Preacher's Justice

by William W. Johnstone

  Even before sunrise, Preacher was pretty sure that Caviness had gotten away from him somehow, sneaking out of the park under the cover of darkness. He dragged the bodies of the three men he had killed into a spot that was some distance from the normal path people took when walking through the park. With the bodies out of the way of incidental pedestrians, he went to the headquarters of the Philadelphia Police Agency to report upon the events of the night before.

  Chief Constable Dolan, Constable Coleman, and a couple of the watchmen, including one whose “watch box” was very near the entrance of the park, were there to, listen as Preacher told his story.

  “You think it happened the way this man says it happened?” Constable Coleman asked after Preacher was finished.

  “Why? Do you think it didn’t?”

  “I don’t know . . . four men against one, and this morning three of the four is dead. It don’t ring right to me.”

  Dolan nodded. “Well, I believe it,” he said. “Let’s go down to the park and have a look.”

  Accepting a ride in Dolan’s carriage, Preacher led them into the park and to the place where he had left the bodies this morning. They were still there, undisturbed.

  Chief Dolan looked at them for a moment, then pointed out the bodies, identifying them one by one. “That’s Jim Gray, Luke Kelly, and Martin Scott,” he said. “They are the dregs of society, three of the most disreputable men in the city. If they were out here in the park in the middle of the night, you can bet they were up to no good. Preacher did the whole city a favor by killing these three.”

  “Thanks,” Preacher said. “But the one I wanted got away.”

  At that moment, a constable on horseback came riding into the park at a gallop.

  “Chief!” he started shouting, even before he dismounted. Dismounting, he handed the reins of his horse to one of the other watchmen, then hurried over to Chief Constable Dolan.

  “What is it, Smith?”

  “Some banker has been taken prisoner,” Smith said.

  “Taken prisoner? What do you mean ‘taken prisoner’?”

  “A fella by the name of Epson,” Smith said. “Witnesses say another man jumped out from behind some bushes this morning and took him at gunpoint down to the river.”

  “Epson?” Preacher said. “Chief Dolan, if Epson has been taken prisoner, then Caviness has to be the one who took him.”

  The recently arrived watchman looked at the tall man in buckskins, then looked back at Dolan. “Who is this?”

  “This is my deputy,” Dolan said. “Come on, let’s get down to the river.”

  Down at the river’s edge, Caviness had commandeered a small paddle boat. Ordering the boatman to build up the steam, he stood there, pointing his pistol at Epson, while a crowd of curious onlookers began gathering around to watch the unfolding drama.

  “My name is Constable Marvin Jensen,” one of the men in the crowd shouted to Caviness. This was a watchman, a member of the Philadelphia Police whose watchbox was close enough to the area to arouse his interest in what was going on by the river. He’d arrived to find Caviness standing there by the edge of the water, holding a pistol pointed at the head of a very frightened Theodore Epson. “Just what is it you are planning on doing?” the constable asked.

  “I’m going to kill him if anyone comes any closer,” Caviness replied with a menacing jerk of his gun.

  “You don’t want to do that, mister. That would be cold-blooded murder, and you would hang for it for sure,” the watchman replied.

  “You want to save this man’s life?” Caviness called.

  “Yes.”

  “Then you go to this here feller’s bank, and you tell the person in charge there that he had better come up with two hundred—no, make that one thousand dollars. Yeah, one thousand,” he repeated, getting bolder. “You tell the bank it’s going to cost them one thousand dollars to keep me from killin’ this here little pissant.”

  “What makes you think the bank will pay one thousand dollars to save this man?” the constable asked.

  “’Cause he ain’t just anybody. This here feller works for that bank. I reckon they’ll pay to save him,” Caviness said with self-assurance.

  “Caviness, Mr. Fontaine is never going to agree to something like that,” Epson said in a voice that was laced with panic. “He won’t pay one thousand, he won’t pay one dollar.”

  “Then you’re going to die,” Caviness replied. He looked toward the boatman. “How much longer before we have steam?” he demanded.

