Читать книгу Preacher's Pursuit - William W. Johnstone - Страница 9

He lunged to his feet and burst out of the brush surrounding the clearing where the camp was located. His keen eyes took in the scene instantly, noting the rocks and the logs scattered around that the men had been using for seats by the fire in the center of the clearing.

One man lay on his back, kicking and thrashing as he screamed. His hands pawed at his chest, where blood bubbled and spurted between his fingers from a wound. Preacher figured the first shot had downed that gent.

He couldn’t tell who had fired the second shot or what the result of it had been, because the other two men were rolling around on the ground on the other side of the fire. The red light from the flames glittered on the knives they held. Each man was trying to bury his blade in the other’s body, and as Preacher entered the clearing, one of them succeeded. He managed to get on top and drive his knife down into the chest of the other man, who howled in pain as the steel penetrated his body. He jerked and shuddered and then went limp. Preacher could tell from the knife’s location that it had pierced the man’s heart.

Just then the man on the other side of the fire gave a gurgling gasp and fell silent. Preacher figured that one was dead, too.

That left only the one fella, who left his knife in the body of the man he had just killed and staggered to his feet. He didn’t seem to realize at first that Preacher was there, but then Dog let out a low, rumbling growl and the man stiffened. He turned slowly, his eyes widening in horror as he realized who was standing there.

“You didn’t figure I’d let you get away with it, did you?” Preacher asked.

The man started to back up. He was tall and slender, but had a potbelly. His hat had come off during the struggle, revealing a mostly bald head. His mouth worked, but no sound came out for a moment. Then he managed to say, “You…you can’t be here. You’re dead. You’re dead!”

“Not hardly,” Preacher said.

The man had blood on his shirt. Preacher figured he’d been nicked by that second shot, which must have been fired by the man who now had the knife in his chest. Even though Preacher hadn’t seen it, he had a pretty idea how the fight had played out. This fella and the one on the other side of the fire had argued over the jug, which lay broken near the flames. The survivor had whipped out a pistol and shot the man he was arguing with. Then the third varmint had shot this one, who wasn’t wounded badly enough to stop him from pulling a knife and going after that third man…

Preacher had seen men kill each other in equally senseless arguments during rendezvous. The apparently limitless capacity of human beings to do stupid things had long since ceased to surprise him.

He stalked forward as the man began to back away. The man raised a trembling hand and held it out in front of him as if to ward off Preacher’s inexorable advance.

“Go away!” he cried. “You’re supposed to be dead!”

Preacher had never seen the man before. The two who had already died here were strangers to him as well, just like the day before.

“Why’d you try to kill me?” Preacher demanded. Beside him, the big cur growled, and Preacher added, “Talk or I’ll turn Dog loose on you.”

He had seen the primitive fear in the man’s eyes, and knew that the bastard was probably more afraid of Dog than he was of him. That was all right with Preacher. He just wanted to know why it was suddenly open season on him and didn’t care what loosened the man’s tongue.

“I…I swear, Preacher,” the man stammered. “I got nothin’ against you. I just wanted—”

What he wanted would remain a mystery forever, because at that moment a crimson flood welled from his mouth and washed down over his chest. He swayed back and forth for a second, made a strangling noise, and then pitched forward on his face. Blood began to pool around his head.

“Well, son of a bitch,” Preacher said. The man had been hit worse than he’d thought. The pistol ball must have done a lot of damage inside him, but the man’s anger had allowed him to ignore it long enough for him to kill the fella who had shot him. It had caught up to him in the end, though.

And Preacher was still no closer to finding out who wanted him dead, and why, than he had been when he took up the trail earlier in the day.

About five miles to the north, an even larger campfire burned. Twenty men were gathered around it. Four more were posted around the camp, standing guard.

The man who led this group had just enough experience on the frontier to know that such a fire might attract the attention of hostile Indians. He didn’t believe that redskins would attack such a large, well-armed group, but you couldn’t ever tell with those savages. It was better to take precautions than to lose your hair…not that he had very much hair to lose.

Colin Fairfax sat by the fire, a beaver hat perched on his mostly bald head. He had regained some of the weight he’d lost during his long, harrowing trek back to St. Louis the year before, so his face was no longer as gaunt and haggard as it had been when he returned.

