Fawcett and the others stared at him. “Are you goin’ through with it?” Fawcett asked.
“I don’t have much choice. They’ll kill Roland if I don’t, and if Casey’s lucky, they’ll kill her, too. But they probably won’t.”
The grim expressions on the rough, bearded faces of the men grew even more bleak.
“Dios mio, Preacher, you can’t go through with it,” Juanita said. “It’s a trick. They will kill you, and the others, as well.”
Preacher nodded. “I reckon they’ll try.”
He took the jug when Fawcett offered it to him, tipped it back, and let some of the fiery tequila slide down his throat and set off a blaze in his belly. When he passed the jug on to Lorenzo, one of the bullwhackers opened his mouth as if he were about to say something about sharing the liquor with a black man, then shrugged and let it go.
Preacher wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, then asked Juanita, “Ain’t there any law in this settlement? I know Powell’s place ain’t in a very good part of town, but there were three shots and nobody came to see what was goin’ on.”
Juanita’s shrug was eloquent. “There is an army garrison, but they have little to do with civil matters unless there is an insurrection. The constables seldom venture into that area, and anyway, Powell pays them to ignore the things that go on in his house. We cannot look to the law for help, Preacher.”
The mountain man snorted. “I wasn’t plannin’ to, just a mite curious is all. I been my own law, most of my life.”
“So what are you goin’ to do?” Fawcett asked.
Preacher laid out the setup for them. Lorenzo asked, “If you start across that plaza unarmed, what’s to stop Garity and Powell from shootin’ you right then and there?”
“Nothin’ . . . except I think that’d be too easy for Garity. You didn’t see him when he had me and the others prisoner. He’s got a real mean streak in him. I think he’s plannin’ on torturin’ me to death and makin’ it last a long time.”
“So you’re figurin’ if they let Roland and Casey go, then we’ll come after you and rescue you before Garity can finish killin’ you?”
“We can storm that whorehouse,” Fawcett said. “I’d like to see ’em try to keep us out.”
Preacher shook his head. “They won’t let Casey and Roland go. I suspect they’ll have some sharpshooters with their sights lined on the two of ’em, ready to blow their lights out as soon as Powell gives the signal. But we’ll have some sharpshooters of our own.” He looked around the table at the bullwhackers. “Who’s the best with a rifle?”
After some discussion, they settled on two men named Newcomb and Tobin as the best shots in the bunch. “You two will set your sights on Garity and Powell. I’ll see to it they know if they don’t go through with the bargain, they won’t leave the plaza alive.”
“So what it comes down to is you’ll be tryin’ to outbluff ’em and make ’em let go of Casey and Roland,” Lorenzo said.
Preacher nodded. “Yep.”
“There’s just one problem with that,” Lorenzo said.
“That leaves you in the hands of those awful men!” Juanita finished.
“I’ll take my chances,” Preacher said, grinning around at those gathered in the cantina’s back room. “You may have noticed, I’m a mite hard to kill.”
At that altitude, the nights were quite cool even in the summer. Wisps of fog floated ghostlike in the plaza in the predawn light. Santa Fe slumbered. The streets were deserted, and so was the plaza with its low-walled well in the center. The settlement was quiet.
Preacher waited with Lorenzo, Fawcett, Newcomb, and Tobin behind a wagon parked on the east side of the plaza. The other five bullwhackers were in a nearby alley, holding rifles in case they were needed.
The mountain man had rounded up a set of buckskins. He wanted to be back in his normal duds for the showdown. If it was to be the day he died, he didn’t want to be wearing town clothes. He was bareheaded, and he didn’t have rifle, pistol, or knife. He had told Powell he would be unarmed, and he was a man of his word, even when he gave it to no-good snakes.
He hadn’t slept any, and weariness set deep in his bones. He knew he wasn’t in good enough shape yet. Circumstances didn’t leave him much choice, though. He had fortified himself with some of Juanita’s frijoles and a few slugs of tequila before leaving the cantina.
