Preacher's Fire

by William W. Johnstone

  Lorenzo frowned as he looked at Preacher, who had started to unsaddle Horse.

  “Say, boy, you look like you been dunked in the river.”

  “I have been,” Preacher said. “And I’ve got somethin’ to tell the boss that ain’t gonna make him happy. I got a feelin’ he’s already heard about it, though, from the way you said he’s been actin’.”

  One of those drivers who’d been chased off from the wagons must have come back here and told Beaumont what had happened, Preacher thought. The man might not have known all the details, but he would have been well aware that the theft of the cotton from the riverboat hadn’t gone as planned. That by itself would have been enough to cause an explosion of Beaumont’s hair-trigger temper.

  Preacher took his time about tending to Horse, as if he were reluctant to go into the house. As a matter of fact, he was, but not because he was afraid of Beaumont, even though that’s probably what Lorenzo thought was going on. He was reluctant because he thought that if he came face to face with Beaumont, he might pull out his knife and bury it in the man’s chest just to end this terrible business right here and now.

  All the way back to St. Louis, Preacher had struggled to come to grips with the fact that some of the blood spilled from the captain and the crew of the Harry Fulton was on his hands. If he hadn’t come to St. Louis and started this business of posing as Jim Donnelly, he wouldn’t have thrown in with Jessie and Cleve. He wouldn’t have gotten stuck in the middle of a war between the two of them and Beaumont.

  Preacher knew the attack set up by Jessie and Cleve would have taken place today whether he was involved or not. But he had thought long and hard about it, and the only reason he could see for the murders of the captain and crew was to keep his secret safe. The drivers with the wagons who worked for Beaumont had been let go with their lives because they had never seen him and didn’t know he’d betrayed Dugan and the other river pirates. But the captain and crew had seen him. Somebody, either Jessie or Cleve, had ordered that they be killed and the riverboat burned just to make sure there were no survivors who could talk.

  All to keep Preacher safe so they could continue using him against Beaumont.

  That knowledge was a damned bitter pill to swallow. Preacher didn’t really blame himself for those murders. He hadn’t pulled the triggers or set the riverboat on fire, but his presence had escalated things to the point that someone believed wholesale slaughter was necessary.

  “You goin’ in there?” Lorenzo asked.

  “Got to,” Preacher said. “Mr. Beaumont’s expectin’ me back.”

  Lorenzo folded his arms across his chest. “Well, I’m stayin’ out here with the horses, where it’s safe.”

  “Probably ain’t a bad idea,” Preacher said as he walked through the open double doors of the barn and started toward the house.

  As he stepped in through the back door, he heard a crash from somewhere upstairs. It sounded like someone had just thrown something against the wall. There was another crash as he went up the stairs.

  Beaumont was so mad he was throwing things, Preacher thought.

  When he reached the upstairs hallway, he heard ranting and cursing coming through an open door at the end of the corridor. That was Beaumont’s bedroom, Preacher knew, although he had never actually set foot in there. He approached the door carefully. It was possible Beaumont had a gun in there, and if he was loco enough, he might take a shot at anybody who poked his head inside.

  Preacher stopped about a dozen feet from the door and called, “Hey, boss! It’s me, Donnelly!”

  Beaumont’s cursing stopped abruptly. A second later, he appeared in the doorway, his collar askew, his hair disheveled, and his face flushed dark red with rage. Shards of broken crockery littered the floor behind him.

  “Donnelly!” he roared. “What the hell happened downriver? I sent you to look out for my interests!”

  Beaumont didn’t have a gun in his hand, so Preacher came closer. “We were ambushed, boss. Riflemen were waitin’ in the trees on the far bank when we tried to stop that riverboat. Their first volley wiped out Dugan and most of the rest o’ the boys before we even knew what was goin’ on, and then they picked off the rest of the bunch.”

  Beaumont stared at him and said, “But not you. You’re still alive.”

