After a long moment, Winter Wind said just loudly enough for Appleseed to hear, “No.”
Fifty yards away, Preacher cocked his head to the side. “What was that?”
“I said no,” Winter Wind repeated. “I no longer care whether the Absaroka is alive or dead. He is nothing without you, Preacher. He has never been important. All the death and suffering inflicted on my people . . . that is on your head, Preacher.” She drew in a deep breath. “And so is your grandson’s death.” She jerked her head toward Appleseed and screamed, “Kill the boy!”
For a split second, Appleseed hesitated. He had done plenty of bad things in his life, bad enough that they might keep him awake at night if he ever allowed himself to think about them, but he had never killed a young’un in cold blood. Winter had warned him to be ready to cut Eagle Feather’s throat, but for that fleeting moment, he couldn’t do it.
Then his resolve hardened and he started to sweep the bowie toward the boy’s throat.
* * *
Preacher’s hands flashed toward the revolvers on his hips, even though he knew he was too far away and was going to be too late.
At that instant, the old outlaw’s head exploded, blowing apart in a grisly pink spray of blood, brain matter, and bone shards. At the same time, the heavy boom of a high-caliber rifle filled the hole in the badlands where the lake was located.
That was a Sharps, Preacher knew. Jamie MacCallister had aimed at a different target than the one Preacher had expected.
But Jamie had made the shot.
“Eagle Feather!” Preacher shouted as he swept up the Colts. “Run!”
He was under no illusions that he could gun down fourteen or fifteen hardened outlaws without being filled full of lead himself, but if he could drill enough of them and keep the bastards busy, maybe Eagle Feather would have time to get away and reach Hawk in the canyon.
Preacher swung the Colts toward the nearest renegade, a red-bearded fellow in a black frock coat and coonskin cap who was bringing a rifle to bear, but before the mountain man could pull the triggers, one of the most amazing things he had ever seen happened.
A chunk of rock twice the size of a man’s head seemed to fall out of the sky and land right on the outlaw. It smashed his skull to smithereens, sent blood and brains flying everywhere, and slammed on down to the man’s shoulders, driving him to the ground like a giant hammer.
That shocked everybody into immobility, but only for a second. Then Preacher’s guns began to roar and two more men went spinning off their feet as his bullets tore through them.
Another big rock landed among several of the outlaws, scattering them like ninepins. Jamie’s Sharps boomed a second time and blew a fist-sized hole through one of the men as he tried to scramble back up. Preacher ventilated two more of them.
A renegade tried to draw a bead on Preacher, but a rifle shot knocked him back into the fire. Preacher glanced around and saw Hawk drop the smoking rifle, yank out the two revolvers Preacher had given him, and bound on down the slope to join the fight. Dog was with Hawk, racing into battle alongside the warrior.
Where is Eagle Feather?
Preacher triggered another shot from each gun, the slugs pounding into an outlaw’s chest and driving him off his feet. Jamie dropped another man with a long-range shot. Hawk cocked and fired as fast as he could, spraying lead among the members of Winter Wind’s gang. He emptied the Colts, and the hail of bullets took down two more men. Dropping the guns, he whipped his bow off his shoulder, nocked an arrow, and let fly, burying the shaft in a man’s throat. Dog had another of the renegades down, savaging the screaming man.
Another large rock plummeted down from above and crushed an outlaw’s ribs. Preacher glanced up and spotted a gigantic figure standing on the rim of the canyon. It would take enormous strength to heave rocks like that, and he knew of only one man capable of such a feat.
Big Thunder had followed them despite being told not to, and taken a hand when he was most needed.
Preacher was still looking for Eagle Feather. In all the chaos and violence, he had lost track of the boy. But as he realized all the outlaws were down, either dead or badly wounded, he knew Eagle Feather still had to be around here somewhere—
“Preacher!”
The unholy screech was like that of a demon from hell. Preacher whirled toward it, guns up, and saw Winter Wind standing a few yards away, holding Eagle Feather in front of her with one arm while the other hand pointed a revolver at Preacher.