  “Not much longer,” the boatman replied.

  “Hurry it up,” Caviness said.

  “You can’t make steam any faster than you can make steam,” the boatman complained.

  While holding the gun in one hand, Caviness pulled his knife with the other. “You’d better figure out some way to do it,” he said. “Or I’ll split you open like guttin’ a fish.”

  “No, no, it won’t be much longer,” the boatman promised.

  “It better not be,” Caviness said. Then he turned to Epson. “The bank has got until this here feller gets the steam built up to come down here with my one thousand dollars,” he said.

  “What if . . . what if they don’t get here before the steam is up?” Epson asked in a frightened voice.

  “Then you’ll be leaving with me. Leastwise, till I figure out what to do with you.”

  The drama continued to play out on the banks of the Schuylkill River, the boatman working hard to build up the steam while an ever-growing crowd gathered to see what was going on. Now and then someone would yell at Caviness, imploring him to release Epson, but Caviness paid no attention to them and, eventually, the crowd became still.

  The situation became very eerie as hundreds of people stared in silence at the three men who were standing on the small paddle boat.

  Finally the boatman spoke.

  “Steam’s up,” he said.

  “All right. Let’s go,” Caviness ordered.

  “Go where?” the boatman asked.

  “Downriver,” Caviness replied. “As fast as you can make this thing go.”

  “Wait!” Epson shouted.

  “Wait for what?”

  “The bank. You haven’t given them enough time to bring the money to you.”

  Caviness laughed an evil laugh. “They ain’t goin’ to bring me no money,” he said. “You done told me that yourself.”

  At that moment, a carriage arrived at the river’s edge, its team pulling it at a gallop. Three men got out of the carriage. Caviness didn’t recognize two of them, but he did recognize the third. It was Preacher. Damn, the son of a bitch did get away last night.

  “Hurry up! Let’s go!” Caviness shouted to the boatman. Seeing Preacher this close put Caviness on edge. “Come on, let’s get out of here!”

  The boatman cast off, then opened the throttle. The paddles slapped at the water, and the little boat moved quickly out into the stream.

  As the space between the boat and the river’s edge widened, Caviness began feeling more and more secure. He was going to get away after all. He felt emboldened.

  “Hey, Preacher!” Caviness called out to him in a challenging tone of voice. “What are you going to do now, huh?” He laughed wickedly. “Are you going to keep chasing me?”

  “Until I catch you,” Preacher answered.

  “Yeah, well, you better give it up. You’re getting too many people killed,” Caviness said. “Your woman in St. Louis, them two back in Ohio, the ones here. I kilt them all, but you’re to blame for it, Preacher. You’re the blame ’cause you’re chasin’ me, and as long as you keep comin’ after me, the more killin’ I’m going to do.”

  “Did you hear that, Chief?” Coleman asked. “That man just admitted to being the murderer we’ve been looking for.”

  “Yes, I heard.”

  “Well, what are we going to do about it? He’s getting away.”

  “There’s nothing we can do, right now,” Dolan said.

  By
now the boat was mid-river and making its way downstream. With the brisk current and full power, the little boat was moving much faster than a horse could gallop.

  Suddenly, the three men saw a flash of smoke, then heard a pop. Epson fell into the water.

  “Holy shit! He just killed Epson!” Coleman said as the crowd gasped at the horror of what they had just seen.

  Glancing back toward the carriage, Preacher saw that there was a rifle in the carriage boot. He walked over to it, picked it up, and examined it for a moment. Then he began loading it. Glancing back toward the carriage, the chief constable saw Preacher with the rifle.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “I don’t intend to just stand by and let him get away from me this time,” Preacher said as he reached for the powder horn and pouch of balls.

  “Are you joking? He’s already out of range. By the time you get that rifle loaded, he’ll be well out of range.”

  “Maybe,” Preacher said as he poured powder into the rifle. “But I aim to try.”

  Out on the boat, which was now some distance from shore, Caviness stood on top of the cabin, looking back toward the landing. The figures were growing smaller as the distance widened, and Caviness laughed.

