“Just get downwind of him. You’ll know why! But yeah, that’s the roughest place in Carver’s Junction, I’d say.”
“I’ll remember that,” Preacher said solemnly as he started down the gangplank. “Much obliged, son.”
As he walked along the riverfront street in the twilight, he asked the first local he encountered which of the taverns belonged to Rancid Dave.
The man raised his eyebrows and answered, “You don’t want to go there, mister. People make bets on how many killings there’ll be in the alley behind the place each night.”
“I’ll chance it,” Preacher said. “I’ve been known to be pretty good at takin’ care of myself.”
The local sighed and said, “Well, if you’re sure . . . That’s it there, the third building along.” He indicated a squat, windowless structure that appeared to be cobbled together from logs, stone, and mud.
“Much obliged,” Preacher said with a nod, then ambled on toward his destination.
Rancid Dave’s smelled pretty bad when he opened the door made of thick, rough-hewn planks, and stepped inside, but no worse than many other frontier taverns Preacher had visited. Pipe smoke, along with the dank odor of the dirt floor, mixed with a combined stench of spilled liquor, human waste, and unwashed flesh to thicken the air.
Several lanterns and candles scattered around the single room lit the place with a dim glow quickly swallowed up by shadows in the corners. A low mutter of conversation came from customers seated on crude stools around tables made from barrels. The bar to Preacher’s right consisted of planks laid across more barrels. Jugs of whiskey, probably distilled right out back, sat on a shelf behind the bar that also held a couple of lanterns, one at each end.
A short man, who looked almost as wide as he was tall, stood behind the bar. A black, tangled beard hung down over his chest and compensated for the lack of hair on top of his head. He wore a grimy apron over a homespun shirt with sleeves rolled up to leave thick, hairy forearms bare. When he grinned at Preacher, the lanternlight glinted off a gold tooth in the front of his mouth, next to an empty spot where another tooth hadn’t been replaced. He waved a hand with sausagelike fingers at the mountain man and boomed, “Come on in, stranger. Welcome to Dave’s. You off that riverboat Powhatan?”
Preacher supposed the man didn’t refer to himself as Rancid Dave. Could be he had grown so accustomed to his own stench that he didn’t even smell it anymore. Preacher did, though, from all the way across the room.
He braved the smell anyway and approached the bar. “Yeah, I’m headed for New Orleans.
“What can I get you?”
Preacher glanced at the men on either side of him, both of whom nursed drinks in tin cups. “You have any beer?” he asked.
Dave shook his head solemnly. “I do, but you wouldn’t want it. Skunk fell in the barrel and drowned, and I ain’t got around to fishin’ it out yet.”
Preacher noted that the man didn’t say he intended to dump that beer, just fish out the dead skunk. “What else you got?”
“Whiskey!” Dave rested his hands on the plank bar. “Best in these parts.”
Preacher nodded. “I’ll give it a try.”
Dave got a jug off the shelf and a cup from under the bar. He pulled the jug’s cork with his teeth and splashed clear liquid into the cup, then set it in front of Preacher.
“Be a nickel,” Dave said around the cork clenched between his teeth.
Preacher laid the coin on the bar and picked up the cup. He eyed the contents warily, wondering if it might be better to throw the drink back quickly. Dave hadn’t mentioned any dead animals floating in the barrel where he cooked up this stuff, but Preacher didn’t think such a possibility was beyond the pale.
He risked a sip, then frowned and took another. Then he looked up at the proprietor and said, “Dave, this here is some of the best, smoothest-sippin’ whiskey I’ve ever tasted.”
The gold tooth glinted again as Dave grinned. “Told ya! Drink up and I’ll pour you another.”
Sometimes you found a flower growing out of a dung heap, Preacher reflected. This whiskey reminded him of that, and he supposed it was the reason men chose to drink here despite the absolute squalidness of the place and its reputation for violence. Preacher swallowed the rest of the potent liquid in his cup, then after Dave filled it again, he turned to look around the tavern as he drank at a more leisurely pace.