“The boy and I are leaving,” she said as her face twisted in a snarl. “He is my son now! I will teach him to hate—”
Preacher’s right arm snapped out straight. The gun in his hand boomed, and Winter Wind’s head jerked back as the bullet drilled into her brain. She lived just long enough for her eyes to widen in shock and disbelief before she let go of Eagle Feather, dropped her gun, and crumpled to the ground.
“I’ve heard more’n enough outta you, you crazy bitch,” Preacher said as he lowered his Colt.
Eagle Feather dashed to Hawk and was swept up in his father’s arms. Preacher let them have their reunion while he walked around the renegades’ camp. The few who were still alive were hurt too badly to survive. A few swift strokes of Preacher’s knife put them out of their misery. He wiped the blood off the blade, sheathed it, and then looked up at the rimrock again, where Big Thunder still stood. The sun was down, but a few stray beams still slanted to that high ground and lit up the giant Crow warrior as he waved excitedly.
“Big Thunder threw rocks!” he shouted down, cupping his hands around his mouth.
Preacher returned the wave and called, “You sure did!”
“Is Preacher mad that Big Thunder followed him?”
“Not a bit, old son! You did good!”
Up on the rimrock, Big Thunder did a little jig of pure happiness at the praise.
Preacher went over to his son and grandson, ruffled Eagle Feather’s hair, and asked, “Are you all right?”
The boy had been crying, but he put a brave look on his face now and said, “The bad woman told me she would hurt me. She said many mean things. But I was not scared.”
“She won’t hurt anybody again,” Preacher said. He glanced at the sprawled shape of Winter Wind, who lay on her back with one knee drawn up a little, her hair loose now and spread out around her head like a black cloud on the ground.
Never again.
CHAPTER 33
Fort Kearny, two weeks later
Jamie MacCallister sat at a table in the sutler’s store, nursing a mug of beer.
Tom Corcoran, the sutler, stood behind the bar, clouds of acrid smoke from his cheap cigar wreathing his head as he glared at Jamie with dislike obvious in his one good eye. Corcoran and Liam O’Connor were friends, and the sergeant was going to be in the guardhouse for the foreseeable future. When he was finally released, he would probably be transferred somewhere far away from Fort Kearny, or at least that was what Captain Croxton had told Jamie.
The door opened, and a tall, broad-shouldered figure was silhouetted against the afternoon light outside. Jamie recognized the newcomer immediately and lifted a hand in greeting as the man came on inside.
“Preacher. Over here.”
The mountain man walked across the room to the table, signaled to Corcoran to bring him a beer, and pulled out a chair to sit down.
“Figured you’d be headed back to Colorado already,” Preacher commented as he stretched out his long legs and crossed them at the ankles.
“The post’s commanding officer asked me to stay around until all the hearings were over,” Jamie explained.
“Hearin’s? You mean Lieutenant Tyler ain’t gettin’ court-martialed?”
“Nope.” Jamie took a sip of the beer and set the mug back on the table. “Cap’n Croxton talked to Mackey and Briggs and a bunch of the other men, and it was pretty obvious to him that Hayden didn’t have any choice but to relieve Davidson of command. He’s going to say as much in the report
he sends back to Washington. Hayden could still wind up in some trouble, but I sort of doubt it.”
Preacher nodded his thanks as Corcoran placed the mug of beer on the table in front of him, then said to Jamie, “It’ll probably help when the cap’n hears that Broken Pine will be here in a day or two, ready to talk about that treaty, which was the point behind the whole thing in the first place.”
Jamie grinned and slapped the table. “He decided to trust us, did he?”
“For now. He’s still more than a mite wary, though.”
“And he’s right to feel that way,” Jamie said, nodding. “I hope the decision doesn’t come back to haunt him. But all that’s pretty much out of our hands, isn’t it?”
Preacher drank some of the beer, then licked foam off his mustache. “Pretty much,” he agreed.
“Did Hawk come with you, or is he coming with Broken Pine?”
