Preacher and the Mountain Caesar

by William W. Johnstone

  It had a round part with holes in it that revolved when its owner pulled back on the spur at the rear. Beyond the extended hand and arm, a powder-begrimed face grinned at him.

  “The Mezkins has got a sayin’, feller,” Preacher told him. “It’s addyose.”

  And the centurion learned one final fascinating fact about the strange weapon. Flame spat from its mouth a moment before excruciating agony and utter blackness washed over him and the back of his head flew off. He never heard the bang. Preacher checked on his companions and found them otherwise occupied, each engaging four guards who had rushed into the treasury room at the sound of the Walker Colt. Grinning now, Preacher turned to Marcus Quintus.

  “Looks like you’re mine,” he declared. “Reckon that’s sort of fittin’, you bein’ the bull elk of this place.”

  “Quite fitting indeed. You really are Preacher, aren’t you?”

  “Yep. That’s what folks call me.”

  “Then prepare to die like a man.”

  To the utter surprise of Quintus, Preacher threw back his head and laughed. “I don’t allow as how it’s gonna be me does the dyin’,” he brayed.

  Quintus snatched up his gladius from the table where he had laid it and charged Preacher. The mountain man held his ground until the distance between them closed to ten feet. Then he raised his arm and squeezed the trigger of his .44 Colt.

  Nothing happened. Only a loud click. In the heat and speed of battle, Preacher had forgotten to count the number of rounds he had fired since last reloading. He jumped aside as Quintus made a mighty swing with his sword, and drew his second Colt. The heft of it in his hand told him that it, too, had been fired dry. Quintus came on, and Preacher nimbly jumped over a table, putting it between himself and the Roman tyrant.

  “That will not do you any good,” Quintus spoke in precise English.

  It gave Preacher time to draw his tomahawk. Over the years, the old war hawk had stood him well. He hoped it would again. Quintus lunged over the small table. Preacher batted the leaf-shaped blade of the gladius away with the iron head of his war axe. Quintus developed an expression of surprised appreciation. A truly worthy opponent. He maneuvered to get past the barrier that kept him at a disadvantage.

  Preacher countered it. A sharp scream punctuated by a gurgling gasp told of another legionnaire on his way to his Maker. Preacher did not break his concentration as Quintus reached a low commode beside a desk. His left hand darted out and snatched up the bowl of pine nuts resting there. With a bellow intended to freeze his opponent, he hurled the confection at Preacher. Quintus followed it.

  A spray of roasted pine nuts hit Preacher in the face. The sthe tabletop and execute a horizontal slash with his gladius that cut through the buckskin shirt and opened a fairly deep line across Preacher’s pectoral muscles. Blood flowed in a curtain. Quintus had little time to savor his brief victory.

  Ignoring the pain and accompanying weakness, Preacher swung his tomahawk, and the keen edge bit into flesh in Quintus’ left shoulder. The Roman grunted and staggered precariously close to the edge of the table. In the last moments, he righted himself and leaped to the larger counter where the gold reserves had rested earlier. Fire throbbed in his deltoid muscle as the blade of the war hawk tore free. Quintus made another pass at Preacher as he gained the storage shelf.

  Preacher batted the gladius aside with the flat of the ’hawk and did a fast, two-step shuffle forward. When Quintus brought his arm up for an overhand stroke, Preacher aimed for the Roman’s exposed knee. The tomahawk bit deeply, with a loud plock! that turned heads in other parts of the room. Face squinched in overwhelming pain and mouth open in a soundless howl, Quintus dropped to his good knee. With a kneecap split, his gladius became as useless as his other leg.

  He abandoned it for the double-edged dagger on the belt at his waist as Preacher came at him again. Bright steel flashed in the air, and Quintus made a fortunate cut on the right forearm of his opponent. Preacher was forced to drop his tomahawk as blood streamed from a severed vein. Only then did Quintus remember the small .50 caliber coach pistol he had concealed in the folds of his battle cloak. He reached for it eagerly.

  “Preacher, here,” Philadelphia Braddock shouted when the deadly little pistol appeared in Quintus’ hand.

  Preacher caught the double-barreled pistol Philadelphia had tossed left-handed and fired it the same way.

  “No!” Quintus shouted in useless denial as first one, then a second .60 caliber ball smashed into his body. His eyes went wide as they sought to capture some of the fading light in the room. His body would no longer obey his commands. Slowly he sagged down, his death rattle loud in the silence.

  A sudden disturbance at one entranceway drew the attention of the mountain men from the dying man. “Father!” young Quintus Faustus shrieked as he dashed through the archway, a dagger held high.