  “Only because they figured I was dead, I reckon,” Preacher said. “I can swim pretty good, so when the canoe I was in tipped over, I dove as deep in the river as I could go and swam underwater for a good ways. Those bushwhackers must’ve thought I was either hit by one of their shots, or drowned, or both. When I come up for air, I could still hear some shootin’, but they weren’t aimin’ at me.”

  Beaumont’s upper lip curled in a sneer. “So you hid like a coward while everyone else was killed?”

  Preacher allowed some anger into his voice as he replied, “I didn’t see how it’d do a damned bit of good to get myself killed, too. There were more’n a dozen of those bastards, maybe as many as twenty or twenty-five. One man wouldn’t have stood a chance against them.”

  Beaumont glared at him for a moment longer, then finally shrugged and said, “I suppose you’re right about that. What happened after the ambush?”

  “I found a place downstream where a tree fell over in the water and used it for cover while I watched what was goin’ on. Some of those fellas who’d been layin’ in wait for us paddled out to the riverboat in a skiff and took it over. They had the captain at gunpoint, so he had to do what they said. He put the boat ashore, just like you planned for Dugan and the rest of us to do, and some wagons came up and they unloaded the cargo onto ’em.”

  Beaumont nodded. “I talked to one of the drivers I hired. He said some men with guns got the drop on them and stole the wagons from them. That’s all he knew, because they had to either get out of there or be killed. I was hoping that not everything had gone wrong . . . but I had a feeling that it had.”

  “Sure enough,” Preacher agreed. “Dugan and the rest of the men dead, the cotton gone . . . and that ain’t all of it.”

  “What else could there be?” Beaumont snapped.

  Grim-faced, Preacher said, “After the wagons left with the cotton, those bushwhackers murdered everybody on the riverboat and set it on fire.”

  Beaumont just stared at him for a long moment, as if he couldn’t believe what Preacher had just told him. He seemed genuinely shocked. Finally, he muttered, “My God. Why would they do such a thing?”

  “Clean slate, I reckon,” Preacher said with a shrug. “No witnesses left behind.”

  “I suppose. I’ve never worried about anyone getting hurt if they got in my way, but to wipe out a whole riverboat crew like that in cold blood . . .” Beaumont’s voice trailed off as he shook his head.

  Beaumont might like to believe that was worse than anything he had done in the past, but that wasn’t the case, Preacher knew. Beaumont was responsible for scores of deaths, and he wouldn’t hesitate to order multiple murders if they served his purposes.

  But clearly he wasn’t the only one who could be that ruthless.

  “You have any idea who would do such a thing, boss?” Preacher asked.

  Beaumont shook his head. “No, but I’m going to find out. Whoever they are, they can’t keep something this big a secret for very long. I’ll find out, and when I do . . . they’ll pay. By God, they’ll pay.”

  “If there’s anything I can do to help . . .”

  Beaumont came forward out of the room and clapped a hand on Preacher’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, Jim, I’ll let you know. I’m sorry I sent you into that trap.”

  “You didn’t know somebody was double-crossin’ you.”

  “No.” An insane light glinted in Beaumont’s eyes. “And that’s exactly what happened. Someone knew my plans and hired those men to steal the cotton right out from under me. That’s the only way it could have happened.”

  Preacher didn’t want to steer Beaumont’s thoughts in that direction, but there wasn’t much
he could do to stop them. He could try to muddle the situation, though.

  “Dugan or one of those other fellas could’ve talked too much in a tavern about what they were gonna do,” he suggested. “Some fellas get a little too much whiskey in ’em, they don’t know when to shut up.”

  “I suppose that’s possible.” Beaumont rubbed his jaw and frowned in thought. “And if that’s what happened, they’ve already paid for their carelessness with their lives. But I’m not convinced, Jim. I think whoever planned this may still be out there, plotting against me.”

  There was more truth to that statement than Beaumont knew. He had all sorts of enemies who wanted to ruin him.

  Beaumont put a hand on Preacher’s shoulder again. Preacher managed not to pull away in revulsion. “I’m going to need your help looking into this. You and Lorenzo may be the only ones I can trust. And if there’s something you want to do for me, Jim . . .”

  “You name it, boss,” Preacher said, trying not to be too obvious about the fact that he had to force the words out.

