have to help somebody with a horse. He ran his fingers through his hair, a gesture barely visible to Cal in the gloom. “I really was afraid you were dead. Those fellas have been talking all over town about how they took over the ranch, wiped out most of the crew, and made Mrs. Jensen their prisoner.”

  “Well, part of that’s a lie, plain and simple,” Cal stated. “They don’t have Miss Sally. Pearlie and I got her away from there when they raided the place.”

  “Then Pearlie’s alive, too?”

  “Yep.”

  “Then why do they keep sayin’ that about Mrs. Jensen bein’ their prisoner?”

  “I don’t know,” Cal admitted. “Maybe that’s what they want you folks in town to think so you’ll be more likely to cooperate with ’em. Or maybe they really believe it because that’s what their boss told them for some reason. I reckon all that can be hashed out later”—his voice took on a grim edge—“after Smoke gives ’em what they’ve got coming.”

  “Where is Mr. Jensen?”

  Cal opened his mouth to answer the question but then hesitated. What if Wendell sold them out to the gunmen who had taken over Big Rock?

  He realized how ridiculous that idea was. He and Wendell had been friends for several years. They had played checkers and pitched horseshoes together. Wendell wasn’t going to betray him or Smoke.

  “He’s somewhere around town,” Cal replied. “He and Pearlie and I snuck in tonight to do a little scouting.”

  “What about Mrs. Jensen?”

  “She’s someplace safe.” He was vague about that answer not because he distrusted Wendell but rather because the fewer people who knew where Sally was, the safer for her.

  A fella couldn’t be tortured into telling something he didn’t know, Cal thought bleakly.

  “Now I’ve got a question for you. Have you seen hide or hair of Matt Jensen or Preacher today?”

  A frown creased Wendell’s forehead as he repeated, “Matt Jensen? That’s Smoke’s brother, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  Wendell shook his head. “I haven’t seen Matt Jensen in quite a while. Nor Preacher. He’s the old mountain man, Mr. Jensen’s friend?”

  Preacher was more like Smoke’s adopted father, thought Cal, but it wasn’t the time to go into that. He just nodded.

  “Noooo . . .” Wendell said, shaking his head slowly. “There was an old man who came into town yesterday, but he was a peddler, not a mountain man. He had the bodies of three of those outlaws with him, though, slung over horses tied to the back of his wagon. He had the whole bunch in a ruction for a while, until they decided he was harmless.”

  That sparked Cal’s interest. Smoke had told them about the battle he and Matt and Preacher had had with three men guarding the road outside of Big Rock. He wondered if there could be any connection between that fight and the peddler Wendell had mentioned....

  A thought suddenly occurred to Cal. “What did that peddler look like? Did you see him?”

  “Oh, yeah. I saw him, all right. I even played checkers with him. His wagon’s parked in the barn, and his mules are out in the corral. He’s kind of a scrawny old-timer, looks like he’s been through a lot in his life. He said his name’s Art.”

  Cal stiffened and caught his breath. He had heard the story of how a young fur trapper named Art had been captured by the Blackfeet many, many years ago. They held a grudge against him for killing so many of their warriors, and they had planned to burn him at the stake.

  Instead Art had saved his own life by starting to preach to the Indians. He had kept it up for hours on end, all night and into the next day, and his captors had come to believe that he was touched in the head. Since it was bad medicine to harm a crazy man, they’d let him go instead of killing him . . . and once that story got around, Art’s fellow trappers had dubbed him Preacher.

  The name had stuck.

  With his heart pounding a little, Cal realized the peddler who had driven his wagon into Big Rock had to be Preacher. He didn’t have any idea how the old mountain man had gotten involved in that masquerade, but it was the only answer that made any sense. “That peddler—where is he now?”

  Wendell shook his head. “I don’t know. After he brought his wagon in yesterday evening, he asked if he could sleep up in the hayloft. I thought it would be all right, so I told him sure, to go ahead. That’s the last I saw of him. When I got up this morning”—Wendell’s shoulders rose and fell in a shrug—“he was gone. I don’t have any idea where he went. Is that important, Cal?”