But his eyes were still haunted by the fear and torment he had gone through.

He had almost been killed by Indians. He had almost been caught by grizzly bears and wolves on more than one occasion. He had almost starved, going without food for so long at times that the empty pain in his belly made him cry as he stumbled along. The sun had burned his skin, turned his nose and his lips raw. And terror had been his constant companion. Simply put, he had gone through Hell.

And it was all Preacher’s fault.

Fairfax would never forget that awful trek back to St. Louis after Preacher killed his partner Schuyler Mims and ruined their plans to steal the wagon train full of supplies that belonged to Corliss and Jerome Hart. Fairfax and Mims had been working for Shad Beaumont, the most powerful figure in St. Louis’s criminal circles, and it was to Beaumont’s mansion on the outskirts of the city that Fairfax had gone when he finally made it back, the only survivor from the group Beaumont had sent west.

Everything Fairfax had gone through had left him filled with hatred for Preacher, so when Beaumont suggested that he return to the mountains and settle the score with the bastard, Fairfax had agreed…but not without a little hesitation. Part of him didn’t want to face Preacher again, not after what had happened the first time.

But an even larger part wanted revenge, and so Fairfax had said yes. Beaumont had agreed to supply more than two dozen men to come along with him. Brutal, dangerous men who didn’t mind killing.

Fairfax was smart enough to know that Beaumont had some other reason for wanting Preacher dead. Beaumont didn’t really care about what had happened to Schuyler. Fairfax figured that Beaumont had some other criminal enterprise in mind involving the area Preacher called home and didn’t want the mountain man interfering with his plans. It didn’t matter either way to Fairfax. All he cared about was Preacher dying.

Accordingly, when the group of men he’d led out here arrived in the vicinity of South Pass and the Hart trading post, Fairfax had sent out several groups of scouts to search for Preacher. They weren’t supposed to try to kill him, just determine his location and send someone to fetch Fairfax and the rest of the gang.

Fairfax didn’t want to take any chances on Preacher getting away again. He worried, though, that Beaumont might have put a bounty on Preacher’s head without telling him about it, and he didn’t know if the men with him could resist a temptation like that.

A burly man named Sherwood came over to Fairfax and held out the jug he carried. “Want a snort, Boss?” he asked.

Fairfax detected a faintly mocking tone in Sherwood’s voice. Sherwood was his second in command, and even though he referred to Fairfax as “Boss,” Fairfax knew the man didn’t really respect him. Sherwood’s real boss was Shad Beaumont. Fairfax had been put in charge of the expedition because he knew the country and knew Preacher, but he was also smaller and weaker than the men who accompanied him. The only thing that really mattered to such men was power, either personal strength or the power that wealth and influence gave a man, as in the case of Shad Beaumont.

Fairfax shook his head in answer to Sherwood’s question. “No, and I don’t want the men getting drunk either,” he snapped. “A man whose brain is muddled by whiskey stands a good chance of getting killed out here.”

“Nobody’s gonna mess with us, Boss,” Sherwood insisted. “There are too many of us, and we got too many guns.”

Fairfax had been thinking just about the same thing, but he didn’t like hearing the arrogance in Sherwood’s voice as it was put into words. Arrogance led to overconfidence, and overconfidence led to death. Fairfax wasn’t going to make that same mistake again.

“Just tell them what I said,” he told Sherwood.

The man shrugged. “You’re the boss.”

Fairfax waved Sherwood away, then looked into the fire again and grimaced. He knew that staring into the flames ruined a man’s night vision, but he didn’t care about that. With so many hardened, well-armed men around him, he didn’t think he was in any danger right now.

And as he looked into the fire, he seemed to see a lean, bearded face there, a face that he despised.

“You’re going to burn in Hell, Preacher,” he whispered. “You have my word on that.”

With three dead men who couldn’t tell him what he wanted to know, no trail to follow, and no supplies other than what he had in his saddlebags, Preacher decided to ride back to the trading post. Everybody there would be surprised to see him again so soon, but he needed to pick up more provisions. Luckily, he had some money left over from what Corliss Hart had paid him for his pelts.