  He hurled himself at Preacher, intent on burying the slim blade in the man’s heart. Seemingly from nowhere, little Terry Tucker darted into the room at an oblique angle to Preacher and flung himself between the man and the Roman boy.

  His exposed chest took the full brunt of the blow aimed by Faustus, though not before he triggered a round from a small pistol he held. The ball blew the brains out of Quintus Faustus before Terry collapsed into the arms of the man he admired above all others.

  “I—I got him, didn’t I?” Terry gasped. Then, at Preacher’s wooden nod, he slumped into unconsciousness.

  Blood dripped from his fingertips as Preacher gently brushed the hair from Terry’s face as he cradled the lad in his arm. “Awh, Terry, Terry-boy, didn’t I tell you to stay clear of the fightin’? But you saved my life, certain sure. Today . . .” The words would not come. Preacher swallowed hard. “Today you became a real man. One I’d be proud to call friend. Go with God, Terry Tucker.”

  Terry must have heard him, for a small smile froze on his peaceful face as he quietly died.

  Preacher took a deep breath and allowed himself no further time to grieve for the boy who had saved him. He brushed a knuckle at the moisture that stole stealthily from his eyes, cleared his throat, and came to his boots.

  “What now, Preacher?” asked Philadelphia, reluctant to intrude on the mountain man’s sorrow.

  “I’d be obliged if you would bind this arm and my chest, Philadelphia. An’ you, Buck, round up the rest. Tell them to clean up this abomination, pull down the buildings, and burn everything. Free any slaves, and any who want can he’p them down to Bent’s Fort and a chance to return to a normal life.”

  “What about you, Preacher?” Philadelphia and Buck asked together.

  “Me? Why, I’m off for my winter home. Got myself a nice, blond bed warmer a-waitin’.”

  “What?” a startled Philadelphia demanded. “You mean that frisky young gal what took up arms and fought her way out of the arena with us?”

  Preacher sighed through a spreading grin. “Yeah, that’s right. The once-upon-a-time Bible-thumper.”

  TURN THE PAGE FOR AN EXCITING PREVIEW!

  USA Today and New York Times Bestselling Authors

  WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE

  with J. A. Johnstone

  THE GREATEST WESTERN WRITERS

  OF THE 21ST CENTURY

  The Kerrigans risked everything to stake a claim under

  a big Texas sky. Now one brave woman is fighting

  to keep that home, against hard weather, harder luck,

  and the West’s most dangerous men.

  A RANCH DIVIDED . . .

  After a long hard journey up the Chisholm Trail, Kate

  Kerrigan is in Dodge City, facing a mystery of murder.

  A cowboy she hired, a man with a notorious past, has

  been accused of killing a prostitute and sentenced to

  hang. Kate still trusts Hank Lowry. And when a hired

  killer comes after her, she knows she has struck a nerve.

  Someone has framed Hank for murder—in order to

  cover up a
more sinister and deadly crime spawned in

  the musty backrooms of the Kansas boomtown . . .

  Back in West Texas, the Kerrigan ranch is under siege.

  A wagon train full of gravely ill travelers has come onto

  the parched Kerrigan range, being led by a man on

  a secret mission. With Kate’s son Quinn manning the

  home front, one wrong step could be fatal when

  the shooting suddenly starts . . .

  The Kerrigans, A Texas Dynasty

  JOURNEY INTO VIOLENCE

  Coming in August 2016,

  wherever Pinnacle Books are sold.

  Chapter One

  “She ran me off her property, darned redheaded Irish witch.” Ezra Raven stared hard at his segundo, a tall lean man with ice in his eyes named Poke Hylle. “I want that Kerrigan land, Poke. I want every last blade of grass. You understand?”

  “I know what you want, boss,” Hylle said. He studied the amber whiskey in his glass as though it had become the most interesting thing in the room. “But wantin’ and gettin’ are two different things.”

  “You scared of Frank Cobb, that hardcase segundo of hers? I’ve heard a lot of men are.”

  “Should I be scared of him?” Hylle asked.

  “He’s a gun from way back. Mighty sudden on the draw and shoot.”

  Hylle’s grin was slow and easy, a man relaxed. “Yeah he scares me. But that don’t mean I’m afraid to brace him.”

  “You can shade him. You’re good with a gun your own self, Poke, maybe the best I’ve ever known,” Raven said. “Hell, you gunned Bingley Abbott that time. He was the Wichita draw fighter all the folks were talking about.”

  “Bing was fast, but he wasn’t a patch on Frank Cobb,” Hylle said. “Now that’s a natural fact.”