  “I beat you, you son of a bitch!” he shouted. “I beat you!”

  That was when he saw Preacher come down to the water’s edge, kneel, and aim a rifle at him.

  “Ha! What do you think you are doing?” Caviness shouted. “Why, you ignorant bastard! You are so far... ”

  Caviness saw a flash of light and a puff of smoke. He saw Preacher rock back from the recoil.

  “ . . . out of range . . . unnh!”

  Caviness felt a hammerlike blow, as if he had been kicked by a mule. It knocked him back a step and he put his hand up to his chest, then watched in horror and disbelief as his cupped palm filled with blood.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Caviness said just as the world around him began to fade. He pitched forward into the river and floated, facedown very still.

  The Rocky Mountains

  When Preacher reached the top of the summit, he stood there for a moment. Gazing down on the vista, he saw an endless slope of mottled treetops—from various shades of green, to golden aspen, to crimson. Across a rolling basin, there was a wall of red rock, broken along its face into points, ledges, cliffs, and escarpments.

  An early fall snow had already crowned Eagle’s Beak, and once again, Preacher saw feathery tendrils of snow streaming out from it. The crystals glistened in the sun, forming a prism of color that crowned the beauty of the scene.

  How different this was from Philadelphia, St. Louis, or even Kansas City. There, amidst the buildings and the clatter of traffic and the crowd of people, he had been totally out of his element. Even while visiting his family—though he was pleased to see them after so many years, and happy that his brother and sisters were doing well—he had felt a nagging discontent, a need to get back where he belonged.

  Overhead, an eagle soared, and just before him, Preacher could hear the sound of a babbling creek. He got a whiff of the sweet smell of pine and caught the musk of distant forest animals.

  “What do you think, Dog?” he asked the animal who had been keeping pace with him as they traveled higher and higher into the mountains. “Are you happy to be home?”

  Dog looked up at him.

  “I almost left you with Cara, you know. She begged me to. But I figure, with that restaurant I bought her, she doesn’t need a dog around. Besides, I missed you,” he said. “Why, if I didn’t have you to talk to, folks would think I’m talking to myself.”

  The mountain man laughed loudly at his own joke, his laughter echoing back from the woods.

  Don’t miss

  NO MAN’S LAND,

  next in the Last Gunfighter series

  coming from Pinnacle Books in March 2004

  For a sneak preview, just turn the page . . .

  Frank heard the wagons coming long before they actually came into view. Five big fine wagons, looking brand-spanking-new to Frank. Big prairie schooners, each one pulled by six of the finest mules Frank had seen in a long time. Big red Missouri mules. A single scout, or wagon master, rode about a hundred yards in front of the wagons. There were five other mounted men, three on one side of the wagons, two on the other, the men all carrying rifles.

  Frank sat on the ridge overlooking what passed for a trail, and watched the slow procession of the wagon train. When the trail boss drew within hailing distance, Frank lifted the reins and rode down to intercept him.

  The scout spotted Frank and lifted his arms, halting the train. His hand dropped to the butt of his pistol.

  “No need for that, friend,” Frank called. “I mean you no harm.”

  “State your business,” the scout called.

  “Some company on the trail. Maybe some coffee when you decide to make camp for the evening.”

  “You alone?”

  “I am what you see.”

  “Look at the pretty dog, Mama!” a girl called from a wagon, pointing at Dog.

  “Does he bite, mister?” another girl called from another wagon.

  Dog sat on his haunches beside Stormy, not moving.

  “Only if you try to do him harm,” Frank called.

  “I’m been looking for a place to camp,” the scout said. You know this country?”

  “I do not. I’ve been heading east for the past week, but staying out of the strip.”

  “We’re just north of the strip, I think.”

  “Yes. About ten miles.”

  “You have a name?”

  Frank smiled. “Frank Morgan.”

  The trail master was visibly shaken at that. When he found his voice, he shouted, “Frank Morgan!”