“Neither. He’s stayin’ back in the village with his family. I don’t think he feels like bein’ apart from ’em right now, after everything that’s happened.”
“I can’t say as I blame him. How’s Butterfly?”
“Healed up just fine. I don’t think she’s even gonna limp any.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Jamie said.
“What about Lieutenant Davidson?” Preacher asked.
Jamie shook his head. “It’s just plain Edgar Davidson now. He resigned his commission and left the army.”
Preacher’s bushy eyebrows rose in surprise. He said, “Did he do that so they wouldn’t court-martial him and give him a dishonorable discharge?”
“No. I’m not sure that would have happened, anyway. My guess is that he just couldn’t stand the idea of having the stigma of being relieved of command following him around for the rest of his career. The army’s like any other organization, I reckon . . . It runs on gossip and spite.”
“Well, at least we won’t have to worry about him causin’ any more trouble for folks.”
Jamie nodded slowly and said, “Yeah, that’s right.”
He wished he was completely convinced of that, however.
The two big men sat there in silence for a moment, then Preacher asked, “O’Connor?”
“Locked up in the guardhouse for now. The captain’s waiting to hear from the higher-ups about what to do with him.” Jamie drained the last of his beer. “Not my problem, though, thank goodness. I’m going home to my wife and kids.”
“Lucky man.”
Something in Preacher’s voice made Jamie frown. He said, “You’ve got a family, too.”
Preacher shook his head and said, “Not no more.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Jamie leaned forward. “You said Hawk and Butterfly are fine, and I’m assuming their young’uns are, too.”
“They are,” Preacher confirmed, “and I want ’em to stay that way.” He leaned back in his chair, and the look in his hooded eyes seemed to be a million miles away as he went on, “Think about it, Jamie. They could’ve all wound up dead. Some of the Crow were killed when Winter Wind and her gang jumped us. That only happened because she wanted vengeance on me.”
“Blast it, that’s her fault for hating, not your fault for being hated!”
“Maybe so,” allowed Preacher, “but it don’t change the fact that I’ve made a whole heap of enemies in my life, and some of ’em are still out there, wantin’ to hurt me any way they can. I’ve done thought about it, and it seems to me the best way to keep Hawk and his family safe is if I never go near ’em, or even speak of ’em, again.”
“But that’s loco, Preacher! You’re just going to turn your back on your family and go through the rest of your life alone?”
“I’m gonna keep ’em safe,” Preacher said stubbornly. “Anyway, I won’t be alone. I’ve got Dog and Horse, and friends like you who I ain’t worried about bein’ able to take care of yourself. Maybe I’ll run into somebody else who’s just as capable one of these days.” The mountain man shrugged. “One way or another, I’ve made up my mind.”
“Did you tell this to Hawk?”
Preacher pursed his lips and didn’t say anything for a moment, then finally admitted, “Well . . . no. But he’s a smart boy. He’ll figure it out.”
Jamie looked across the table and shook his head.
“I guess that’s up to you, Preacher. I don’t reckon I could ever make it without my family, but for all the things you and I share, we’re different sorts.”
“That we are,” Preacher said. He pushed his still half-full mug aside. “Reckon I’ll be movin’ on. I’m feelin’ mighty fiddlefooted. We’ll run into each other again, one of these days.”
“You think so?”
Preacher grinned as he got to his feet. “This ol’ wilderness is a pretty small place, sometimes. And I’ve never knowed either of us to stay out of trouble for very long, have you?”
That was sure the truth, Jamie MacCallister thought as he watched his old friend Preacher walk out of the sutler’s store and head for whatever the frontier had in store for him next. Jamie was suddenly eager to get on that trail himself.
Turn the page for an exciting preview!
YOU ARE NOW ENTERING TEXAS. SAY YOUR PRAYERS.
Bestselling authors WILLIAM W. and J. A. JOHNSTONE bring the wild back to the Wild Wild West with their boldest hero yet. Meet Cullen McCabe, a Lone Star sheriff who has nothing to lose—and time to kill . . .
