Читать книгу Preacher's Fury - William W. Johnstone - Страница 6

Audie stopped short and stood very still as he looked at the man who had spoken to him. The man was tall and rawboned, with a lantern-jawed face and long, dark brown hair that fell lank and greasy down the back of his neck. He wore a broad-brimmed black hat, a linsey-woolsey shirt, a patched and faded frock coat, and whipcord trousers tucked into tall black boots. The butt of a pistol jutted out from where it was tucked behind his belt on the left side.

Five other men were at the table where the man had been sitting. Some were in buckskins, some in town clothes that had seen better days. But they were all armed and all looked tough and ornery.

Audie finally said, “Were you speaking to me, sir?”

“You’re the only damn sawed-off runt in this place, ain’t you?” the man said. “Shoot, don’t take offense, Little Bit. I liked your poem. I wanta hear the rest of it.”

“I’m glad you have an appreciation for the finer things in life, sir. Unfortunately, that doesn’t negate the fact that you’re an ass.”

The man frowned in surprise and anger and said, “What’d you call me?”

Preacher glanced into the corner at Nighthawk. The Crow hadn’t moved and still appeared to be half-asleep, but Preacher saw how Nighthawk’s eyes were slitted in close observation of what was going on. If trouble broke out, Nighthawk was ready to move.

And trouble seemed inevitable, because Audie said, “I called you an ass, but I’m sorry for that.”

The man grunted in satisfaction and said, “Oh, you are, are you?”

“That’s right. I inadvertently insulted all the honest, hard-working asses in the world by comparing them to a sorry pile of dung such as yourself.”

The man’s eyes widened in rage, but before he could do anything, Audie sprang forward and drove a punch into his belly, burying his small but rock-hard fist almost to the wrist.

Audie was short in stature, but his arms and shoulders were better developed than those of many normal-sized men. The blow he landed was so powerful that it caused the man to double over, and that brought his hair within Audie’s reach.

Audie grabbed the dangling strands with both hands and jerked down. At the same time, he brought his knee up. Knee met chin with a loud crack. The man fell to his knees, half-stunned.

That put him at the perfect height for the hay-maker that Audie uncorked on him. The man pitched to the side, out cold.

The whole thing had taken only a few heartbeats. It all happened so fast, in fact, that the unconscious man’s companions were left sitting at the table trying to figure out what had happened.

But as soon as they had, a couple of seconds later, benches were shoved back, the men sprang to their feet, and one of them yelled, “Get that little varmint!”

Preacher glanced at Lorenzo.

“You game to take a hand in this?”

“You know I am!” Lorenzo said.

They stepped up, flanking Audie, as the five men rushed to the attack. At the other end of the room, Blind Pete yelled from behind the trading post counter, “You break anything, you bought it, ja!”

The five ruffians had forgotten about Nighthawk. The big warrior came swooping out of the corner like his namesake, throwing aside the blanket in which he’d been wrapped so that it fluttered behind him like wings. He caught two of the men by the neck and banged their heads together. They collapsed limply, out of the battle before it had truly begun.

That meant Preacher, Lorenzo, and Audie were no longer outnumbered. They took on their opponents evenly now. Lorenzo was spry for his age, and Audie had already demonstrated that he could hold his own in a fight. They waded into two of the men, punching and gouging.

Preacher blocked a punch from the other man, who was shorter than the mountain man but seemingly as broad and sturdy as a redwood’s trunk. Preacher hammered a fist to the man’s belly, but it was like hitting a wall.

He couldn’t completely avoid the blow the man hooked at his head. It grazed his jaw with enough force to jerk Preacher’s head around. He caught himself and shot a jab into the man’s face. The blow landed cleanly but barely made his head rock back.

No, not redwood, Preacher thought. The son of a gun was made of granite.

The man’s fist thudded into Preacher’s chest and knocked him back a step. While Preacher was a little off balance, the man tackled him, coming in low and catching him around the waist. Preacher suddenly found himself going backward with his feet off the floor.

The two men crashed into a pile of crates and knocked them over. They sprawled on the floor as Pete yelled, “Hey, be careful, damn it!”

Preacher was on the bottom. Sensing that his opponent was about to try to drive a knee into his groin, he twisted his body and took the vicious blow on his thigh instead. He hammered his right fist into the man’s left ear.

That didn’t seem to do much damage, either. Preacher jerked his head aside as a blocky fist came at his face. The punch missed completely, so the man wound up hitting the floor instead. For the first time, he grunted in pain.

Preacher grabbed the front of the man’s buckskin shirt and hauled hard on it, throwing the man to the side. Preacher rolled after him and hit the man in the belly again three times fast, his arm drawing back and striking like a piston in its cylinder. He was finally doing some damage to the varmint, Preacher thought.

The next second, the man drew up a foot, planted it in Preacher’s belly, and levered the mountain man up and over him. Preacher let out a yell as he found himself flying through the air.

The flight didn’t last long. He landed on top of a barrel. The impact drove the air from his lungs and left him gasping for breath.

