Preacher got to one knee and shook his head, trying to clear away the cobwebs of the hammerlike blow. He stared up at McDill, and at the hideous leering grin on his face.
McDill held his hand out and curled his fingers, tauntingly inviting Preacher toward him.
“Well, come on, Preacher,” he said. “Come on, you son of a bitch. I’m going to beat you to a pulp.”
His head cleared, Preacher leaped up again and charged at McDill. He buried his head in McDill’s midsection and both men went crashing to the ground.
Preacher scrambled to his feet and grabbed McDill by the collar, then dragged him outside. He wanted to take this confrontation away from Jennie. By now a crowd, drawn by the screams and the commotion, had gathered just outside. They surrounded the two men, who were locked in a deadly confrontation.
The crowd cheered for Preacher and jeered McDill. McDill managed to get to his feet, and the big man charged like a bull. Preacher stepped out of the way, and McDill went hurtling into the crowd.
Laughing at his awkwardness, the men in the crowd caught McDill and pushed him back into the circle of combat. The two men faced each other again, and Preacher punched him as hard as he could. McDill doubled over. Preacher landed a strong right to McDill’s jaw, straightening him out and sending him back on his heels, massaging the hand that had struck the blow.
Ben Caviness was watching with the others in the crowd. He wanted to go to the aid of his friend, but he dared not, for fear of the retribution of others. McDill was on his own now. Caviness melted away into the growing darkness. Even as the fight was going on behind him, he saddled his horse. If Preacher won, he might come after Caviness. If McDill won, he would want to know why Caviness didn’t help him. Under the circumstances, Caviness knew that this was no place for him to be.
Jennie came out of her tent then. Preacher turned toward her, then held his hand out, as if telling her to stay away. “Jennie, stay back, keep out of the way!” he cautioned.
Preacher looked away from McDill for just that quick second. McDill pulled his long-bladed hunting knife from its sheath and lunged at Preacher, the knife pointing at his guts. Now, enraged and humiliated by the beating he was taking from this younger and smaller man, McDill was more animal than human.
Jennie saw McDill and called out to Preacher: “Look out! He has a knife!”
Preacher turned just in time to see the blade flash in the flickering light of the nearby fires. He reared back to avoid the killing knife, then circled his enemy bare-handed. Someone from the crowd tossed him a stick. Preacher used it as a defensive weapon, swinging it at McDill to keep him at bay. With one swing, McDill’s knife chopped the stick in half.
“What are you goin’ to do now, Preacher?” McDill taunted, holding the knife out in front of him. He moved the point back and forth slightly, like the head of a coiled snake. “You think that little stick is going to stop me? I’ll whittle it down to a toothpick, then I’ll carve you up.”
Preacher realized then that he had no choice, he must fight this madman on his terms—no rules, any weapon at hand, and to the death. He drew his own knife and held it up, showing it to Percy McDill. He said, without words, that he intended to kill the man who had threatened Jennie.
Suddenly, it seemed as if McDill had sobered up. The taunting, leering grin left his face and he became deadly serious and focused. With a steady hand, he held his own knife up, challenging his opponent. His face was now a mask of calm determination.
“You’d better start preachin’ your own funeral, Preacher,” McDill said. “It’s time for you to die.”
Now, for the first time, Preacher grinned. It was neither taunting nor leering. Instead, it was confident, and it completely unnerved McDill. “I don’t think so, McDill,” Preacher said easily. “I think you are the one who is going to die.”
“I’m going to kill you, and that damned mutt of yours,” McDill said with false bravado, trying now to bolster his own courage.
Out of the corner of his eye, Preacher could see Dog, standing on the edge of the watching crowd. The young mountain man put aside all thoughts other than one: McDill must die. Trying to hurt Jennie was the last evil thing this son of a bitch would ever do.
The two men circled each other like gladiators in a Roman arena. The crowd became silent. Even Jennie, who watched in horror, could neither speak nor cry out. Dog stood at alert. He could have attacked McDill, but somehow seemed to sense that this was something Preacher needed to do by himself.
