Preacher's Assault

by William W. Johnstone

  “Garity wants him to suffer,” one of the guards replied. “As a matter of fact, Dumars, why don’t you fetch him? I got a hunch he’d like to see this.”

  “Can you watch the woman on your own?” the man called Dumars asked.

  The other guard chuckled. “I hope to smile I can. I can watch her just fine. A little scar never bothered me none.”

  Preacher heard the footsteps as Dumars walked off. He came back a few minutes later with Garity, who let out a booming laugh when he saw the ants swarming on Preacher’s shoulder and arm.

  “Just when you figure things can’t get any better,” Garity said. “We got us a pretty little honey to keep us company on the way to Santa Fe, we’re gonna be rich men when we get there and sell those wagons and all that freight, and we got Preacher dyin’ to entertain us in the meantime.” He leaned over the mountain man, blocking the sun from Preacher’s face again. “How do you like those little critters, Preacher? Makes dyin’ a mite more interestin’, don’t it?”

  Preacher’s eyelids flickered open. He whispered, “Why don’t you go to—”

  Before he could finish the curse, one of the other men broke in to say, “Somebody’s comin’, Garity!”

  “Who the hell’s that?” Garity muttered.

  “Don’t reckon we have to worry about him. It’s only one man.”

  “Yeah, but he looks familiar,” Garity said. “I think it’s one of those fellas we took these wagons away from.”

  Preacher couldn’t figure out why one man would be approaching the outlaw camp. Maybe one of the bullwhackers who were with Roland had slipped away from the others and planned on trying to join up with Garity’s bunch.

  Garity strode past Preacher. The shadow he cast was a blessed relief from the searing sun, but it lasted only a heartbeat and then was gone.

  “He’s stoppin’, whoever he is,” one of the other men said.

  Garity raised his voice in a shout. “What do you want, mister?”

  “I want to make a trade,” came the reply, in a voice Preacher recognized.

  Roland.

  Casey had recognized the young man, too. “Oh, my God,” she said softly. “Doesn’t he know that he’s going to get himself killed?”

  “What sort of trade?” Garity yelled.

  “I want Preacher and the girl!”

  That brought a laugh from Garity. “What in hell makes you think you can have ’em?” he asked.

  “Like I said, I’ll trade.”

  “You got nothin’ left to trade for ’em,” Garity replied scornfully. “We already took all your wagons and freight.”

  “But you don’t have this money belt,” Roland called back. “Two thousand dollars, Garity! It’s yours if you send Casey and Preacher out to me! It’s the last of my father’s life savings, but I don’t care.”

  Preacher wondered if Roland was telling the truth. He hadn’t heard anything about a money belt with two thousand dollars in it, but on the other hand, neither Roland nor Leeman Bartlett had had any reason to tell him about it. Roland’s offer to buy his and Casey’s freedom might be genuine.

  On the other hand, Roland could be running a bluff and trying to pull a trick of some kind. It probably didn’t matter much either way, Preacher thought. Garity wasn’t going to turn them loose. He was having too much fun tormenting Preacher, and he had plans for Casey. He might pretend to agree, in hopes of luring Roland closer just in case the young man really did have the money.

  “Bring that belt on over here,” Garity called. “I got to see the money before I make a deal.”

  “No!” Roland shouted back instantly. “Send Preacher and Casey to me. Don’t come after them. I’ll leave the money where you can find it.”

  Garity laughed again. “You damn fool! You expect me to trust you? You’re one man, and you’re on foot. You ain’t got a chance.” He turned his head and snapped orders. “Go get him and bring him to me. Get the horses and run him down, but don’t kill him!”

  “Roland, get out of here!” Casey screamed. “Go!”

  “Too late, girl!” Garity said. “He ain’t gettin’ away!”

  Casey ignored him and screamed again, “Roland, run!”

  Several men on horseback pounded past the spot where Preacher was staked out. He wished he could see what was going on. He tried to lift his head but was too weak.

  Casey stumbled forward and dropped to her knees sobbing, putting her in Preacher’s line of sight. “What’s . . . happenin’?” he asked her painfully.