  That explained why Preacher hadn’t kept the rendezvous with Smoke out at Knob Hill, Cal thought. Something had happened to the old mountain man, or else he wouldn’t have vanished from the stable’s hayloft.

  The question was whether Preacher was hiding out somewhere else, had been captured by the outlaws . . . or was dead.

  Chapter 55

  Several blocks away and on the other side of Big Rock’s main street from where Cal was talking to Wendell Barnes, Pearlie stopped. The Sugarloaf foreman hated sneaking around. He wasn’t good at it, and it went against his personality, which tended more toward barging into trouble head-on and bulling his way straight through it.

  However, he couldn’t afford to do that. With the odds facing him and Cal and Smoke, they had to be careful. If they got themselves captured, there was no telling what would happen to them. Or to Miss Sally, and that was even more important in Pearlie’s mind. Every man on the Sugarloaf crew would give his life for her, or for Smoke, and Pearlie was no different. That was the sort of loyalty those two inspired.

  Whether he liked it or not, he stuck to the shadows, listened carefully, and made sure it was safe before he took a step as he approached the back of Longmont’s Saloon.

  Louis Longmont and Smoke had been friends for years and had fought side by side in many battles. The gambler was also a fast gun, fast enough to shade just about anybody on the frontier except the very top level pistoleers. Pearlie couldn’t even begin to imagine him giving up meekly to Trask’s hired killers.

  For that reason, he worried that Longmont was already dead. It would be a blow to Smoke if it turned out to be true.

  The saloon’s rear door was locked, Pearlie discovered when he carefully tried the knob. He bit back a curse as he listened to the noises that came faintly from inside the building. He heard men talking, the clatter of the roulette wheel, the tinkling strains of music from the piano. It sounded like a normal evening in the saloon, but he suspected the only ones enjoying it were the outlaws who had taken over.

  He moved along to a window. The room on the other side of it was dark. Probably a storage room, he thought, drawing the bowie knife from the sheath at his waist. He worked at the wood with the razor-sharp point until he was able to wedge the blade between the window and the sill. He put pressure on it until, with a rending sound, the catch on the window gave and it slid upward a couple inches.

  Pearlie grimaced at the sound, but a little noise couldn’t be helped. He didn’t think it had been loud enough to have been heard in the saloon proper. He hoped it hadn’t been, anyway.

  He sheathed the blade and raised the window far enough for him to climb through it. He had just gotten inside when he heard a heavy footstep on the other side of the door leading to the rest of the saloon.

  Moving quickly, he put his back to the wall and stood where the door would conceal him if it opened. He drew his gun and held it up beside his head with his thumb looped over the hammer, ready to draw it back.

  Sure enough, the knob rattled and the door opened. Light spilled into the room from the other side, throwing a man’s shadow on the floor. He stepped into the room, advancing far enough that Pearlie could see his face in profile.

  Instantly, Pearlie recognized the lumpy, craggy features. They belonged to a man named Glenn, who was one of Louis Longmont’s bartenders. He wore a white shirt with sleeve garters, a str
ing tie, and a vest. He didn’t glance in Pearlie’s direction as he muttered to himself, “Where the hell’s that crate o’ rye?”

  Pearlie relaxed. He had worried that one of the outlaws might have heard him breaking in at the window and come to investigate, but clearly it was just a coincidence that Glenn had come into the storeroom at that moment. In the light that slanted through the open door, Pearlie saw crates of bottled liquor stacked around the room.

  He knew he had to take a chance. Staying where he was, behind the door, he whispered, “Glenn! Glenn, don’t holler or jump. It’s me, Pearlie!”

  Despite the warning, the startled bartender jumped a little. He quickly got the reaction under control, and didn’t yell in alarm. With wide eyes, he turned his head to look over his shoulders and opened his mouth to say something, only to stop when Pearlie held the index finger of his free hand to his lips.

  Glenn’s surprised look disappeared and he nodded his head just slightly to let Pearlie know that he understood. “Dadgummit, how come I can never find anything when I’m lookin’ for it?” He rummaged through the storeroom and moved crates around.