  That got everyone’s attention. Those in the wagons nearest Frank and the trail boss sat and stared in silence at the mention of the West’s most famous gunfighter.

  “I’m not on the prod for anyone,” Frank told the trailboss. “I’m just drifting, seeing the country.”

  “You’re welcome to ride along with us, Mr. Morgan.” The man held out a hand. “I’m Steve Wilson.”

  Frank took the friendship hand, and the two men took the point, the heavy wagons lumbering along behind them.

  “Fine-looking wagons,” Frank remarked.

  “Aren’t they, though. All of them special built in Indiana for this trip. And we’re almost home.”

  “Oh?”

  “Colorado. In another week or so, we’ll turn some north and then it’s on to home.”

  “Farmers?”

  “You bet. And we’re all good farmers too. It’s just getting too crowded back in Indiana. We all wanted some space to stretch out some.”

  “I sure know that feeling.”

  “That’s a fine-looking horse you’re riding, Mr. Morgan. I don’t believe I ever seen one quite like it.”

  “Appaloosa, Mr. Wilson. Nez Percé Indians breed them.”

  “Beautiful animal. Very striking.”

  They rode on for a few hundred yards without speaking, only the creaking of the big wagons breaking the silence. Topping a small rise, Frank pointed.

  “Looks like a little creek down there, Mr. Wilson. Might be a good spot to camp for the night.”

  “Looks good to me, too, Mr. Morgan. I’ll ride back and tell the others.”

  “Before you do, Mr. Wilson, I’d like to make a suggestion.”

  “Certainly.”

  “Let’s drop the ‘mister’ business before we wear each other out. I’m Frank and you’re Steve. How about it?”

  The wagon master laughed. “Sounds good to me, Frank. Deal.”

  Frank smiled. “I’ll check out the camp area.”

  Frank squatted by the creek and watched as Steve positioned the wagons in a tight circle. The man knew his business, Frank thought. No doubt about that.

  Water was drawn from the creek for cooking and drinking and filling of barrels; then the mules
and horses were led down to drink. Frank helped gather firewood for cooking, ignoring the surprised looks he received from the men for doing so. The women thanked him softly and the kids followed him around, the young boys trying to emulate Frank’s walk.

  The stock was settled in for the night, firewood was gathered, cook fires were going, camp ovens were out, and the women were busy mixing and stirring and kneading. The men all got themselves cups of fresh-brewed coffee and settled down for some conservation.

  Frank was introduced to the men: Able Brandon, he was married to Carolyn. They had three kids, two girls and a boy. Weldon Freeman, his wife was Paula. They had three kids, two boys and a girl. Randall Fossmon, he was married to Judith. They were the oldest couple there. They had four kids, all in their teens, two boys, two girls. Harry Ellington, married to Betty. Two kids, a boy and a girl. And Virgil Carpenter. His wife’s name was Dixie. They had three kids, two girls, one boy.

  “My mother liked the name,” Dixie explained.

  “I call her by her middle name,” Virgil said. “Lou.”

  “I’ll call you Dixie,” Frank said, taking the woman’s small hand into his big callused hand.

  The very attractive woman flushed just a bit, and Frank quickly released her hand. Her husband seemed not to notice. Never did like that name,” Virgil said. “I guess it came from my time in the war. I fought against the Rebs. I was a boy really. But I killed my share of them damn stinkin’ Rebs. Did you fight in the war, Morgan?”

  “Yes, I did,” Frank replied, and said no more about it. He looked at Able Branson. “You all have some fine-looking mules, Able. Are they plow broke?”

  “I wouldn’t know, sir,” Able replied. Frank picked up on the sly look in the man’s eyes.

  “We’ll be honest with you, Frank.” Steve said. “We tell everyone we’re going out to farm. But we’re really not.”

  “Steve . . . ” Weldon Freeman said, a note of caution in his voice.

  “Oh, it’s all right,” the wagon boss said. “I know bit more about Morgan than you folks. I read a long article about him in the St.Louis paper. Mr. Morgan is a rich man. Isn’t that right, Frank?”