His stocky opponent was already up. He grabbed the back of Preacher’s shirt and slung him into some shelves, drawing another angry shout from Blind Pete. The German’s policy was to stay out of any brawls that broke out in his place, but he might take a hand in this fight since it was threatening his merchandise.

Preacher caught himself against the shelves before he fell again. The man he was battling might not look all that impressive physically, but he was tough as whang leather and obviously an experienced, brutal brawler.

A little too confident, though. He seemed to think Preacher was just about done, so he rushed in to finish off the mountain man.

Preacher met him with a hard, straight right that landed square on his nose and pulped it. Blood spurted over Preacher’s knobby knuckles. The man reeled back as a crimson stream flowed from his ruined nose.

Preacher kicked him in the belly and then planted another savage blow on the varmint’s beezer. This fella wasn’t the only one who could fight hard and mean. Preacher let him have a left and then a right, lambasting him and driving him backward. The mountain man didn’t ease off now that he had seized the advantage, either. He followed, slugging hard and swift with both fists.

The man crumpled. He might be made of granite, but he had finally been worn down by Preacher’s iron fists.

As the man lay there bleeding on the floor, the breath rasping and wheezing through his swollen and misshapen nose, Preacher swung around. He had been too busy to keep up with how Lorenzo and Audie were doing against their opponents. He hoped his friends were all right.

They were more than all right, Preacher saw. They had emerged from the battle triumphant. Audie, in fact, was standing with one foot on the chest of an unconscious man, dusting his hands off against each other in obvious satisfaction.

A few feet away, Lorenzo leaned against a table and grinned. His hat had been knocked off and he had a few scrapes on his face, but he seemed to be fine otherwise.

“What a fine display of pugilistic excellence!” Audie said.

“Is he sayin’ we whupped ’em good?” Lorenzo asked.

Nighthawk stood nearby with arms folded. He nodded and said gravely, “Ummm.”

Preacher had lost his hat during the fight. He looked around, saw it lying on the floor, and picked it up. The broad-brimmed, brown felt headgear was pretty shapeless to start with, but it was even more crumpled now because it looked like it had been stepped on a few times. Preacher punched it back to the way it was supposed to be and settled it on his head.

Pete stalked out from behind the counter and came along the aisle toward them. He stopped, planted his fists on his hips, and said, “Somebody will have to pay for these damages, ja?”

Preacher swept a hand toward the unconscious men.

“They started it. I reckon you can check their pockets.”

Pete jerked his shelf-like jaw at the man Preacher had knocked out and asked, “Do you know who that is?”

“Nope, and I don’t care.”

“His name is Willie Deaver. That one is Caleb Manning.” Pete pointed at the long-haired man Audie had knocked out to start the ruckus. “I do not know the names of the other men, but they are the same sort as Deaver and Manning. Bad men. You would be wise to leave before they wake up, Preacher.”

The mountain man bristled.

“I ain’t in the habit of runnin’ away from trouble. Fact is, the last thing I run away from was my folks’ farm, and that was a hell of a long time ago.”

“You would not be fleeing,” Pete said. “You would be saving my place from even more damage.”

Preacher shrugged.

“Fine. Lorenzo and me didn’t plan to stay the night here, anyway. We just wanted to pick up some supplies.”

“I will give you a good price if you tell me what you need, so you can load them up and leave.”

Preacher looked at Audie and Nighthawk.

“What about you fellas? Are we all ridin’ together and headin’ for Bent Leg’s village?”

“That strikes me as a more than agreeable course of action,” Audie said. Nighthawk just nodded.

“All right, Pete,” Preacher said. “We need flour, salt, dried apples, beans, maybe a little coffee and molasses if you got it, and some salt jowl.”

Pete nodded and said, “I will put everything in a bag.”

“We’ll go saddle our horses,” Audie said. “Come on, Nighthawk.”

Ten minutes later, the four men were ready to ride out. Preacher had settled up with Pete for the supplies.

“Much obliged,” Preacher said after he’d swung up into the saddle on Horse’s back. “Too bad about the trouble.”

Pete waved that off as he stood on the trading post’s porch. He glanced back over his shoulder. Deaver, Manning, and the other three men were still out cold, but they would probably be coming around soon.

“Men like that, trouble always follows them,” he said. “You should watch your back, Preacher.”

“I always do,” Preacher said with a smile. He lifted a hand. “So long, Pete.”

“Guten tag, mein freund,” Audie called.

“You talk that Dutch lingo?” Lorenzo asked as they rode toward the gate.

“Ein bischen,” Audie answered.

“No, I ain’t bitchin’,” Lorenzo said with a frown. “I don’t care what you talk.”

“Nein, nein.”

“Ten,” Lorenzo said. “That’s what comes next. What’re we countin’, anyway?”

“You might as well give up,” Preacher told him. “He’ll pick at you all day if you let him.” He turned in the saddle and let out a piercing whistle. Dog came running from somewhere in the compound. “Sorry if you didn’t get to do as much visitin’ as you’d like,” Preacher told the big cur. “But we got places to go.”

They rode out of the stockade, putting the trading post behind them and heading north toward a range of snow-capped mountains. A cool breeze blew in Preacher’s face. It smelled good.