  “Roland’s trying to . . . to run away,” she sobbed. “But he’s not going to make it.”

  Preacher heard excited whooping from the men who were chasing Roland on horseback. They regarded it as a game.

  The next moment a sudden flurry of gunshots erupted. For a second he thought the men were shooting at Roland, despite Garity’s orders not to kill the young man, but then Preacher realized the shots were coming from a different direction.

  “What the hell!” Garity yelled.

  Casey twisted around to look. “Wh-what is it?” Preacher asked her.

  A look of hope appeared on Casey’s face. “It’s the bullwhackers from the wagons,” she told Preacher. “They’re attacking Garity and his men!”

  Preacher realized that Roland’s offer to buy his and Casey’s freedom had indeed been a trick. Roland had distracted Garity and his men and caused Garity to split his forces. The bullwhackers must have crawled around to the other side of the outlaw camp to launch their attack. It would have taken hours for them to get into position, but the plan stood at least a slim chance of working.

  “Get back here!” Garity bellowed at the men who had gone after Roland. He started to run past Preacher, then stopped abruptly and pulled a pistol from his belt and pointed it at the mountain man. “This ends here and now, damn you.”

  He wasn’t paying any attention to Casey. Still on her knees, she twisted and threw herself at Garity’s legs. The unexpected impact jostled him just enough that when the pistol in his hand exploded, the ball slammed into the ground beside Preacher’s ear, throwing dirt in his face rather than splattering his brains across the sand.

  Casey dropped her shoulder and lunged at Garity’s knees.

  “You bitch!” he yelled as he went over backward. He slashed at Casey’s head with the empty gun but missed.

  Preacher blinked the grit out of his eyes and turned his head enough to see the deadly struggle going on. Casey scrambled to Garity’s body and plucked the knife from his belt. She lifted it and tried to plunge the blade into his chest, but he rolled aside. The knife buried itself in the ground instead. Garity brought an elbow around and caught Casey in the jaw with it. The blow sent her sprawling.

  The roar of gunfire continued. Preacher groaned in frustration. Every instinct shouted for him to get in the middle of the fight, but sturdy rawhide thongs bound him to the stakes driven into the ground. He couldn’t move, no matter how hard he strained against them.

  Only a few feet away, Garity heaved up onto his knees. He threw himself on Casey and groped at her neck, obviously intending to strangle the life out of her. Garity’s face was red with rage. At that moment, he didn’t care how much he could make by selling her to a whorehouse in Santa Fe. He wanted to kill her.

  Preacher saw Garity’s fingers lock around Casey’s throat and knew she had only seconds to live. Every bit of resolve, every ounce of strength he could possibly summon up, he channeled into his left leg. The life he had lived had hardened Preacher’s body, but more important than that, it had given him an iron will. He used that iron will as he heaved against the stake holding his leg.

  And it moved.

  Only slightly at first, but Preacher felt it shift. With a loud groan, he heaved again, and this time, the stake pulled free.

  Preacher forced his muscles to work as he drew up his leg and then lashed out with it, slamming a kick with his bare foot into the middle of Garity’s back. It broke his chokehold on Casey’s throat and kn
ocked him forward over her. Gasping for air, she had the presence of mind to snatch the pistol Garity had dropped on the ground. It was empty, but she grasped the barrel with both hands and swung the pistol like a club, slamming it into the side of Garity’s head above the ear. Garity collapsed, half on top of her.

  She shoved him aside and struggled out from under him. She looked like she wanted to keep hitting Garity with the pistol until his head was smashed to bits, but she dropped the gun and grabbed the knife. She swung around and started sawing at Preacher’s bonds.

  His hands came free, then his other leg. His hands were numb from being tied so tightly. He flexed his fingers as Casey helped him sit up.

  “We’ve got to get out of here,” she said. “Can you stand up?”

  Preacher could see the battle continued around the wagons. Clouds of powdersmoke rolled thickly. The roar of shots mingled with shouted curses.

  With Casey’s help, he struggled to get to his feet. His legs wouldn’t support him. She cried out as she strained to keep him upright. “Roland!” she called. “Roland, help!”

