Читать книгу Preacher's Pursuit - William W. Johnstone - Страница 11

Preacher let the Hart cousins talk him into staying overnight again. To tell the truth, they didn’t have to work very hard at it. Until a cabin could be built for Laura Mallory, she would be staying in one of the wagons that had been outfitted for her. She had traveled out here from St. Louis in it, and it would remain her home for the time being.

And those wagons would be parked next to the trading post until Clyde Mallory was ready to take them back east loaded with pelts. Over the past year, many of the trappers in the area had begun trading or selling their furs to the Hart cousins, rather than taking packhorses all the way back to St. Louis or paddling down the Missouri River in canoes. Corliss and Jerome, in turn, had an arrangement with one of the big fur companies to supply pelts. So far they had been doing so on a small scale, but if Mallory’s freight operation was a success, they could expand their own business.

Preacher wasn’t sure why he was making such a fool of himself over Laura. Sure, she was a mighty pretty woman, but he hadn’t been seriously involved with anybody since Jennie…and that relationship had come to a tragic end. Preacher had pretty much sworn off romance ever since then, except for an occasional romp with a willing Indian gal or one of the soiled doves who showed up at Rendezvous.

Of course, it wasn’t like he had announced his intention to pay court to Laura or anything. He hadn’t even paid that much attention to her during the day, choosing to keep his distance instead.

He’d spent his time getting another load of supplies together, buying a packhorse to replace the one that had been killed in the avalanche, and fending off Jake’s efforts to talk him into taking him along when he left. The boy purely hated the idea of going to school once the teacher arrived.

One corner of the trading post’s cavernous main room was where the mountain men congregated to eat, drink whiskey, and swap lies. Bouchard and Jock had pulled out the day before, same as Preacher, so he didn’t have any close friends on hand at the moment. That didn’t bother him. He was used to his own company. He sat there alone in the corner that evening, taking an occasional nip from a jug and wondering if Laura had turned in yet.

As if fate wanted to answer his question, both of the Mallorys walked into the trading post at that moment. Laura still wore the same dark green traveling outfit but not the matching hat. The light from the lanterns shone on her fair hair, making it glow like the sun, Preacher thought.

She spotted him in the corner and smiled, and he thought she would have come over to say hello if Corliss hadn’t intercepted her and her brother and practically dragged them over to the counter in the rear of the room. Deborah and Jerome were there, and all three of the Harts seemed to enjoy the conversation they carried on with the Mallorys. It had been a while since anybody except rough frontiersmen had visited here. Laura and Clyde were even better than fellow Easterners…they were English, Preacher thought as he chuckled to himself.

After a while, though, Laura extricated herself and came over to the corner where Preacher sat. He saw her heading in his direction, and for a second he felt the impulse to cut and run. That wouldn’t look good, though, so he stayed where he was, setting the jug aside and rising to his feet to greet her as she came up to him.

“Howdy, ma’am,” he said gravely. “How are you this evenin’?”

“I’m fine, Preacher,” Laura replied. She nodded toward the barrel chair where he’d been sitting. “Please, don’t inconvenience yourself on my account. Have a seat.”

Instead, Preacher suggested, “Why don’t you take the chair, Miss Mallory? You’ll be more comfortable.”

“Then where will you sit?”

“I’ll just pull up this here keg,” he said. It was more of a barrel and was filled with something heavy, but Preacher wrestled it over into place anyway.

“Preacher, I get the distinct feeling that you’ve been avoiding me this afternoon,” Laura said with an accusing look on her face. “Did I do something to offend or insult you?”

That was the farthest thing from the truth. The reason he’d been steering clear of her was because he didn’t want to try to talk to her and start stumbling over his words like a lovestruck youngster. He was way too old for that.

“Why, no, ma’am, Miss Laura, not at all. I’ve just been a mite busy, that’s all. I had to get some supplies together for when I leave tomorrow.”

She smiled. “I’m glad you decided to stay an extra night anyway. That gives me a chance to get to know you a little better.”

Preacher wasn’t sure why a lady like her would even want to know him at all, but he didn’t say that. Instead, he sort of sat there like a bump on a log until Laura leaned toward him and spoke again.

