Preacher's Frenzy

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  “It doesn’t matter. We have a strict policy of protecting our guests’ privacy.”

  Preacher could tell this young man was afraid of him. New Orleans had its share of rough characters, but probably not many of them ventured into the St. Charles Hotel. He knew he looked fresh from the frontier, ready to spit, whittle, cut, and shoot. The mountain man thought about setting his rifle on the counter—that would probably spook the young clerk even more—but he felt a mite sorry for the lad.

  He said, “I reckon I understand, son. Can I ask a favor of you?”

  “Of . . . of course, sir.”

  “If Mr. Cornelius and Miss Tarleton are stayin’ here, I’d sure appreciate it if you didn’t mention to ’em that somebody came around lookin’ for ’em. Think you could do that?”

  The clerk swallowed. “Of course. Discretion is . . . is always our policy here at the St. Charles.”

  “I’m much obliged to you.” Preacher was fairly confident the clerk would do as he’d asked.

  The young fellow seemed afraid that Preacher would come back and hunt him down if he didn’t do as the mountain man asked.

  Preacher turned away and started toward the door. The expensively dressed guests in the lobby gave him a wide berth, as if they feared that getting too close to him might contaminate them. Might get a little frontier dirt on ’em, Preacher thought wryly.

  He left the hotel and paused on the street outside to look around. He would need a place to stay, and it would have to be somewhere a lot less extravagant and expensive than the St. Charles. Until he recovered the money stolen by Cornelius and Lucy, he couldn’t afford to be wasteful.

  There had to be a livery stable somewhere in these parts with a proprietor who would let him sleep in the hayloft, he thought. He was about to go look for one when a voice said behind him, “Sir, I heard what you were asking in there.”

  Preacher turned his head and saw an older man with graying, reddish hair standing there. He was dressed in a brown suit and beaver hat and looked solidly respectable and successful, but without the fancy airs that so many people in this town seemed to put on. In fact, something about him struck Preacher as being familiar, as if he had seen the man before but didn’t really know him.

  “Have we met?” he asked.

  The man smiled and shook his head. “Not really. My name is Andrew Fletcher. I used to own a general store in St. Louis, but I don’t believe you ever bought any supplies there. You are the man called Preacher, aren’t you?”

  “That’s right,” Preacher admitted. “How come you know me if we didn’t do business together?”

  Fletcher chuckled. “Everybody in St. Louis has heard of the legendary Preacher, just as twenty years ago, everyone knew John Colter and Jim Bridger. You were pointed out to me on the street more than once by friends who work in the fur business.” He stuck out his hand. “It’s an honor to meet you.”

  Preacher shook hands with the man and asked, “You don’t live in St. Louis no more?”

  “No, I moved down here to be nearer my daughter and her family. I’m getting older, you know, ready to slow down and enjoy the time I have left.”

  Preacher couldn’t really grasp that. Slowing down didn’t seem to him the best way to enjoy life. He figured life needed to be lived full-blast, the way he always had. But each fella had his own way of going about things, he supposed.

  “At any rate,” Fletcher continued, “I was on my way through the lobby, intending to have a drink in the bar downstairs, when I heard you asking about a man named Cornelius.”

  “And a young woman named Lucy Tarleton,” Preacher said.

  “Well, the man I’m thinking about had a young woman with him, but I don’t believe I ever heard her name spoken. This was in a tavern called the Catamount’s Den. It has a rather unsavory reputation, but I venture there occasionally. A man still needs his diversions, you understand.”

  “Sure,” Preacher said, wishing Fletcher would get to the point, whatever it was.

  “The man I saw there, the one I heard called Cornelius, was dressed like a gambler. A medium-sized fellow, brown hair, a mustache . . . and the woman with him had dark brown hair and was very beautiful.”

  Preacher’s pulse kicked up a notch. That sure sounded like the pair he sought. He nodded to Fletcher and said, “Go on.”

  “They were with a plantation owner named Osborne, an older man. The woman was playing up to him, I’d say.”

  Yep, that was Lucy. Preacher didn’t doubt it a bit. The two of them had found themselves a new target.