  “Whenever I find out who’s to blame for this, I’m going to give you the privilege of killing him . . . or her.”

  Chapter 22

  Preacher didn’t like the sound of that. Beaumont might already suspect Jessie.

  But a second later, he went on, “Some of those whores at Jessie’s Place are always sneaking around. There’s no telling what they might have overheard. I don’t trust any of them, especially that bitch Cassandra.”

  Preacher’s jaw tightened. He suppressed his anger and said, “I still think it’s more likely to have been Dugan or one of his men to blame.”

  “Leave the thinking to me,” Beaumont chuckled. “I’m glad you survived, Jim. I’ve come to depend on you.”

  “I ain’t done all that much.”

  “You saved my life, that first night. And you’ve done everything I’ve asked of you since then. Together we’ll get to the bottom of this. In the meanwhile, why don’t you go get cleaned up? Those clothes are probably still pretty clammy after you got dunked in the river like that.”

  “They’re a mite damp,” Preacher admitted. “Are you goin’ out tonight, boss?”

  “I think I could use a few drinks. We’ll go to Dupree’s later.”

  Preacher nodded. “I’ll be ready.”

  He went to the servants’ quarters in the rear of the house. He and Lorenzo were the only ones who lived there—Beaumont’s cook and housekeeper just came in during the day—and the old black man wasn’t there at the moment. He was probably still lying low, out in the carriage house. Preacher peeled out of the damp clothes and washed up, then dressed in fresh duds. He had lost his hat in the river and would have to see about getting a new one, but that could wait.

  Then he began disassembling, drying, and cleaning his guns, spreading the pieces out on the bed as he did so. It was the sort of work he enjoyed, and he could lose himself in it, not really needing to think as he went about the process that he had carried out hundreds, maybe even thousands of times in his life.

  Today, though, he couldn’t keep unwelcome thoughts from crowding into his head. Most of them had to do with the wanton murder of the riverboat crew, but he also couldn’t help but think of Jessie.

  Had she actually ordered that slaughter? That seemed to be the most likely answer. She had the most to gain, at least potentially, by taking whatever steps were necessary to protect Preacher’s identity. The fact that she was a beautiful woman didn’t really mean anything.

  Preacher had known beautiful women in the past who had turned out to be as treacherous and deadly as black widow spiders.

  By the time he was finished with the guns and had them in good working order again, he still didn’t have any answers to the questions that plagued him, but he knew he wouldn’t get answers until he had a chance to talk to Jessie again . . . and maybe not even then, if she chose to lie to him.

  Beaumont seemed to be his usual charming, affable self again by the time they were ready to go to Dupree’s that evening. All traces of the furious, wild-eyed lunatic he had been earlier in the day had vanished.

  As they went out to the carriage, which a still-nervous Lorenzo had pulled around to the drive in front of the house, Beaumont said, “We’ll be stopping by Mrs. Hobson’s house on the way to Dupree’s.”

  Preacher nodded. He knew that Mrs. Luella Hobson was a wealthy widow Beaumont sometimes squired around town. She was the short, curvaceous blonde Preacher had seen with Beaumont the first night he’d watched his quarry visit Dupree’s. He suspected that Beaumont was planning to swindle her out of her money at some point, and in the meantime, she was a woman with quite healthy—and sometimes unusual—appetites, according to the hints Beaumont had dropped.

  As the carriage rolled through the streets of St. Louis, Lorenzo said quietly to Preacher, who sat beside him on the driver’s seat, “Appears the boss ain’t foamin’ at the mouth no more.”

  “I reckon he’s still plenty upset about what happened this afternoon, but you’re right, he ain’t out of his head about it no more.”

  “What ’zactly did happen this afternoon?” Lorenzo asked.

  Preacher glanced over at the driver. “How much do you know about the boss’s business?”

  “More’n I want to, sometimes!”

  “Then you probably don’t want to know about this,” Preacher said. “Let’s just say he had something planned for this afternoon, and it went bad wrong.”

  “I believe it. I seen the boss lose his temper before, but this was one o’ the worst times.”