McDill moved first. He swung his blade at Preacher, missing his face by only a few inches. Preacher felt the wind of the swift knife blade and jerked his head back. In almost the same movement, he swung his own knife low and hard, aiming for McDill’s belly. He missed.
The big man then punched Art on the side of his head.
Art was stunned, and for a second he couldn’t see anything. He backed away quickly to avoid the oncoming McDill, then stepped to one side. As McDill shot past him, he stabbed with his knife blade and felt it slip into McDill’s midsection.
He pushed the knife in as far as it could go, then held it there. The two men stood together, absolutely motionless, for a long moment. Preacher felt McDill’s warm blood spilling over his knife and onto his hand.
Howling like a stuck pig, McDill pulled himself off the knife. He stepped back several feet, then came back toward Preacher. But before he could even lift his own knife, he gasped, dropped the knife, and put his hand to his wound. Blood filled his cupped palms, then began oozing from his mouth as well. His eyes turned up in their sockets, showing the bloodshot whites.
From her position by the front of her tent, Jennie looked at McDill’s eyes. They had caught the reflection of the campfires, and once more, she had the illusion of staring into the pit of hell. She shuddered, wrapping her arms around herself as she realized that, within minutes, McDill would be in hell.
“Damn . . . you . . . ” McDill managed to gurgle through the blood and spit that filled his mouth. “Damn . . . ”
Preacher took one step toward the dying man, then stopped. McDill’s big body shuddered, then collapsed in a heap on the ground. Beneath him, the blood pooled darkly from his leaking wound.
Jennie ran up and threw her arms around Preacher, kissing him. He stood still, unable to take his eyes off the crumpled heap that had once been a man.
Finally, he spoke. “Where did Caviness go?”
“I think we will never see him again,” said one of the men in the crowd. “I saw him sneak away like a dog.”
“That’s one hell of a story,” Jeb said when Preacher finished with the telling. “You’re plannin’ on goin’ after Caviness, you say?”
“Yes,” Preacher said.
“What are you going to do with your string?”
“I don’t know, sell them, board them. I was hoping you would have an idea.”
“I’ll keep your animals for you,” Jeb said. “If you don’t come back by next season, I’ll sell ’em and hold the money for you, after takin’ out what it took me to feed ’em.”
“I appreciate that,” Preacher said.
“Now, what do you say to me’n you go down to the Blue Hole Café and havin’ us some supper?” Jeb offered.
Preacher smiled. “Sounds good to me.”
SIX
The enticing aroma of pork cooking over a hickory fire drifted down the street to them even before they reached the café known as Blue Hole. Blue Hole was a wood-frame building with a shake roof and a wide-plank floor. The cooking pit was just behind the building, and the aromatic smoke the cooking produced was the best advertisement the café had.
A large woman, known as Aunt Molly, greeted the two men when they came into the cafe. “Howdy, Jeb,” she said, smiling at the saloon keeper.
There was only one empty table, and it was covered with leftover bones, but Aunt Molly led them to it, scooped up the bones, then used a soiled cloth to wipe the table.
“Who’s your young, good-lookin’ friend?” sh
e asked, smiling over at Preacher.
“This here is Preacher,” Jeb said.
Aunt Molly looked at Preacher with interest. “Preacher? Are you a man of the cloth?”
“No, ma’am,” Preacher replied.
“Oh, heavens!” Aunt Molly said with an expression that was almost awe. “Are you that mountain man folks call Preacher?”
“That’s who he is, all right,” Jeb said.
“You’re getting’ yourself quite a reputation,” Aunt Molly said. “They say you’re the ridin’st, shootin’st, fightin’st, trappin’st, dancin’st, handsomest man in all the mountains.” She switched the handful of gnawed bones from her right hand to her left, then reached out with a greasy palm. “I don’t know about all the rest, but I’ll vouch for the handsome part,” she said. “I’m right pleased to meet you, Preacher.”