  “I’m acquainted with Osborne a bit,” Fletcher went on. “Enough that I wouldn’t want to see him taken advantage of. Do you mind if I ask you what your interest is in this fellow Cornelius . . . and the woman?”

  Preacher studied the former businessman. Trusting his instincts, he decided that Fletcher was honest and wasn’t up to any tricks.

  “They robbed and hurt a friend of mine,” Preacher said bluntly. “I intend to see that they pay for it.”

  Fletcher nodded. “I thought it might be something like that. And that’s why I decided to tell you that I’d seen them in the Catamount’s Den. I don’t know if you can find them there or not, but it’s a place to start looking, anyway.”

  “I’m obliged to you for the help,” Preacher said.

  “One more thing. If you would, please don’t let on who told you where to look for them. There might be . . . repercussions.”

  “From who?” Preacher asked with a frown. “It ain’t like there’s a real catamount there, is it?”

  “No,” Fletcher said, “but what lurks in that den might be even worse.”

  CHAPTER 16

  After thanking Andrew Fletcher for his help, Preacher asked one more favor, and the man gave him directions to a nearby livery stable and blacksmith shop run by a man named Jean Paul Dufresne.

  “You don’t appear to have a horse with you, though,” Fletcher commented with a slightly puzzled frown. “Why do you need a livery stable?”

  Preacher grinned and said cryptically, “Horses ain’t the only critters that can bed down in a good stable.”

  “I suppose not,” Fletcher replied, still clearly not understanding. But he shook hands with the mountain man again and wished him luck in the quest that had brought him to New Orleans.

  Preacher found the livery stable and adjoining blacksmith shop and followed the sound of a hammer ringing on an anvil into the smoky, low-ceilinged shop. The man doing the pounding was medium height, with very broad shoulders and muscular arms. He wore a canvas apron and a long-sleeved shirt to protect his arms from flying sparks. Dark eyes in a rugged face under close-cropped, curly black hair turned toward Preacher as the mountain man walked into the shop.

  “Help you with something, m’sieu?” the man asked as he paused in hammering out the glowing-hot horseshoe he was working on.

  “You’d be Jean Paul Dufresne? Own the livery stable next door?”

  “Oui. To both questions.”

  “I’m lookin’ for a place to stay,” Preacher said.

  Dufresne frowned. “Perhaps I am missing something, but you do not appear to have four legs, m’sieu.”

  “You’ve got a hayloft, don’t you? Well, I’ve slept in plenty of them.”

  “Ah,” the blacksmith said as understanding dawned on him. “You search for someplace inexpensive to stay while you are in New Orleans.”

  “That’s right. I can pay the same amount you’d charge for a horse.” Preacher chuckled. “And you won’t even have to provide any grain.”

  Dufresne laughed and said, “Very well. This is the first time anyone has suggested such an unusual arrangement, but I see no reason not to agree. You know, of course, that you may be sharing the straw with other . . . guests, shall we say? Nonpaying ones.”

  “Bugs and vermin, sure. I won’t bother them if they don’t bother me.”

  “And Matilde,” Dufresne said. “She may wish to curl up with you.”

 
Preacher raised an eyebrow.

  “Be careful of her claws,” the blacksmith went on. “They are very sharp, and she can be rather capricious in their use.”

  “You are talkin’ about a cat, ain’t you?” Preacher said.

  “Mais oui, of course! What else?” Laughter boomed out from Dufresne’s barrel chest.

  Preacher paid the blacksmith for several nights’ lodging, then asked, “What do you know about a place called the Catamount’s Den?”

  A scowl replaced the affable expression on Dufresne’s face. “From what I hear, it can be a dangerous place. I have never been there, myself. I have a good wife and child and no need for such vice. But everyone in New Orleans knows the Catamount’s Den is run by a man named Simon LeCarde. A very bad man, who has much to do with the crime in this city.”

  “The boss of all the wrongdoin’, eh?”