DEATH ISN’T PRETTY
There are a million ways to die in the great state of Texas. And on the lawless streets of New Hope, the odds are even worse. Once the home of Comanche, the region has been up for grabs since the Red River War drove off the natives. Now it’s a magnet for settlers looking for cheap land, merchants looking to exploit its resources—and outlaws looking for a place to hide in between robbing and killing. With shoot-outs and showdowns being a nightly occurrence, it’s one of the deadliest places on earth. And the governor ain’t happy about it. He wants to clean up the town. He wants to wipe away the scum. And he knows just the man to do it . . .
Enter Cullen McCabe. A small-town sheriff turned special agent, McCabe doesn’t care what he has to do—or who he has to kill—to rid this hellhole of every rustler, robber, and ruthless cuss in sight. Especially the notorious Viper Gang....
DARK IS THE NIGHT
A DEATH & TEXAS WESTERN
by National Bestselling Authors
William W. Johnstone and J. A. Johnstone
CHAPTER 1
Leon Armstrong turned when he heard the door open to discover the now-familiar image of Cullen McCabe in the doorway. Armstrong hurried to the telegraph window to fetch a telegram from the drawer. “Mornin’, Mr. McCabe,” he greeted him.
“Mornin’,” Cullen returned. “Mr. Thornton, over at the store, said you have a telegram for me.”
“That’s right, I do,” Armstrong said. “It came in day before yesterday. I told Ronald to let you know if you came into the store, in case I didn’t see you.” He handed an envelope to Cullen and stood waiting, hoping Cullen might comment on the message. When he failed to do so, Armstrong commented, “We like to deliver telegrams as soon as we can, but with you not living in town, nothing we can do but hold it till we see you.”
“No problem,” Cullen said as he folded the telegram and stuck it in his pocket.
Armstrong was itching inside with curiosity about the quiet man whom no one in the little town of Two Forks knew anything about, except him. And the only thing he knew was that, from time to time, Cullen McCabe received a wire asking him to report to Michael O’Brien in Austin. The telegrams never said what the meetings were about, and the reason Armstrong was so curious was the fact that O’Brien was the governor’s aide. Of course, Ronald Thornton had dealings with McCabe, but according to Thornton, they always consisted of a minimum of words to place an order for supplies. The only noticeable difference in the size of his orders was whenever they came after he had received one of these telegrams from the governor’s of
fice. And as Thornton had predicted, when Cullen returned to his store, after picking up his telegram, he placed a larger order for supplies than he normally did. Being the speculator that Thornton was, he guessed that the quiet man of few words had gotten another notice to travel.
When Cullen had completed his order, Thornton thanked him for the business, then commented, “From the size of that order, I’d figure you were fixin’ to take a little trip.”
“Is that so?” Cullen replied, and gathered up his purchases without further comment.
“I can give you a hand with those,” Thornton offered.
“Thanks just the same,” McCabe said, “but it’s no bother. I’ll just make a couple of trips. That way, you won’t have to stand out there holdin’ ’em while I pack ’em in the sacks on my packhorse.” As he said, he left half of the supplies on the counter while he rearranged his packs, then returned to get the rest as Clara Thornton came into the store. “Ma’am,” he said politely as he passed her on his way out.
When McCabe was out the door and in no danger of hearing him, Thornton greeted his wife. “He’s on the road again,” he said.
“Did he tell you that?” Clara asked, every bit as curious about the man as was her husband.
“He didn’t have to,” Thornton insisted. “I could tell by the order he placed. I knew when Leon said he had another one of those telegrams from the governor that McCabe would be gettin’ ready to travel.”
“Huh,” Clara snorted. “Maybe he just ain’t plannin’ to come into town for a while,” she offered sarcastically. “I declare, you and Leon Armstrong will have everybody in town thinkin’ Cullen McCabe is some kinda mystery man, just because he doesn’t talk much.”
“Is that so?” Thornton replied, standing at the front window now. “Then how come he’s headin’ straight to the blacksmith?”
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