  “That’s good,” Pearlie whispered. “If any of those hardcases are watchin’ you, they’ll think you’re still lookin’ for whatever it is you came after.”

  “Got a crate of Maryland rye back here somewhere,” Glenn said, keeping his voice low and barely moving his lips. “Thought you was dead, Pearlie.”

  “Not hardly. And neither’s Smoke.”

  Glenn’s breath hissed between his teeth. “He’s back?”

  “Damn right he is,” Pearlie said.

  “Those gunnies out at the ranch . . . they got Sally.”

  “No, they don’t. She’s safe, Glenn.”

  The bartender sighed. “Well, thank the Lord for that. A lot of folks here in town have been worried about her, the way those varmints keep boastin’ about her bein’ their prisoner.”

  “That’s what they were after, but it didn’t happen. Reckon they’re tryin’ to make folks think it did, anyway, so Smoke’ll get wind of it and surrender to save her life.” Pearlie grunted. “They don’t know Smoke Jensen.”

  “What can we do to help?” Glenn asked. He continued pretending to search for the whiskey.

  “Let Louis Longmont know that Smoke’s back. I’d like to talk to him if I could.”

  “That’s just it,” Glenn said regretfully. “Mr. Longmont ain’t here. He’s gone to Denver. Won’t be back for another four or five days.”

  Pearlie breathed a curse. A formidable ally was gone. In the inevitable showdown that was coming, they could have used Longmont’s help.

  Nothing could be done about that bit of bad luck, so they would have to prevail over the invaders without the gambler.

  Pearlie moved on to the other thing that had brought him there. “Have you seen Matt Jensen or Preacher around here in the last day or so?”

  “Matt and Preacher?” Glenn sounded surprised. “I sure haven’t, and I haven’t heard any talk about them. Are they supposed to be here in Big Rock?”

  “They were headed in this direction yesterday,” Pearlie explained. “They were supposed to get the lay of the land and then meet up with Smoke again. But they never came back.”

  “Damn,” Glenn breathed. “You think that bunch killed them?”

  Honestly, Pearlie couldn’t imagine any owlhoots getting the best of Matt or Preacher, but there had to be a reason the two men had vanished. “I don’t know.”

  “Well, if they were captured, chances are they’re locked up in the jail. That’s where Trask’s gunman put Monte Carson and the mayor and the other members of the town council.”

  “The jail . . .” Pearlie said. Smoke had been headed there to talk to Sheriff Carson. If Matt and Preacher were there, maybe Smoke already knew about it. Shoot, he might’ve even busted them out already, thought Pearlie, although he hadn’t heard any commotion.

  “Pearlie, are you gonna fight back against the outlaws?” Glenn asked.

  “Yeah, that’s the idea, as soon as Smoke figures out how to go about it.”

  “Well, when the time comes, plenty of men in town will pitch in to help you,” Glenn declared in a grim, angry voice. “We’ve got scores to settle with that bunch. We managed to hide a few guns when they went through town gatherin’ ’em up, and we can fight with shovels and pitchforks and anything else we can get our hands on.”

  “Can you pass the word to be ready when hell breaks loose?”

  Glenn made a face. “That ain’t gonna be easy. They’ve got the whole town locked down at night. Nobody’s supposed to be out. I can let the swamper and the girls who are still here know, though.”

  A bartender, a swamper, and a few saloon girls, thought Pearlie. It wasn’t much of an army, but sometimes a fella had to make do with what he could get. “You do that. Meantime, I’m goin’ back out that window and see if I can get to the jail. Smoke may be there—”

  Another footstep sounded outside the storeroom, and a harsh voice asked, “What the hell are you doing in there, bartender? You’ve been gone a long time.”

  Pearlie pressed his back against the wall again. He nodded to Glenn. They had said everything that needed to be said.

  “I can’t find that damn rye,” Glenn told the man who had questioned him. “I know it’s supposed to be here—Ah, there it is!” He chuckled as he bent over to pick up a small crate. “If it’d been a snake, it would’ve bit me.”

  “I’ve got a forty-five bullet that’s gonna bite you if you don’t get a move on,” the outlaw said.