Juanita had given him something besides the frijoles. She had drawn him to her and kissed him hard on the mouth, pulling back and telling him, “Come back to me, Preacher. If you die, the angels who greet you in heaven will not be nearly as pretty as I am.”
“I reckon you’re a mite mixed up about which direction I’ll be goin’ when I cross the divide,” he had told her with a grin, “but you’re right about bein’ prettier’n any angel.”
“I am right about the other, too,” she had whispered as she hugged him.
As pleasant as the memory of that moment was, he put it aside and turned his head to look at the eastern sky. The time had almost come. The sky was growing lighter by the minute as the sun climbed from behind the mountains. Streaks of red and gold shot through the purpling vault above the earth.
Preacher nodded to Lorenzo and the other three men. “Don’t forget what we talked about,” he told them.
“Ain’t no chance o’ that,” Lorenzo assured him.
As the sun peeked above the mountains, Egan Powell called from the other side of the plaza, “Preacher! Are you there?”
“I’m here, Powell!” Preacher shouted. “Step out where I can see you!”
“You first!”
Counting on the fact that Garity wanted something more satisfying than just having him shot down from ambush, Preacher moved out from behind the wagon into clear view of anyone watching from the other side of the broad, open plaza. He held his hands out at his sides and called, “Here I am, just like I said I would be! You can see for yourself I ain’t got no guns!”
“Turn around!” Powell ordered.
Still holding his hands out, Preacher turned slowly, revealing that he didn’t have a pistol stuck in his belt behind his back. When he was facing across the plaza again, he said, “All right, I kept my part of the bargain! Let’s see Roland and Casey!”
From the narrow alley between impressive-looking buildings across the way, Roland Bartlett stepped into view. He still wore the Mexican duds, but not the sombrero. A brawny, bald-headed man followed him. It was Preacher’s first good look at the expatriate American whoremonger, Egan Powell.
Holding a pistol pointed at Roland, Powell called, “You try anything fancy, and I’ll kill this boy, Preacher!”
“You try anything fancy, and you’re a dead man!” Preacher shot back. “There’s a rifle pointin’ at you right now!”
“Same for you! It looks to me like this is a standoff, so we may as well go through with it!”
Preacher frowned. “Wait just a damned minute! Where’s Garity and the girl?”
“They’re not coming,” Powell replied with a laugh. “Trading two for one isn’t fair, Preacher. You get the boy back. The girl stays with me.”
Preacher wanted to lash out angrily. The deception didn’t take him completely by surprise. He had expected some sort of trickery from his enemies.
“How about it?” Powell prodded. “You can still save the kid’s life.”
Preacher took a deep breath. “Send him over here.”
“You start this way!”
Preacher glanced behind the wagon. Newcomb and Tobin had their long-barreled rifles trained on Powell. Lorenzo looked worried, as usual. Preacher flicked a quick grin at the old-timer to tell him it would be all right, then stepped farther into the plaza, walking toward the other side with a firm step.
Up ahead, Roland stumbled slightly as he started out. Powell kept his pistol trained on the young man’s back, speaking quietly. Preacher couldn’t make out the words, but he knew they had to be a warning not to try anything.
Time
seemed to drag as Preacher and Roland stumbled toward each other. Preacher didn’t get in any hurry. Behind him, the sun rose higher above the mountains.
And he saw what he hoped to see, the glint of sunlight reflecting off rifle barrels in a pair of windows in one of the buildings across the plaza. Newcomb and Tobin knew to look for those same reflections, and the two bullwhackers ought to be shifting their aim away from Powell and toward the man’s hired killers. Preacher knew their orders were to shoot Roland down just before he reached safety, when Preacher would be too close to the other side of the plaza to escape.
Preacher didn’t intend to let things get that far.
He veered a little to his left to go around the well. Roland moved to his right to do the same. The young man’s face was pale and stricken, and as he came within hearing, he said, “Preacher, I’m so sorry—”
“Forget it,” Preacher said. “This ain’t over. Stumble a little.”
“What?”
“Slow down!” The timing was almost right, almost . . .
“Kill the boy!” Powell bellowed suddenly as he caught on to what Preacher was doing. “Kill him now!”
