Читать книгу Preacher's Fury - William W. Johnstone - Страница 12

More than a week had passed since the trouble at Blind Pete’s Place. During that time, an ice storm had forced the five men to hole up for a couple of miserable days, but then they had been able to ride on, heading north toward the Canadian border.

Willie Deaver was pretty sure they had passed the border by now and were actually in Canada. The men they were supposed to meet ought to be waiting for them somewhere close by.

Unless St. John and his people had grown impatient and left. Deaver wasn’t going to be happy if that happened.

So it was with a sense of relief that he spotted a thread of smoke curling into the sky up ahead as he and his men rode along a twisting hogback ridge. That was the signal he’d been looking for during the past two days.

Deaver pointed out the smoke to Caleb Manning and said, “That’s got to be them.”

“Or else it’s comin’ from some fur trapper’s cabin,” Manning said.

Deaver shrugged.

“We’ll be able to tell when we get there.”

They followed the smoke and soon descended from the ridge, entering a small valley where a cold wind whipped down from the north. Deaver led the way with Manning riding behind him.

Bringing up the rear were Cy Plunkett, Darwin Heath, and Fred Jordan. Plunkett was a rotund little Englishman who was much tougher than he looked. Heath was thin and dark, with a narrow face deeply pocked by the childhood illness that had almost killed him. Jordan was a big, blond man who was always grinning, no matter what sort of terrible thing he was doing at the time.

All five men had come West several years earlier to make their fortunes as fur trappers. Like plenty of others, they had discovered pretty quickly that the only people getting rich off the fur business were the traders and the business owners back East who made hats and coats from those furs. The trappers, the men who carried out the hard, dangerous jobs and did the actual work that made the whole industry possible, always got paid the least.

The five of them, who hadn’t known each other starting out, gradually had drifted together and decided that they would be better off taking the spoils of somebody else’s labor rather than grubbing for themselves.

Since then they had robbed and killed parties of trappers smaller than themselves, raided a couple of wagon trains, and looted a few trading posts. They had cleaned out all the money and gold in Blind Pete’s Place before setting it on fire.

But that had been an opportunity that presented itself, so Deaver and the others had taken it. They had other plans that would allow them to leave their hand-to-mouth existence behind. They were going to be rich men.

Of course, some people would have to die in order for that to happen, but Deaver didn’t care about that.

Plunkett, being an Englishman, was the one who’d put them in contact with Odell St. John, a fellow Britisher, during one of the gang’s periodic trips back to St. Louis. Deaver wasn’t sure exactly what St. John’s game was—maybe he was just out to make some fast money, or maybe he was working for the British government—but again, Deaver didn’t care. The payoff was all that mattered.

Deaver and his men rode through a thick stand of trees, and when they emerged from the woods they saw a camp beside a small stream. Half a dozen tents were pitched not far from the creek, and the smoke rose from a little crackling fire nearby. Some saddle mounts were penned in a rope corral, along with several large, heavily-built pack animals. A number of crates were stacked on the ground beside the tents and covered with a large piece of canvas. The ends of the crates peeked out so that Deaver could tell what they were.

Most of the men in the camp wore buckskins or homespun work shirts and corduroy trousers, like Deaver and his companions. One individual, though, stood out from the others. He wore a dark suit, including a swallowtail coat, high-topped black boots, a white shirt, and a cravat. He was bareheaded as he strode forward to meet Deaver. The wind ruffled his brown hair, which matched his close-cropped beard.

“Mr. Deaver!” the man said. “How utterly splendid to see you again!”

Deaver grunted and said, “Yeah.” Cy Plunkett sounded like an Englishman and that had never bothered Deaver. Something about Odell St. John’s oily accent rubbed him the wrong way, though.

“You’re late.”

Deaver motioned for his men to dismount. He swung down from the saddle before saying, “Ice storm caught us a few days ago. It wasn’t safe to travel until the ice melted off.”

“I understand. We’ve had a bit of inclement weather up here as well. I told the men that was probably what delayed you.” St. John rubbed his hands together. “But you’re here now, eh, and ready to do business?”

“That’s right. If we’re satisfied with the quality of the goods you brought with you.”

“Oh, you will be,” Deaver promised. “There’ll be plenty of time for you to examine the merchandise. First, though, how about a drink?”

“That sounds mighty good to me,” Manning put in. “It’s been a long, thirsty ride.”

Deaver frowned. The ride hadn’t been all that thirsty. They had taken several jugs of whiskey from Blind Pete’s, too.

He didn’t like Manning butting in like that, either. He made the important decisions in this bunch, by God!

But the men were all licking their lips, and Deaver was a canny enough leader to know that he might be facing a mutiny if he told them to forget about the whiskey. And Caleb Manning was a good man to have on your side, second in viciousness only to Deaver himself, so he’d cut Manning some slack … this time.

St. John was looking at him, one dark eyebrow arched quizzically. Deaver jerked his head in a curt nod and said, “Sure. A drink will be fine.”

“Excellent!” St. John turned and called to one of the other men, “Brutus, bring the jug!”

They all gathered around the fire to pass the jug from man to man. St. John counted and then said, “I see there are thirteen of us here, all told. A somewhat less righteous band of apostles than the original, eh?”