Preacher didn’t bother taking the bodies with him this time. He was sure that it would be like before. Nobody at the trading post would recognize the dead men. And since the drunken idiots had killed each other, he didn’t feel any responsibility for burying them. He left them for the scavengers. That was one thing about the mountains. When a few months had passed, nobody would even know that the murderous bastards had ever been here.

He started back to the trading post in the morning leading the three dead men’s horses. It was around the middle of the day when he reached the pass. The avalanche had blocked part of the trail, but not all of it, so Preacher was able to ride through it without any trouble. He didn’t see any sign of the unlucky packhorse. The animal was completely buried under the rocks.

When he reached the other side, he was able to look down into the valley far below and see the buildings of the settlement. To his surprise, he saw a row of white dots lined up outside the stockade wall. After a moment, he realized that they were actually the canvas covers over the backs of the wagons in a wagon train. He hadn’t heard anything about a train coming in, but there it was. He counted fourteen wagons.

Preacher’s lips tightened under the drooping mustache. That many more people crowdin’ in, takin’ up space, breathin’ the air…

“Take it easy, old son,” he told himself. He might not like the influx of new settlers, but there wasn’t a blasted thing he could do about it. He lifted the reins and heeled Horse into motion.

From the top of the pass it took him a little over an hour to make his way down to the valley floor. As he rode across the grassy plain toward the settlement, the covered wagons grew larger. He began to be able to make out details, like the people moving around the vehicles.

He wondered if they planned to stay here or if they were bound for someplace farther west. So far as Preacher knew, the Harts’ trading post was the last outpost of civilization, but he was sure it wouldn’t stay that way. There was always somebody who wanted to go farther, to extend the boundaries. There would never be any progress without folks like that. Somebody always had to be the first…

“Now I’m really surprised to see you again so soon,” Corliss Hart greeted him from the front porch of the trading post as Preacher reined in a short time later. “You just left yesterday, Preacher.” Corliss’s eyes narrowed as he realized something. “Where’s your packhorse and where did those other horses come from?”

“Lost the packhorse,” Preacher said as he swung down from the saddle. “You hear a rumblin’ noise yesterday mornin’ a while after I left?”

“Now that you mention it, I think I did. What happened?”

Preacher looped Horse’s reins around the hitch rail, tied the other horses leads, and told Dog, “Stay.” He stepped up onto the porch, into the shade of the awning, and pointed toward South Pass. “Avalanche.”

“In the pass? My God, are you all right?”

“The three o’ us managed to stay out of its way. The packhorse wasn’t so lucky. Lost him and all my supplies.”

“That’s terrible. No wonder you came back.” Corliss shook his head. “You’ve had so much bad luck, it almost seems like someone is out to get you, Preacher.”

Preacher nodded. “They are.”

Corliss stared at him and asked, “What do you mean?”

“Three men started that avalanche on purpose. They were tryin’ to kill me, just like the two the day before.”

“But…but…” Corliss struggled to understand. “Did you know any of them?”

Preacher shook his head. “Also like the day before. The varmints were strangers to me. I didn’t bring their bodies back with me this time. Didn’t seem like there was any point to it.”

“You, uh, killed them? Not that I blame you—”

“Matter of fact,” Preacher said, “they got in an argument and killed each other. I was just about to step into their camp and start askin’ them some questions, too.”

“Like why they were after you?”

“Yep.” Preacher nodded toward the door of the trading post. “Reckon I need to buy some more supplies. Hope you’d trade some more provisions for two of the horses. I’ll need one to replace the packhorse.”

“I’ll be happy to trade with you, Preacher, you know that. I’d give you the supplies even without the trade. You’ve done so much to help us…”

Preacher said dryly, “Jerome might not take kindly to you givin’ away the tradin’ post’s stock. Anyway, let’s see how much the two horses will buy me.”

Before he could go on, someone stepped out of the store and said, “Excuse me, Mr. Hart, I was wondering—Oh, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Preacher turned his head to look at the newcomer, and for a moment his breath seemed to stick in his throat. Even though he liked pretty girls as much as the next fella, normally the sight of one didn’t affect him so strongly.

However, this wasn’t just any pretty girl standing in the door of the Harts’ trading post.

This was the most beautiful woman Preacher had seen in a long, long time…maybe ever.