Men sat at all the tables and filled most of the places at the bar. A group of roughly dressed fellows crowded around a large round table in a rear corner, talking and laughing loudly. Their clothes marked them as rivermen. All of Dave’s customers looked like rivermen, Preacher noted, except for a few who probably farmed in the area or maybe worked as woodcutters. Folks probably did a booming business supplying wood for the fireboxes of the riverboats traveling up and down the Mississippi.
One of the men sitting at the big table in the back glanced up, spotted Preacher looking in their direction, and abruptly heaved to his feet. Thick slabs of muscle on his arms and shoulders stretched the homespun fabric of his shirt. He had a flat-topped beaver hat canted at a rakish angle on his head, which as far as Preacher could see, was as bald as Rancid Dave’s. Unlike Dave, though, this man didn’t sport a beard.
He had a number of tattoos on his arms and peeking out through the drawstring at the throat of his shirt, as well. As the man left the table and swaggered toward the bar, the mountain man saw more tattoos curling up his neck onto the back of his head. Preacher had seen tattoos like that in the past, usually on men who had spent a lot of time on the high seas, sailing off to exotic islands. He had never felt the urge to do that himself, but he could understand how some men would give in to such wanderlust. He had done the same thing, only in a different direction, to the mountains instead of the sea.
This man came up to Preacher and demanded, “What are you supposed to be?”
“Don’t reckon I get your drift,” Preacher drawled.
“You’re wearin’ buckskins like a blasted Injun. Even carryin’ a tomahawk like one of them savages. Are you white or red?”
“I’ve knowed plenty of fine red men, but I happen to be white, nearabouts as I can tell,” Preacher said.
“I’ll bet you cozy up to those squaws, though, don’t you?” The man poked a blunt finger against Preacher’s chest. “Injuns ain’t nothin’ more than animals, and any man who’d crawl into their robes with ’em is an animal his own self!”
Dave leaned on the bar and said, “Hold on there, Abner. I don’t want no trouble in here.”
The man called Abner snorted, giving Preacher a good whiff of the whiskey on his breath. “Shoot, there ain’t been a drop of blood spilled since the boys and me got here. That’s plumb peaceful for this place!”
“Maybe I’d like for it to stay that way.” Dave reached under the bar and picked up a bungstarter. He laid it on the bar to emphasize his point.
Abner didn’t take the hint. Maybe he was too drunk for that, or just too belligerent. “You’re warnin’ the wrong man, Dave. I ain’t the one lookin’ for trouble. It’s this varmint, comin’ in here lookin’ like a Injun! It’s gettin’ so decent men can’t get a drink in peace!”
“Don’t push it, friend,” Preacher advised. He started to turn away. He had places to go and things to do, and he didn’t need the distraction of a brawl. He tossed back the rest of the whiskey in his cup and placed the empty on the bar, then reached in his pocket to get out another nickel and pay for the second drink.
“Never mind, mister,” Dave said. “That one’s on me.” He hoped Preacher would leave and trouble could be forestalled that way.
Abner yelled, “You’ll buy a drink for this Injun-lover but not for me? Well, you can just go to Hades, Dave! And as for you, mister—”
“Don’t say it,” Preacher warned, tight-jawed with anger.
Abner ignored those cautionary words, probably because his companions had gotten up and were moving toward the bar, as well. He
didn’t want to back down in front of them. Instead, he let the curses spill out of his mouth, vile epithets directed at Preacher, who still would have let it go as he started to walk out of the tavern.
Abner grabbed him, and Preacher didn’t allow any man to lay hands on him like that. As Abner’s hand closed on his shoulder, Preacher pivoted, brought his right elbow back sharply, and rammed it hard into Abner’s solar plexus, making hot air and more raw whiskey fumes gust out of the man’s mouth.
CHAPTER 10
The blow drove Abner back against the bar, nearly overturning the barrels. Dave yelled a protest and lashed out with the bungstarter at Abner’s head, but the man had recovered his balance already and leaped at Preacher, causing the bungstarter to miss by an inch or two. Abner probably never knew how close he came to getting brained by it.
He swung a roundhouse right of his own. Preacher ducked under it as he dropped his rifle so he would have both hands free. Balling them into fists, he stepped closer and hooked a left and then a right into Abner’s belly, with about the same effect as punching a wall.