  Lorenzo wouldn’t think that if he had seen what Beaumont did to Casey, Preacher mused.

  They arrived at Luella Hobson’s house, and while Beaumont was inside picking up the attractive blond widow, Preacher asked, “What did the late Mr. Hobson do for a livin’?”

  “He owned a bank,” Lorenzo replied. “I never did see how a fella could make a livin’ holdin’ money for other folks. I’d be too tempted to take off for the tall and uncut with all that cash. That’s why I keep all my money hid in a place nobody knows about ’ceptin’ me.”

  Preacher laughed. “Bankers have been known to do that very thing. I don’t have to worry about that, myself.”

  “You don’t use banks, neither?”

  “Never had enough money to bother puttin’ it in one. Bein’ a fella like me, I don’t expect I ever will.”

  That was a true statement, in the midst of all the lies Preacher had been telling lately. As long as he had enough money to pick up a few supplies every now and then, that was all he needed. He didn’t support anyone except himself and Horse and Dog, and all three of them could do just fine living off the land if they had to.

  At least, that would be true again once they all got away from this damned town, Preacher thought.

  When they reached Dupree’s, the manager showed Beaumont to his usual table. Mrs. Hobson clung to Beaumont’s arm so that her ample breasts in a gown with a low neckline pressed against his sleeve. She laughed too loud, and her smile was a little too bright. Preacher figured that deep down, she was a lonely woman, and having a handsome rogue like Shad Beaumont pay attention to her probably meant the world to her. She would be easy pickin’s, once Beaumont finally decided to go ahead and pluck her clean.

  Preacher sat at a table nearby to keep an eye on Beaumont and watch out for any trouble that might come their way. He had a mug of beer that he sipped from time to time. During the evening, a number of people approached Beaumont’s table, but they were only interested in saying hello and currying favor with a rich, powerful man. Beaumont sat back like a king holding court and received them. Mrs. Hobson preened at his side.

  They had been there about an hour when Cleve strolled into the place. Preacher saw the gambler come in the door. Cleve’s gaze swept over the room. His eyes paused just for a second as they passed over Preacher, and then Cleve continued looking around the room as if he hadn’t even noticed the mountain man.


  In that brief second, though, Preacher had seen a flash of satisfaction in Cleve’s eyes. The day had gone well, at least from the gambler’s point of view.

  Cleve found an empty seat at one of the poker tables and soon was engrossed in the game. Preacher wanted to talk to him, but he didn’t see any way of doing so without running the risk of provoking Beaumont’s suspicions.

  After a while, Beaumont emptied the last of the brandy from the bottle that had been brought to him when he arrived. Preacher saw that and got to his feet.

  “Need another, boss?” he asked.

  “One of the girls can bring it,” Beaumont replied offhandedly.

  “They look like they’re all busy,” Preacher said. “No need to wait. I’ll fetch it.”

  He went to the bar, which was crowded and busy. While he stood there waiting to ask one of the bartenders for another bottle of brandy, Cleve folded his hand and stood up, saying, “I believe I’ll take a break, gentlemen.” The gambler gathered up his winnings and ambled over to the bar, where he stood next to Preacher.

  “Everything went well,” Cleve said under his breath, quietly enough so that no one could hear except Preacher. “Good work, my friend.”

  “I got to talk to you.”

  “Not here. Not in front of Beaumont. Later, when he goes to Jessie’s.”

  “He ain’t said anything about goin’ to Jessie’s.”

  A smirk tugged at Cleve’s mouth. “Trust me. He’ll pay the place a visit later.”

  Preacher didn’t know about that, but Cleve seemed to know what he was talking about. The bartender came up then, so they couldn’t talk any more. Preacher asked for another bottle of Beaumont’s special brandy, and the bartender handed it over without hesitation. Preacher took the bottle back to Beaumont’s table.

  Luella Hobson was already drunk, Preacher saw. He wasn’t quite sure why Beaumont continued to ply her with liquor. She was already at the point where she would do anything he wanted her to. She probably would have, even without the brandy, just to keep him interested in her.