  So Roland was still alive. Preacher was glad to hear that. The men Garity had sent after him must have turned back to the wagons when the shooting started.

  The young man ran up to them and took hold of Preacher’s other arm. “I’ve got him!” he said. “Casey, are you all right?”

  “I’m fine, but we have to get away,” she told him.

  Concentrating on helping Preacher, they didn’t see Garity getting to his feet, but the mountain man did. He rasped, “Look out . . . Garity . . .”

  Roland let go of Preacher’s arm, reaching for the pistol behind his belt as he turned toward Garity. He was too late. In Garity’s hand was a flintlock derringer he’d taken from inside his buckskins. He thrust it out in front of him and pulled the trigger as Casey cried, “No!”

  Smoke and flame erupted from the derringer’s muzzle. Preacher heard the ball thud into flesh, saw Roland stagger and fall. Casey let go of Preacher and launched herself at Garity again.

  He met her with a vicious backhand that cracked across her face and sent her spinning off her feet.

  Preacher fought to stay upright. He was weak and didn’t have a weapon, but he would fight Garity with his bare hands if that was all he could do. He would fight to the last breath, too, and it looked like it might come to that. The shooting around the wagons was beginning to die down. Preacher knew from the grin that stretched across Garity’s face that the bullwhackers hadn’t won.

  “You’ve caused me a hell of a lot of trouble, Preacher,” Garity said. The insane rage that had filled the man earlier had faded. His eyes were filled with a colder, even more diabolical fury. “But you’ll pay for it,” Garity went on. “Damned if you won’t.”

  Preacher took an unsteady step toward the man and clenched his fists. “Go ahead and . . . get it over with,” he rasped.

  “Not yet,” Garity said. He looked past Preacher and nodded.

  It was an old trick . . . but it wasn’t always a trick. Preacher heard a heavy step behind him and tried to turn, but before he could move something crashed into the back of his head. For the second time in less than twelve hours, he was sent plunging into a black oblivion.

  CHAPTER 22

  It was a damn good thing he had a thick skull, Preacher thought as consciousness seeped back into his head. If he didn’t, his brains would be scrambled good and proper by now.

  Maybe they are and you just don’t know it, he told himself.

  He saw light and felt heat, but it wasn’t the same as before. The glow that penetrated his closed eyelids danced and flickered, and the heat wasn’t steady.

  He was close to a fire.

  And he was bound again, but not staked out on the ground. He was upright. When he shifted as much as the ropes around his arms would allow, he felt a rough surface scrape his back. After a moment he figured out that his wrists were tied together behind his back, and another rope wound around his torso binding him to what felt like a wagon wheel.

  It was a wagon wheel, he saw when he forced his eyes open. He was tied to the front wheel, and Casey was bound similarly to the rear wheel on the same side of the vehicle. Preacher looked past her and saw Roland Bartlett tied to another wagon. The left shoulder of his shirt was stained with blood where Garity had shot him with the derringer, and his head sagged forward. He was unconscious, but his chest rose and fell, so he was still alive.

  They were on the inside of the circle. Preacher could see several other men were tied to wagon wheels, too. He recognized them as some of the bullwhackers he had left with Roland. They were the survivors from the bunch that had launched the attack on the outlaw camp while Roland provided a distraction.

  Preacher wondered where Dog and Horse were. Probably within earshot, knowing his old friends. He figured they would come if he whistled to summon them, but that would expose them to danger at the hands of the outlaws.

  Night had fallen. Preacher realized he had lost most of an entire day. The oxen were crowded over to one side of the area inside the circle of wagons, and a big fire had been built on the side closest to the wagons where the prisoners were bound. The outlaws were gathered around it.

  One of the men had noticed Preacher lift his head. The man nudged Garity and jerked his chin toward the wagons. Garity looked around, saw that Preacher was awake, and grinned. He ambled over, carrying a jug. Preacher could smell the rotgut whiskey on Garity’s breath, even from several feet away.