Abner threw a wild left that clipped Preacher on the side of the head, knocking the mountain man toward the tables. Preacher slapped a hand down on one of them to catch himself, but he was off-balance for a second, just long enough for Abner to rampage in and get both arms around his waist in a bear hug. He grunted with the effort as he lifted Preacher from the floor and tried to squeeze the guts out of him. Despite his rangy build, the mountain man was no lightweight.
Preacher grimaced at the incredible force of his opponent’s arms as they closed around him like a vise. He kicked at Abner’s shins, but the man ignored the blows. Preacher felt his ribs groaning as Abner increased the pressure. Shouts filled the tavern as Abner’s friends called encouragement to him. Battles like this were probably a regular occurrence at Rancid Dave’s.
The shouting seemed to recede, even though Preacher knew it had to be as loud as ever. The light seemed even dimmer, too. He was on the verge of passing out, he realized. If he didn’t act quickly, he would not only lose the fight, but more than likely, Abner would crush his ribs so they splintered and pierced his lungs, causing him to drown in his own blood.
His arms still free, Preacher cupped his hands and slammed them against Abner’s ears. He could tell that bothered the big brute a little, but not enough to make Abner’s grip weaken. Preacher clapped his hands on Abner’s face and dug at the man’s eyes with his thumbs. Dirty fighting like that bothered him a little, but when it came down to a man’s survival, no tactic was too dirty to use.
Abner roared in pain and jerked his head back. Preacher leaned his torso backward, lowered his head, and butted it into Abner’s face. Staggered, Abner stumbled back against the bar again, where Dave had the bungstarter poised to strike another blow.
Again, sheer luck saved Abner from getting his head stove in. He sagged to one side, so the bungstarter hit the back of his left shoulder. That was enough to loosen his grip at last. Preacher chopped the side of his hand into Abner’s throat and that finished the job of breaking him free. As Abner gagged, Preacher writhed out of his grasp.
As soon as his feet hit the dirt floor, the mountain man braced himself and launched a right that crashed into Abner’s jaw and jerked his head to the side. The beaver hat flew off, revealing that the tattoos climbed all the way to the top of his shaven head.
Not giving him a chance to recover, Preacher swung a hard left that jolted Abner’s head back the other way, then followed with another right. It landed on Abner’s nose and caused blood to spurt hotly across Preacher’s knuckles.
Abner seemed surprised to be knocked back on his heels. Given his size and brute strength, it probably didn’t happen often. But he didn’t intend to give in. He shook his head, slinging drops of crimson from his bloody nose, then bellowed like a bull and charged at Preacher, moving with surprising swiftness for a man of his size.
Preacher tried to get out of the way, but Abner snagged him with a wide-flung arm. Abner’s rush had turned into a flying tackle, and he and Preacher went down, landing hard on one of the tables. The men who had been drinking there had scattered frantically when they saw Abner and Preacher coming in their direction.
The table’s legs splintered and collapsed under the weight suddenly crashing down on them. Preacher and Abner sprawled amidst the debris. Having Abner land mostly on top of him knocked the wind out of Preacher’s lungs, so he gasped for air as he tried to struggle out from under.
Abner grabbed one of the broken chair legs and raised it high over his head, then brought it sweeping down. The blow would have cracked Preacher’s skull like an eggshell if it had landed. He saw it coming and jerked his head to the side just in time. The makeshift club slammed down right beside his ear. Abner lifted it and tried again. Preacher rolled his head the other way to avoid the second blow.
The mountain man flung his leg up, hooked it in front of Abner’s throat, and pried him off. Freed of the weight as Abner toppled to the side, Preacher scrambled the other direction, got his hands and knees underneath him, and surged to his feet. His chest heaved, his heart slugged in his chest, and his pulse hammered wildly inside his head. But his blood was up and he was eager to continue the fight.
So was Abner. He came up throwing punches and waded in. Preacher met him head-on and gave as good as he got. The two men stood toe to toe in the center of the tavern and pounded away at each other, both of them absorbing tremendous amounts of punishment.