Preacher hesitated but a moment before he took her hand. Her effusive description of him was a little embarrassing, but he knew that she meant well. He extended his hand to hers. “I’m very pleased to meet you,” he said.
At the next table, two men got up to leave.
“You gents come back now, you hear?” Aunt Molly called to them.
One of them grunted in reply.
“What have you got that’s good, Aunt Molly?” Jeb asked.
“We got some ribs just ready to come off,” Aunt Molly replied. “Perhaps you’re a’smellin’ ’em now?”
Jeb smiled. “The whole town is smellin’ them.”
“Well, I certainly hope so,” Aunt Molly replied with a little laugh.
“Tell you what. How ’bout you bring us a side of ribs, some beans, bread, and coffee?” Jeb ordered.
“Help yourself to the coffee, and I’ll go back to get the ribs,” Aunt Molly said.
As Aunt Molly headed out back, Jeb walked over to the coffeepot, where he poured two cups. He returned to the table, a steaming mug in either hand.
Three men were having a conversation at a hitching rail just up the street from the Blue Hole. One was tall, with a very dark, scraggly beard. The other two were somewhat shorter and clean-shaven. They were the two who had just left the Blue Hole.
“You sure it’s Preacher?” the tall, scraggly-bearded man asked.
“Oh, yeah, it’s him all right,” one of the other two said. “I mind seein’ him at a Rendezvous a year or so back.”
“Sides which, Jeb’s the one pointed him out. They say Jeb’s known him for a long time,” the other man said.
The tall man stroked his beard and smiled. “Well, now,” he said. “Looks like I just got me a streak o’ luck, don’t it?” He took out his pistol and began loading and charging it.
“Luke, I sure hope you know what you’re doin’, goin’ after Preacher like this. I’ve heard of him. They say he’s one slippery fella to try ’n get ahold of. Lots of men have tried it, and lots of men have died.”
“I ain’t plannin’ on dancin’ with the son of a bitch, so I won’t be tryin’ to get ahold of him. I plan on just puttin’ a ball in his brain,” Luke said as he continued to prepare his pistol. “Now, are you men with me, or not?”
“I ain’t got no quarrel with ’im,” one of the others said.
“I didn’t have no quarrel with Roland Peters either,” Luke replied. “But when you went up against him last year, I was with you.”
“Luke’s right, George. He was right there with us.”
“Roland Peters wasn’t no Preacher,” George replied.
“If they’s three of us go after the son of a bitch, they’s no way he can handle us all. Hell, he’s only got one charge in his pistol.”
George sighed. “All right, I’ll back you. But you’re the one that’s goin’ to call him out.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll do that, all right,” Luke replied.
Back in the Blue Hole Café, Preacher, unaware of the three who were plotting against him, continued his conversation with Jeb.
“You know anything else about Miss Jennie getting murdered?” Jeb asked as they waited for their dinner to be served. Preacher had chosen the chair that faced the front of the café, which meant that Jeb had his back to the door. “I mean, did the letter tell you how it happened, why it happened? Anything like that?”
“This is all I know,” Preacher said, taking Ashley’s letter from a pocket and handing it across the table to him.
Jeb took out a pair of spectacles, fitted them carefully over one ear at a time, then read the letter. He concentrated on it for a moment, then clucked sympathetically. “I’m real sorry to hear about that,” he said, handing the letter back. “I didn’t really know her all that well. Did Miss Jennie have any family as you know about?”
Preacher shook his head. “Nobody that I know about,” he said. “I reckon me’n her friend Clara’s about the only ones that she was really close to.”
“You!” a loud, angry voice suddenly shouted, disturbing the peace of the café.
Looking toward the front door, the patrons of the café saw that a tall man with a black, scraggly beard had just stepped through the front door of the café.
“Are you the one they call Preacher?”
The man was holding his hand down by his side, but Preacher saw at once that there was a pistol in his hand. And even from where he sat, he could see that the pistol was cocked. He could only assume that it was also primed.
“I’m the one they call Preacher,” he said.
“My name is Luke Mouchette. That name mean anything to you?”