  “Damn, you got a hard head!” Garity said, unknowingly echoing the same thought that had gone through Preacher’s brain a few moments earlier. “I thought sure you was dead this time.”

  “Not even close,” Preacher rasped, which was sort of a lie. He felt at least half dead.

  But that meant he was still half alive, too, and that half was a hell of a lot stubborner than the dead part.

  “I’ll bet you’re wonderin’ why I didn’t just go ahead and kill you.”

  “I don’t waste my time wondering about what loco snakes like you do or don’t do,” Preacher said.

  Garity went on as if Preacher hadn’t said anything. “I’m tired of havin’ to worry about you people poppin’ up to cause trouble for me. Now that I’ve got you all here, I’m gonna finish you off once and for all.”

  Garity didn’t know it, but he was wrong. Lorenzo and the bullwhackers who had been wounded too badly to come along on the rescue mission were still back at the springs. But it didn’t really matter, Preacher knew. Those men wouldn’t be able to help him and the other prisoners.

  Garity waved a hand. “We got you all lined up here like targets, so that’s what we’re gonna do. We’re gonna have some target practice.” Garity stepped closer and poked a hard, bony finger against Preacher’s bare chest. “Startin’ with you, you son of a bitch. We’re gonna shoot away little pieces of you and see how long we can keep you alive.”

  “What about the girl?” Preacher asked.

  Before Garity could answer, Casey said hotly, “You might as well go ahead and kill me, too. I won’t cooperate with you.”

  Garity leered at her. “You go ahead and fight all you want to, darlin’. Just makes it that much sweeter for me, and I’ll bet most of the boys here feel the same way. The ones in Santa Fe will, too.”

  “I’ll kill you,” Casey said in a low, threatening voice. “You’ll never be able to turn your back on me, Garity. You’ll never be able to close your eyes. Because I’ll find a way to kill you.”

  “I’d like to see you try, honey.”

  “But you don’t have to worry about that,” Casey went on. “I’ll make a deal with you.”

  Garity shook his head. “You got nothin’ to bargain with.”

  “You don’t think so? Leave Preacher, Roland, and the other men alive. Tomorrow morning you can leave them tied up so it’ll take them all day to get loose. By then you’ll be far enough down the trail that they’ll never catch up to you. If you do that”—Case
y swallowed hard—“I’ll make it worth your while. I give you my word on that.”

  “What can you do that’d make it worth my while?”

  “I worked in a whorehouse from the time I was sixteen,” Casey said with a defiant jut of her chin. “I promise you, Garity, I know some tricks that’ll surprise even a man like you.”

  Garity looked at her and chortled. “You think so? You make it mighty temptin’.”

  Roland’s head had started to lift during the last exchange. He heard enough of it, and understood enough, to prompt him to call out shakily, “N-no, Casey! Don’t!”

  “Shut up, mister,” Garity snapped. “This is between me and this little trollop.” He looked at Casey again and went on, “I’ll admit you got me curious, but it ain’t enough. I don’t want no more trouble, so we’re gonna just go ahead and shoot these other fellas. If I have to knock you out to get what I want from you, that’s all right.”

  The oxen began to shift around nervously. Preacher noticed that and frowned. Something was bothering them, and it took a lot to spook those massive, stolid beasts. He peered through the gaps between the wagons, searching the night, but it was hard to see anything in the thick darkness, especially since his sight had been compromised by the bright flames of the campfire. He drew in a deep breath, thinking he might catch a whiff of a particular scent, but the smell of the woodsmoke covered up everything except the whiskey fumes Garity was breathing toward him from only a few feet away.

  In fact, Garity lifted the jug just then and asked, “You want a drink, Preacher? One last drink before we start shootin’ you to pieces?”

  “I wouldn’t drink after you if that was the last jug of corn squeezin’s on earth,” Preacher answered with a glare.

  “I got news for you.” Garity laughed. “As far as you’re concerned, this is the last jug of corn squeezin’s on earth! Because you’re gonna be dead in a little while.”

  Preacher looked at the way the oxen had started tossing their heads around a little. Even though the possibility that had occurred to him was so farfetched it was hard to believe, he took the chance anyway.