Preacher finally sensed that the tide of battle was turning in his direction. Abner wasn’t quite as steady on his feet as he had been, and even though he still landed many of his punches, they lacked as much power as they had possessed when the fight began. Preacher put aside his own aches and pains and weariness and bored in. He snapped a series of left jabs into Abner’s face, blacking the man’s eyes, splitting his lips, and making the blood flow even more copiously from his nose. Abner’s eyes began to glaze over.
As if sensing that their champion had begun to fade, several of the men who had been sitting at the table with Abner let out angry yells and started forward, obviously intending to gang up on Preacher. He would take them all on if he had to, the mountain man thought, and with the fires of rage fueling him, he wasn’t sure but what he could beat them.
However, Abner saw what was happening, too, and he stepped back long enough to wave an arm at his friends and shout, “No! Stay outta this! It’s between him and me!”
Yelling like that seemed to exhaust him even more, but he pulled himself up, squared his shoulders, and beckoned to Preacher with a bruised and bloody hand.
“Come on, Injun-lover,” he taunted as he swayed back and forth. “Come and get me.”
“You’re just about out on your feet,” Preacher told him. “Best call this off while you still can.”
“I’m not . . . callin’ anything off!” Abner charged again.
Preacher was ready for him. He would have stepped aside from the charge and delivered the finishing stroke—if he hadn’t stepped on one of those broken table legs at just the wrong moment. The table leg rolled under his foot and threw him off-balance. He couldn’t get out of the way in time, and Abner’s shoulder rammed into his chest. The collision knocked them apart. They went spinning away from each other, lost their footing, and tumbled onto the dirt floor again.
Preacher struggled to get up. A few yards away, so did Abner. Preacher wasn’t sure that either of them would be able to make it to their feet again. But the sound of double hammers being cocked rendered their efforts moot.
Rancid Dave pointed a shotgun over the bar at them. “That’s it!” he bellowed. “Fight’s over!” He added a few colorful curses for emphasis. “No more, either of you. You hear me?”
Abner struggled to get out, “You . . . you can go to—”
He didn’t finish the sentence. The shotgun barrels had turned menacingly toward him.
“I’ve heard enough outta you, Abner Rowl
and. Your friends can pick you up and get you outta here, right now!”
“Blast it, Dave—” one of the other men began.
“You want some o’ this buckshot, Hooper?” Dave roared.
“No, no, take it easy,” the man called Hooper responded. He motioned to his companions, and several of them hurried forward and lifted Abner to his feet.
Once he was standing—none too steadily—Abner pawed the air in Preacher’s direction and demanded, “Wha’ about him? He was fightin’, too. You . . . you kickin’ him out?”
“He didn’t start it,” Dave said coldly. “Now move. The whole lot of you.”
The men half carried Abner out of the tavern. He made them stop at the door so he could look back over his shoulder, glare at Preacher, and say, “This ain’t over, mister.”
The mountain man climbed wearily to his feet and said, “It is as far as I’m concerned.” He started looking around for his hat, which had gone flying off during the fracas. His pistols had remained tucked behind his belt, which was something of a surprise considering how rough and tumble the fight had been.
Abner spat a few more curses, then let his companions lead him on out of the tavern.
“I hope you ain’t expectin’ me to pay for all this damage,” Preacher told Dave. “I can’t afford it.”
The gold tooth glinted as Dave grinned. “Reckon I should’ve thought of that ’fore I chased Rowland and his men out, shouldn’t I? But no, I ain’t gonna make you pay up, mister. The table that got busted up ain’t worth much. Anyway, you was just defendin’ yourself. Rowland started that whole ruckus because he wanted an excuse to pound on somebody. He’s done it before. He’s a sorry son of a gun that way.” The tavernkeeper chuckled. “Too bad for him he picked the wrong fella this time.”
Dave carefully lowered the hammers on the scattergun, replaced it under the bar, and picked up the jug to fill Preacher’s cup again. “No charge for this one, neither. That was the best fight I seen in a long time. Worth the price of a drink, for dang sure.”
“Obliged to you,” Preacher said. He sipped the whiskey, wincing a little as the fiery stuff stung his bruised and cut lips. Well, that was good for them, he told himself. Whiskey had medicinal value, after all. “Those fellas were rivermen?” he went on.
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