“Mr. Hart tells me that someone tried to kill you by starting an avalanche. How perfectly dreadful.”

“Well, it ain’t like it was the first time,” Preacher said without thinking. “A couple o’ varmints tried to bushwhack me the day before that.”

“Is life on the frontier always so…violent and unpredictable?”

“It can be,” he said. “You got wild animals and wild Indians both out here, and some mighty bad weather at times, and even some bad men.”

“Highwaymen, you mean? Brigands?”

“Cutthroats and murderers, sure enough,” he told her. “Fellas who’ll steal your pelts and kill you without even blinkin’ to boot. I ain’t tryin’ to scare you, ma’am, but it’d be mighty smart o’ you to stay right close to the tradin’ post while you’re out here.”

“I assure you, that’s exactly what I intend to do,” she said. “But you can’t do that, can you? You have your traps to check.”

“That’s right. I don’t worry overmuch, though. I can take care o’ myself, and I’m in the habit o’ bein’ careful.”

“I hope you will be very careful.” She smiled warmly at him. “I hope to see you again whenever you come back to the settlement.”

Preacher wasn’t sure how to respond to that, so he just said, “Yes’m. I’d like that, too.”

Several men were sitting at a rough-hewn table closer to the front of the room. Preacher had noticed them earlier, but since he had seen them around the settlement on previous visits and they weren’t exactly strangers, he didn’t pay much attention to them. He didn’t figure they were part of the mysterious bunch trying to kill him.

A big towheaded fella named Sanderson was the leader of the bunch. With him were a short, stocky man who sported a bristly mustache, a white-bearded, long-haired old-timer, and a couple of heavy-faced gents who looked like Dutchmen. Preacher didn’t know their names, but he knew where they ran their trap lines and avoided them. A man didn’t poach on another fella’s territory unless it was by accident.

Now, as Preacher sat there and tried to think up something else to say to Laura Mallory, the old-timer pulled out a fiddle and began to play, sawing the bow across the strings with more energy and enthusiasm than talent. The raucous notes filled the trading post and made everyone look around.

Laura smiled and clapped her hands together softly. “Music!” she exclaimed. “Do you know how long it’s been since I heard any music, Preacher?”

“No, ma’am, but I’d say you’re bein’ a mite generous to call that music. Sounds more to me like somebody tied two cats’ tails together and dropped ’em on either side of a fence.”

“Oh, it does not,” she said with a merry laugh. “I think it sounds just fine. Fine enough, in fact, that I’d like to dance.” She stood up and held out a hand to him. “Would you be kind enough as to dance with me, good sir?”

Preacher’s eyes widened in surprise. He had done some dancing before—there was always a lot of celebratin’ that went on at a Rendezvous, including stomping around in rough approximations of the sort of dances that folks did back East—but he had never done anything like that with a woman as beautiful as Laura Mallory in his arms.

“Please, Preacher,” she said when he hesitated. “It would almost make me feel like I was back home again.”

No way in hell could he turn down a plea like that. He stood up, took hold of her hand—being careful not to squeeze it too hard—and said, “It’d be a plumb honor, ma’am.”

She moved closer to him. “If you’re going to take me in your arms and whirl me around the floor,” she said, “I think you should stop calling me ma’am and just call me Laura.”

Preacher swallowed hard. “All right, ma’am. I’ll try.”

He held her left hand with his right and slipped his left arm around her waist, being careful not to hold her too close. She wasn’t much closer than arm’s length, in fact. She rested her right hand on his shoulder, and he seemed to feel the warmth of her touch through his buckskin shirt. He definitely felt it in the hand he grasped. Their fingers twined together intimately. He took a deep breath—which reminded him that, Lord, she smelled good!—and began moving his feet in a rough waltz.

Whatever you do, he told himself, don’t stomp on her toes.

There wasn’t much room for dancing, but they made a fair job of it. Laura followed his steps, although Preacher sensed that she was holding back and could probably dance a whole heap better than he could. The Dutchmen had started clapping in time with the old fiddle player, and as Preacher and Laura turned in the waltz, he saw that everybody in the trading post was watching them. That sort of scrutiny made him uncomfortable, but he tried to ignore it.