CHAPTER 27
Preacher dived forward and to the side, tackling Roland Bartlett and driving the boy off his feet. From the corner of his eye, he saw powdersmoke erupt from the windows of the building across the plaza. He and Roland hit the ground behind the well, and the rifle balls hummed past harmlessly to thud into the hard-packed dirt.
Two shots boomed from the wagon behind them. That would be Newcomb and Tobin, Preacher knew. He risked a glance over the low wall that ran around the well and saw one man toppling from a window, obviously fatally wounded. He couldn’t tell if the bullwhackers had gotten the other man.
Preacher turned his head toward the wagon and shouted, “Cliff!”
Fawcett stepped out from behind the vehicle for a second. His powerful arm went back and then flashed forward. The knife he had thrown spun glitteringly in the early morning sunlight.
The throw was accurate. The knife blade dug into the ground only a few feet from Preacher. He reached out and grabbed the handle.
More guns began to boom. Other men who worked for the whorehouse owner must have been nearby, as Preacher suspected, and Powell called them into action.
The bullwhackers poured out of the alley where they had been hiding and returned the fire. Preacher and Roland kept their heads down as rifle balls crisscrossed the plaza in a deadly storm of lead.
“Preacher, we have to get out of here!” Roland gasped. “Garity’s still got Casey!”
“I know. Did you see her?”
Roland nodded. “Just for a minute. She looked like she was all right.” He grimaced. “I’m sorry I couldn’t pull it off. A couple of men jumped me as soon as I went in there last night. It was like they were waiting for me!”
“They were,” Preacher said. “Garity must have heard we were in town and figured we’d try somethin’. He was probably spyin’ from upstairs and gave Powell’s men the high sign as soon as he recognized you. Was that you who fired the pistol?”
Roland nodded. “Yes, but I didn’t hit anything except the wall. One of the men had already grabbed me from behind.” He paused as the rifles continued to roar on both sides of the plaza. “You knew Garity and Powell were going to double-cross you, didn’t you?”
“Figured it was pretty damn likely,” the mountain man acknowledged with a nod.
“So you set things up to double-cross them right back.”
Preacher grinned. “Let’s just say I was ready for trouble.”
The shots died away then, and a moment later Cliff Fawcett called, “Hey, Preacher, I think we got ’em all!”
“What about Powell?”
“Sorry! He ducked back out of sight before anybody could draw a bead on him.”
“That means he’ll go back to the whorehouse and tell Garity what happened,” Roland said. He clutched Preacher’s arm. “They’re liable to kill Casey! We have to stop them!”
Preacher knew the young man was right. “You ready to risk it?” he asked.
“Anything!”
“Then come on.”
Holding the knife, Preacher stood up and ran toward the far side of the plaza. Roland was right behind him.
One of Powell’s men wasn’t dead after all, only wounded. He reared up and thrust a pistol at them. The weapon blasted, but the ball cut through the air between Preacher and Roland. A second later, several rifles roared as the bullwhackers returned the fire, and the would-be killer was thrown backward by the impact of several lead balls slamming into his body.
Preacher and Roland reached the alley where Powell had disappeared. Preacher knew that Lorenzo, Fawcett, and the rest of the men would follow them, but there was no time to wait for their allies. He and Roland had to reach the whorehouse just as fast as they could if they were going to be in time to save Casey. Garity might kill her, or he might decide to try to escape and take her with him.
Santa Fe was honeycombed with streets and alleys that twisted crazily and sometimes abruptly came to unexpected dead ends. Preacher had to rely on his uncanny sense of direction in order to guide him and Roland through the squalid maze. He wasn’t sure if every turn they made was the right one, but suddenly he recognized a landmark and knew Powell’s place was down the street they had just entered.
Preacher grabbed Roland’s arm and pulled him back around the corner. “What are you doing?” the young man demanded frantically. “We’ve got to find Casey!”
“If we go chargin’ up to the front of the place, they’ll be waitin’ for us and gun us down,” Preacher said. “We’ll circle and come in from behind.”