Jeb, who was sitting with his back to the door, turned to look.
“Jeb, I reckon you better move away,” Preacher said quietly.
Instead of moving out of the way, Jeb turned toward the intruder. “Look here, Mr Mouchette, I don’t know what this is about but . . . ”
“Jeb, get the hell out of the way! Now!” Preacher insisted, interrupting Jeb in mid-sentence.
Jeb got up from the table and walked over to the side of the room. He wasn’t the only one to move, as every other table in the café emptied. The patrons, left their food on the tables, as they scrambled to get out of the way.
“You didn’t answer me, Preacher,” Mouchette said. “Have you ever heard my name before?”
“Yes, I’ve heard it,” Preacher said, easily.
“Where have you heard it?”
“I killed a low-assed, mealy-mouthed, piss-complexioned, maggot-infested son of a bitch by the name of Mouchette,” Preacher said, his voice clipped and cold. “I take it there is some connection?”
“He was my brother,” Mouchette said. “He was my brother, and you kilt him, you son of a bitch!”
“He needed killing,” Preacher said.
“Yeah, well, so do you,” Mouchette shouted. He raised his pistol and aimed it at Preacher, who had so far, made no effort to move.
Suddenly there was a loud bang . . . not from Mouchette’s gun, but from under the table. A hole appeared in the table and chips of wood flew as a ball passed through the tabletop. That same ball plunged into Mouchette’s chest and he staggered back toward the door, a surprised look on his face, blood pumping from the wound. In a reflexive action, Mouchette fired his pistol as he staggered back, sending the ball into the wide-planked floor.
From just outside the café, George saw Luke stagger back. With his own pistol drawn, he started toward the front door.
There was a large hole in the top of the table where Preacher had been sitting. Preacher stood then, and as he did so, everyone could see that he was holding a smoking pistol in his hand.
“How the hell did you do that?” Jeb asked, pointing to the pistol.
Preacher didn’t respond to Jeb’s question. Instead, moving quickly, he hurried to the front door and stood to one side of it. A man came running in.
“You son of a bitch!” George shouted, pointing his gun toward the table where Preacher had been sitting. Not seeing him there, George raised his pistol in confusion. He had only a second to be confused, though, becau
se Preacher hit him right between the eyes with the butt of his own pistol.
George fell back upon the body of Luke Mouchette, and as he fell, Preacher dropped his own gun and grabbed George’s.
Rearmed, Preacher stepped out the front door, where a third man fired at him. The bullet whizzed passed Preacher’s head and buried itself in the door frame right beside Preacher’s head. Preacher fired back and the man went down.
With no other adversaries on the scene, Preacher stepped back inside, still holding the smoking gun. He tossed it to one side, picked up his own spent weapon, and walked back over to the table, cognizant now of everyone staring at him in shock and awe.
Aunt Molly was standing by the table holding a plate of ribs, her eyes wide, a shocked expression on her face. Smoke from the discharges gathered in a billowing cloud under the ceiling. Quickly and carefully, Preacher reloaded his pistol. From outside, voices could be heard as people started running toward the café. When the first man came in, he stepped back in fear and surprise when he saw that Preacher had leveled his gun toward him.
“Hold on! Hold on!” the man shouted, putting his hands up in the air. “I mean you no harm.”
Slowly, Preacher lowered his pistol, then nodded for the man to come on inside.
Luke Mouchette was on the front porch, his head hanging down over the step, his feet just inside the door. The right foot was pointing straight up, the left foot cocked to one side. There was a hole worn in the sole of his left boot. The man Preacher had knocked out was just now coming to, and he stood up, shook his head a few times, then walked away, leaving the café behind him. He didn’t even look down at the body of the second man Preacher had shot.
Another man hurried over to the café. Stopping on the front porch, he looked down at Luke’s body, then came on inside. He was wearing a badge.
“What happened here?” he asked.
“This here fella didn’t have no choice, Sheriff,” one of the café patrons said quickly. “Them three others all come for him.”
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