  Dufresne’s brawny shoulders rose and fell. “Perhaps not all. But most, certainly. From what I hear, LeCarde extends his protection to many of the criminals who infest New Orleans, in return for part of their ill-gotten gains. It is a scandal, but—” He shrugged again. “This town is not known as a law-abiding community. The authorities, such as they are, can be as crooked as the criminals. I, myself, have been approached more than once by those who would offer me ‘protection’ in return for a regular payment.”

  “You don’t go along with that, do you?” Preacher asked.

  Dufresne lifted the heavy hammer he held and said, “I have my own means of protection, m’sieu, and it works very well.”

  “I’ll just bet it does.” Preacher felt an instinctive liking for this burly blacksmith and hoped that Dufresne’s defiance of the local criminal underworld wouldn’t bring harm to the man and his family someday.

  Dufresne went back to hammering on the horseshoe while Preacher went into the livery stable, climbed the ladder to the hayloft, and left his rifle and warbag there. The long-barreled flintlock wasn’t really suitable for any trouble he might encounter in the Crescent City. He had his brace of pistols, his knife, and his tomahawk, and those weapons all did the job just fine for close work.

  Even without the rifle, they drew plenty of stares. Evidently, folks in New Orleans weren’t accustomed to seeing a fellow go around so openly armed. They preferred derringers that would fit in a pocket and knives that could be hidden up a man’s sleeve—or inside a garter belt, for those ladies who liked to carry some cold steel from time to time.

  Dusk was settling over the city by the time Preacher walked into the French Quarter in search of the Catamount’s Den. He strolled down Bourbon Street, taking in the jostling crowds around him, habitually keeping a wary eye out for anyone who might want to do him harm, even though as far as he knew, he didn’t have any enemies in New Orleans other than Edmund Cornelius and Lucy Tarleton.

  The narrow, cobblestoned street ran between buildings that seemed to lean in toward each other with their balconies railed by ornate wrought-iron scrollwork. That gave the area an intimate atmosphere, but the close quarters seemed oppressive to a man such as Preacher, who spent most of each year in wide-open spaces where he might go a week or more without laying eyes on another human being and could see for miles in every direction. Spending all his time in a place like the French Quarter would be like being in prison, he thought.

  Andrew Fletcher had told him how to find the Catamount’s Den. Having no trouble locating it, Preacher paused outside to admire the artwork on the sign hanging over the arched, iron-banded door. Having seen more than his share of mountain lions in his time, he thought whoever had painted this one had done a pretty good job of capturing the creature’s sleek ferocity.

  Men went in and out of the place, some dressed in finery, others in rough work clothes. Evidently the Catamount’s Den catered to all kinds. Preacher supposed the tavern was the sort of place where it didn’t matter who you were or where you came from, as long as you had money. From what Jean Paul Dufresne had told him, profit was the only thing Simon LeCarde really cared about.

  One thing he noticed was that many of the people who went in rapped first on the door in a certain pattern—three knocks, then a pause, three more, another pause, and a final three. After that, they opened the door and went inside.

  Preacher stepped up to the door and repeated that pattern, then pulled it open and stepped inside, only to be greeted by the twin barrels of a shotgun swinging up to point at him. He controlled the impulse to duck, jerk one of the pistols from behind his belt, and shoot the man with the scattergun.

  At first glance he thought the person pointing the shotgun at him was a child. The fellow was perched on a high stool and his legs didn’t come close to hitting the floor. Then he realized the guardian of this particular den was a dwarf, brawny enough from the waist up that he didn’t have any trouble handling the weapon, although it appeared the barrels had been sawed off somewhat to make it easier for him.

  “Just stand right there and let me take a look at you,” the dwarf ordered. “I don’t know you.”

  “That don’t surprise me none, seein’ as I’ve never been here before,” Preacher said. “How about puttin’ down that scattergun? Them things make me a mite nervous.”

  “Yeah, well, I’d be nervous if I wasn’t pointing it at you.” The dwarf frowned. “Who are you? How’d you know the special knock? Somebody tell you about it?”

  Preacher couldn’t help laughing. “Shoot, I just stood out yonder on Bourbon Street and watched for a few minutes until I figured out what folks were doin’ as they came in here. It didn’t take a whole lot of ponderin’ on my part.”