Clyde Mallory’s eyes had narrowed as he looked on while his sister and Preacher danced, and Preacher wondered if he disapproved. He didn’t want to get on Mallory’s bad side, but he had to admit that he was enjoying this dance with Laura.

The big trapper called Sanderson stood up and shuffled toward them, an intent look on his face. Preacher saw him coming and wondered what the man wanted.

It didn’t take him long to find out.

Sanderson reached out and tapped Preacher roughly on the shoulder. “I’m cuttin’ in on this dance, Preacher,” he declared as Preacher and Laura came to a stop in their waltz. “That’s my Uncle Dan providin’ the music, so I reckon it’s only fair that I get to dance with the lady, too.”

Preacher hadn’t known that the old-timer was Sanderson’s uncle, and he didn’t much care either. He didn’t want to let go of Laura. However, it was her decision, so Preacher told her, “Whatever you want to do, ma’am.”

She smiled at Sanderson and said, “I’m sorry, sir, but I’m dancing with Preacher right now. Perhaps another time.”

Sanderson wasn’t taking no for an answer. He said, “The hell with that,” and reached out to take hold of Laura’s arm. He pulled her away from Preacher. The fiddle playing came to an abrupt halt with a screech of the bow across the strings.

Preacher let go of Laura because he didn’t want her to get hurt by being tugged back and forth between him and Sanderson. But that didn’t mean he was giving in. He growled, “Let go o’ the lady, Sanderson…right now.”

“She’s dancin’ with me now,” Sanderson said. “Back off, Preacher.”

With that, he jerked Laura against him and held her so tightly that she gasped.

“Play that fiddle, Uncle Dan!” Sanderson ordered.

The bow wailed on the strings, but only for a second. Preacher reached out, grabbed Sanderson’s shoulder, hauled the man around, and crashed a fist into the middle of his face. Blood spurted as Sanderson’s nose pulped under the blow’s impact.

Laura let out a scream as Sanderson staggered away, crimson welling over the bottom half of his face. He caught himself, glared at Preacher, and launched himself forward with a furious roar. He tackled Preacher and both men went down, crashing into chairs and barrels.

Sanderson came flying backward as Preacher hit him again. Preacher scrambled to his feet just as the short man who’d been sitting at the table with Sanderson and the others yelled, “Get ’im!”

The two big Dutchmen lumbered toward Preacher, fists clenched. Their eagerness for a fight brought animation to their usually stolid faces. The little man was right behind them, egging them on. And Sanderson was climbing back up, his bloody face twisted by lines of rage.

Looked like the odds were going to be three or four to one, Preacher thought. He had faced worse. He stood there grinning and lifted one hand, crooking it mockingly.

“If you figure on whuppin’ me, boys, then come ahead,” he invited. “It’s your job, and you’ve got it to do.”

“Damn right we’ll do it,” Sanderson rasped. “You think you’re the big he-wolf around here, but we’re gonna whip you seven ways from Sunday!”

“You mean after you get through talkin’ me to death?”

The four men came toward Preacher slowly now, closing in on him. Laura Mallory had fled to the counter, where Deborah Hart had her arms around her, trying to comfort her. Corliss and Jerome watched the confrontation, but didn’t make a move to interfere. As the proprietors of this trading post, they had to stay neutral in the occasional brawl. Preacher understood that, even though the cousins owed a considerable debt to him for getting them here alive.

He didn’t want any help. He always fought his own battles, and he wasn’t inclined to change that now.

“Wait!”

The sharp-voiced command came from Clyde Mallory. The Englishman strode forward, putting himself between Preacher and the four men. He ignored his sister’s plea to be careful and planted himself there with his fists on his hips.

“I say, this is hardly fair. You outnumber this man by four to one.”

“Stay out of it, mister,” Sanderson warned. “It ain’t none o’ your business.”

“On the contrary,” Mallory said, “that was my sister you were mauling, sir. It’s very much my affair. An affair of honor.”

And with that, he reached up and slapped Sanderson across the face.