Deaver took the jug from Manning, tilted it to his mouth, and downed a slug of the fiery corn liquor. He passed it along to Plunkett and wiped the back of his left hand across his mouth.

“I don’t know about callin’ us apostles,” he said. “They weren’t rich, from what I remember of my ma readin’ to me from the Good Book a long, long time ago, and I intend to be a rich man.”

“The prospect of passing a camel through the eye of a needle doesn’t trouble you, eh?”

“Not one damn bit,” Deaver said, “and it probably wouldn’t even if I knew what in blazes you were talking about.”

That brought a laugh from St. John. The jug went around the circle again, and then the Englishman said, “Very well, down to business.”

He led the way to the stack of crates and threw back the canvas so that one of the long wooden boxes was revealed. With a snap of his fingers and a sharp “Brutus!”, St. John had the man who was evidently his lieutenant use a heavy-bladed knife to pry up the lid nailed onto the crate.

A number of long, oilcloth-wrapped shapes lay in the box. Brutus picked up one of them and unwrapped it, revealing a long-barreled flintlock rifle. All the brasswork on the weapon gleamed with newness.

St. John took the rifle from Brutus and passed it to Deaver, saying, “The finest rifle of its kind to be found anywhere in the world, my friend. Direct from the factory in England to this backwoods Eden.”

Deaver examined the flintlock closely. Its mechanism appeared to be in perfect working order. It might have never been fired.

“How’d you get your hands on ’em?” he asked.

“I don’t believe that information was included in our arrangement.” St. John gave an eloquent shrug. “However, I don’t mind saying that there are always means by which to make certain a shipment of goods goes astray and never arrives at its intended destination. In this case, that destination would be a British army garrison in Ontario. A little bribery, the judicious use of blackmail … arrangements can be made, you understand.”

“Sure,” Deaver said with a nod. He handed the rifle to Manning. “What do you think, Caleb?”

Manning looked the flintlock over.

“Mighty fine weapon,” he declared. “Does it shoot true?”

“See for yourself,” St. John invited. “You’re welcome to load and fire it.”

Manning looked at Deaver, who thought about it for a second and then nodded. Manning used his own powderhorn and a ball from his shot pouch to charge the rifle.

When it was ready to fire, Manning lifted it to his shoulder. He hesitated, then swung the barrel around swiftly until it was lined on St. John’s chest.

“How about I see just how well it works on a real target?” he asked with a savage grin.

Odell St. John didn’t seem worried.

“If you did, you’d be dead a split-second later yourself,” he said coolly. “Brutus is standing behind you with an axe in his hands. It would be interesting to see how far your head flies after he cleaves it off your shoulders.”

“Stop it, you crazy bastards,” Deaver grated angrily. “Caleb, point that thing somewhere else. St. John, tell your man to back off.”

St. John made a languid motion as Manning lowered the flintlock.

“Sorry,” Manning muttered. “I didn’t mean nothin’ by it. I was just havin’ some sport.”

“Give me that,” Deaver snapped. He took the rifle out of Manning’s hands, turned, and aimed at a tree branch on the other side of the creek. The tree was a good fifty yards from him. He drew in a breath, held it, and squeezed the trigger.

The rifle boomed, and the branch at which Deaver had aimed went flying, cut off cleanly. Deaver squinted as the powdersmoke stung his eyes a little.

He gave the rifle back to St. John and said, “It shoots true, all right. And the rest are all the same?”

“One hundred rifles, brand-new, just as we agreed six months ago in St. Louis,” the Englishman said. “And here’s the really intriguing bit … I can lay my hands on more of them, if you like. As many as you want.”

That offer convinced Deaver more than ever that St. John was lying about stealing those rifles. The man was working for the British government. The English had been carrying a real grudge ever since ol’ George Washington and his friends had booted them out more than fifty years earlier.

They had raised hell in the former colonies on numerous occasions since then, sometimes openly, like back in 1812, but often in secret. More than once they had tried to disrupt the fur trapping business and make things hot enough on the frontier that the Americans would pull back.

Deaver figured this was just more of the same. St. John had to know these guns would wind up in the hands of the Indians. That was exactly what the Englishman wanted.

“Well,” St. John went on, “do we have a deal?”

“I want to take a look at every gun,” Deaver said. “You’ve got powder and shot, too?”

St. John looked a little annoyed, but he forced a smile onto his face and nodded.

“Of course. And you’re welcome to examine the merchandise. Actually, I’ve thrown in some extras: two dozen jugs of whiskey for our coppery-hued friends.”

Deaver couldn’t help but chuckle when he thought about how much havoc a bunch of liquored-up redskins with brand-new rifles could wreak. There wouldn’t be a fur trapper between here and halfway to Bent’s Fort who was safe. It could turn into a bloodbath, all right.

But it would put plenty of money in his pockets, or at least it would once he sold all the furs that the Indians would trade him for these guns.

“If everything is the way you say it is, St. John, then yeah, you’ve got a deal.”

The Englishman grinned at him, took the open jug away from one of the other men, and lifted it.

“Then here’s to a long and prosperous partnership, my friend!”