He was keenly aware they had only a knife between them as far as weapons were concerned. He hadn’t wanted to take the time to get anything else, but that also meant they would have to be careful. He led Roland on a circuitous route that took them to the alley running behind the whorehouse.
There was a buggy parked there with a couple horses already hitched to it. As Preacher and Roland paused at the corner of a shed, Egan Powell emerged from the back door of the building and headed for the buggy, carrying a valise. Probably stuffed with money, Preacher thought. Powell was heading for the tall and uncut while the getting was good. The question was whether Garity and Casey would go with him.
The answer wasn’t long in coming. Garity appeared in the back door, dragging a struggling Casey with him. He was having trouble controlling her because he had only one good arm. As she let out an angry cry and almost broke away from him, Garity yelled, “You bitch!” and let go of her to slam a punch into her face, stunning her.
That was more than Roland could stand. Moving too fast for Preacher to grab him, he broke out from behind the shed, shouted, “Bastard!” and raced toward the building.
Powell was placing the valise in the back of the buggy when Roland emerged from cover. He jerked around, grated a curse, and pulled a pistol from under his coat. As he eared back the hammer, Preacher stepped into view and threw the knife.
The expert throw had the weapon revolving once before the blade buried itself deep in Powell’s chest. The man staggered back a step as he pulled the trigger. The shot went into the air over Roland’s head.
Garity saw Roland coming and thrust Casey’s limp body away from him. He pulled a knife from his belt and slashed at Roland with it. Even left-handed, he was swift and deadly with a knife. Roland tried to twist away, but the blade raked across his midsection, slicing his shirt open and drawing blood. He ducked the backhanded slash that Garity swung at him, but he couldn’t avoid the kick that Garity drove into his chest. It sent him sprawling into the alley.
Powell had dropped his empty pistol and fallen to his knees. He pawed futilely at the handle of the knife in his chest. Preacher ripped the blade free as he dashed past. Blood welled from one corner of Powell’s open mouth as he swayed there for a second longer, then toppled forward on his face.
; “Garity!” Preacher yelled.
The outlaw swung to face him as Preacher leaped and swung the knife. Sparks flew in the air as steel clashed. The men collided, went down, broke apart and rolled away from each other. Garity reached his feet a second earlier than Preacher did and charged the mountain man, swiping his knife through the air with such ferocity that Preacher had to back up as he barely parried thrust after thrust.
Preacher heard Powell groan behind him. The man might be dying, but he wasn’t dead yet. Powell heaved himself up from the ground and tackled Preacher, wrapping his arms around the mountain’s man knees. With his legs jerked out from under him, Preacher went over backward.
Garity raised the knife high, ready to plunge the blade into Preacher’s chest. Before the blow could fall, Roland hit him from behind. They fell, and all four men tangled on the ground.
Powell got his hands around Preacher’s throat. Looking into the man’s glaring, murderous eyes from only inches away, Preacher saw Powell’s strength fading. Only a few more moments of life remained in the whorehouse owner, but that might be enough for him to choke the life out of the mountain man.
Preacher still had the knife in his hand, and he drove it upward into Powell’s throat, unleashing a flood of crimson. Powell let out a grotesque, bubbling cry and slumped sideways as his grip on Preacher’s throat slid away. Preacher shoved clear of the corpse and rolled to his feet again.
A few feet away, Garity was on top of Roland, trying to stab him. Roland jerked his head aside. The blade gashed the side of his neck.
“Garity!” Casey cried.
Preacher watched as Garity looked up. He saw the outlaw’s eyes widen as Garity peered at Casey, who stood a couple feet away with a pistol gripped tightly in both hands, aimed directly at his face. Before Garity could do more than open his mouth to yell a protest that went unvoiced, Casey pulled the trigger.
The pistol boomed. Smoke gushed from the barrel and engulfed Garity’s head. The outlaw flew backward and landed with his back against the buggy’s wheel. His head slumped forward. As the smoke cleared, Preacher saw that the pistol ball had smashed Garity’s skull and blown out the back of his head. It was a grisly mess.
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