  “Well, I suppose that’s true,” the guard admitted with obvious reluctance. “What do you want here?”

  “The same thing everybody else who comes here does, I reckon. Something to drink, maybe some good company. A game of cards, a friendly, good-lookin’ gal—”

  “The Catamount’s Den can offer you all those things. What’s your name?”

  “Art,” Preacher replied, falling back on his seldom-used real name. If Cornelius and Lucy had fallen in with this Simon LeCarde, it was possible they might have mentioned his name as someone who could be looking for them.

  They could have described him as well, he realized. But maybe he wasn’t the only one in New Orleans wearing buckskins and armed for bear, although he hadn’t noticed anybody else who fit that description.

  “Are you a stranger in town, Art?” the dwarf went on.

  “That’s right. Just got here today, in fact.”

  “Who told you about the Catamount’s Den?”

  “I just heard talk about it,” Preacher replied vaguely, honoring Andrew Fletcher’s request to keep his name out of it. “Never got introduced to the fellas who mentioned it.”

  The dwarf appeared to think about it for a moment, then he finally lowered the shotgun. “All right,” he said as he jerked his head toward the other side of the foyer. “Go on in. Just remember . . . no trouble while you’re inside. Any problems, you take ’em outside.”

  “Fair enough,” Preacher said. He strolled on into the tavern, glad the guardian hadn’t demanded that he turn over his weapons. Preacher never would have done that, even if it meant taking that shotgun away from the fella and starting a ruckus.

  With his hat brim pulled low to partially shield his face, he paused just inside the room to look around. At first glance, he didn’t see Edmund Cornelius or Lucy Tarleton, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there. The room was smoky and dimly lit, with shadowy corners that were all but impossible to see into.

  After a moment, Preacher headed for the bar.

  He hadn’t gotten there when a harsh voice ripped out a curse and a hard hand fell heavily on his shoulder. Whoever had grabbed him jerked him around, and Preacher had only a second to see the knobby-knuckled fist flashing toward his face.

  CHAPTER 17

  The punch came at him too swiftly for him to avoid it entirely, but he managed to dip his head to the side so the fis
t struck him a glancing blow just above the left ear. His hat flew off. So much for trying to keep his features obscured.

  But the goal of not drawing attention to himself had evaporated as soon as he came under attack. Everybody in the place turned to look as Preacher’s assailant roared another curse and waded in with arms swinging.

  The man’s identity didn’t surprise Preacher. He recognized the big deckhand from the riverboat who had clashed with him on the dock that afternoon, soon after the Powhatan’s arrival in New Orleans.

  Shugart, that was the man’s name, Preacher recalled as he blocked a second punch and stepped aside from another.

  He couldn’t avoid all the blows, however. A big fist crashed against his sternum and knocked him back a step. An instant later, Shugart’s other first sank into Preacher’s belly and drove most of the air out of his body.

  Preacher planted his feet, ducked his head, and let another punch skid off his skull. Braced and ready now, he snapped a left into Shugart’s face and landed it cleanly on the man’s mouth. The blow rocked Shugart’s head back, and Preacher followed it with a right that smashed into the deckhand’s jaw and staggered him.

  Preacher had forgotten all about the dwarf’s admonition regarding fighting inside the Catamount’s Den, but even if he’d remembered, it wouldn’t have made any difference. He had never been the sort to just stand there and take it when somebody jumped him. He always fought back and always would.

  Crowding in on Shugart, Preacher threw another left and right combination that rocked the man’s head back and forth and knocked him back on his heels. He was too strong and angry to continue giving ground, though. His head was hard as a rock, too, as Preacher had discovered. Shugart bellowed again like a maddened bull and threw himself at Preacher, wrapping his arms around the mountain man and forcing him off his feet.

  They slammed down on the thick-planked floor with enough impact that it seemed like it ought to shake the building. The sturdy old structure took it just fine, though. Better than Preacher did, because aches and pains were already shooting through his body. He had the consolation, though, of knowing that Shugart was probably in worse shape. The man’s lips were swollen and bleeding, and a big bruise had started to form on his jaw.