  Glenn went out and drew the door closed behind him. Pearlie let out the breath he had been holding.

  He holstered his gun and went swiftly to the window.

  He had just thrown a leg over the sill when somewhere in Big Rock, guns started to roar.

  Chapter 56

  Preacher had felt more than one item in the bottom of the iron pot, under the noxious Chinese soup Loo had brought to the jail. He tossed the gun to Matt, who caught it deftly, and plunged his hand back into the pot. He brought up a second gun, handed it to Monte Carson, and went fishing a third time, coming up with what appeared to be a dagger. Once it was unwrapped from its oilcloth covering they could see it sported a short but very sharp blade.

  “That’s it,” Preacher said. “But we’re a lot better off than we were a few minutes ago.”

  The guns were .32 caliber Smith & Wesson revolvers, not as powerful as the .44s and .45s Preacher and Matt were used to, but deadly enough in the right hands.

  When it came to gunplay, there weren’t many hands better than those of Matt Jensen and Preacher.

  “Good Lord,” Curley said as he looked at the weapons. “That little Chinese feller risked his life smugglin’ those in here. What if those outlaws had taken that soup away from him and tried to eat it themselves?”

  “I reckon that’s why it looks and smells like it does,” Matt said with a grin.

  “Yeah, Loo was makin’ sure they wasn’t tempted,” Preacher added. “He’s pretty smart, seems like.”

  In fact, it has been Loo’s subservient attitude and the singsong voice he had adopted that had tipped Preacher off. He hadn’t spent a lot of time with Loo Chung How, but enough to realize that the man was putting on an act. The look Loo had given him when he was talking about the tastiest morsels being in the bottom of the pot had confirmed it.

  Preacher took the .32 back from Monte Carson, checked the cylinder, and tucked the gun into his waistband at the small of his back. The Smith & Wesson was fully loaded, which meant only five rounds.

  Preacher usually kept the hammers of his Colts resting on empty chambers, so he was accustomed to having only five bullets in each gun. Between them, he and Matt had only ten shots. They would just have to make each and every one of those bullets count.

  Monte Carson frowned. “Damn it. I wish he’d been able to fit another gun into that pot. I don’t feel right being unarmed.”

 
“You’ll get a chance to grab another gun, Sheriff,” Matt said. “And probably pretty soon, too.”

  “We’re makin’ a break for it?” Curley asked.

  Preacher nodded. “That’s right. I’ve been sittin’ here all day, abuildin’ up a heap of mad. I expect you fellers feel the same way. It’s time we done somethin’ about it.”

  “We’ve only got two guns, Preacher,” Matt said, echoing the thoughts that had gone through the old mountain man’s mind a few moments earlier. “Ten shots. That’s not much to take on almost half a hundred hardcase killers.”

  “And a little pigsticker. You forgot about the knife.” Preacher rubbed his chin, which was bristly with silvery beard stubble. “But I reckon you’re right. Startin’ out, we won’t try to do nothin’ ’cept get out of here. Then maybe we can get our hands on some more guns, arm the rest of these boys, and, well, we’ll see how it goes from there.”

  It seemed like a reasonable plan. Over the next few minutes they figured out exactly what they were going to do.

  Once everyone understood, they got in position. Preacher and Matt were close to the bars. The other men were scattered around the cell, although with so many of them there wasn’t room to spread out too much.

  They doubled over and started moaning and groaning, first one man, then another and another until the whole cell block sounded like it was full of men who were dying, and painfully, at that.

  After a few moments, the cell block door was unlocked and thrown open, and one of the guards loomed there with his hand on the butt of his holstered revolver. “What’s that unholy racket?” he demanded angrily. “What’s wrong with all you in there?”

  “We’re . . . we’re sick!” Matt gasped as he hung on to the bars in the cell door. “We ate that soup . . . and now our guts are being ripped out!”

  The outlaw threw back his head and guffawed.

  “Serves you right for eatin’ that vile swill the Chinaman brought!” He gloated. “No wonder you’re sick. There were probably things in there no white man should ever eat!”

  “Please,” Matt begged. “You’ve got to do something.. . .”