  “All right, then, forget Cobb for now. There’s got to be a better way than an all-out range war.” Raven stepped to the ranch house window and stared out at the cloud of drifting dust where the hands were branding calves. “I offered Kate Kerrigan twice what her ranch is worth, but she turned me down flat. How do you deal with a woman like that?”

  “Carefully.” Hylle smiled. “I’m told she bites.”

  “Like a cougar. Shoved a scattergun into my face and told me to git. Me, Ezra Raven, who could buy and sell her and all she owns.” The big man slammed a fist into his open palm. “Damn, I need that land. I want to be big, Poke, the biggest man around. That’s just how I am, how I’ve always been, and I ain’t about to change.”

  The door opened and a tall, slender Pima woman stepped noiselessly across the floor and placed a white pill and a glass of water on Raven’s desk.

  “Damn, is it that time again?”

  “Take,” the woman said. “It is time.” She wore a plain, slim-fitting calico dress that revealed the swell of her breasts and hips. A bright blue ribbon tied back her glossy black hair, and on her left wrist she wore a wide bracelet of hammered silver. She was thirty-five years old. Raven had rescued her from a brothel in Dallas, and he didn’t know her Indian name, if she had one. He called her Dora only because it pleased him to do so.

  Raven picked up the pill and glared at it. “The useless quack says this will help my heart. I think the damned thing is sugar rolled into a ball.”

  Hylle waved an idle hand. “Man’s got to follow the doctor’s orders, boss.”

  Raven shrugged, swallowed the medication with a gulp of water, and handed the glass back to the Pima woman. “Beat it, Dora. White men are talking here.”

  The woman bowed her head and left.

  “Poke, like I said, I don’t want to take on a range war. It’s a messy business. Nine times out of ten the law gets involved and next thing you know, you’re knee-deep in Texas Rangers.”

  Hylle nodded. “Here’s a story you’ll find interesting, boss. I recollect one time in Galveston I heard a mariner talk about how he was first mate on a freighter sailing between Shanghai and Singapore in the South China Sea. Well, sir, during a watch he saw two ironclads get into a shooting scrape. He said both ships were big as islands and they had massive cannons in dozens of gun turrets. Both ships pounded at each other for the best part of three hours. In the end neither ironclad got sunk, but both were torn apart by shells and finally they listed away from each other, each of them trailing smoke. Nobody won that fight, but both ships paid a steep price.” He swallowed the last of his whiskey. “A range war is like that, boss. Ranchers trade gunfire, hired guns and punchers die, but in the end, nobody wins.”

  “And then the law comes in and cleans up what’s left,” Raven said.

  “That’s about the size of it,” Hylle said.

  “I don’t want that kind of fight. Them ironclads could have avoided a battle and sailed away with their colors flying. Firing on each other was a grandstand play and stupid.”

  Hylle rose from his chair, stepped to the decanters, and poured himself another drink. He took his seat again and said, “Boss, maybe there is another way.”

  “Let’s hear it,” Raven said. “But no more about heathen seas and ironclads. Damn it, man, you’re making me seasick.”

  Hylle smiled. “From what I’ve seen of the Kerrigan place it’s a hardscrabble outfit and Kate has to count every dime to keep it going. Am I right about that?”

  “You’re right. The KK Ranch is held together with baling wire and Irish pride. She’s building a house that isn’t much bigger than her cabin. She’s using scrap lumber and the first good wind that comes along will blow it all over creation.” Raven lifted his chin and scratched his stubbly throat. “Yeah, I’d say Kate Kerrigan’s broke or damned near it.”

  “So answer me this, boss. What happens if her herd doesn’t go up the trail next month?”

  A light glittered in Raven’s black eyes. “She’d be ruined.”

  “And eager to sell for any price,” Hylle said.

  Raven thought that through for a few moments then said, “How do we play it, Poke? Remember them damned ironclads of yours that tore one another apart.”

  “No range war. Boss, we do it with masked men—night riders. We scatter the Kerrigan herd, gun a few waddies if we must, but leave no evidence that can be tied to you and the Rafter-R. Stop her roundup and the woman is out of business.” Hylle smiled. “Pity though. She’s real pretty.”

  “So are dollars and cents, Poke. The Kerrigan range represents money in my pocket.” A big, rawboned man, Raven’s rugged face bisected by a great cavalry mustache and chin beard. He lit a cigar and said behind a blue cloud of smoke, “We wait until the branding is done and then we strike at the Kerrigan herds, scatter them to hell and gone before Kate can start the gather. Can we depend on the punchers?”

  Hylle nodded. “They ride for the brand, boss.”

  “Good. A two hundred dollar bonus to every man once the job is done and I own the Kerrigan range.” Raven slapped his hands together. “Do you think it can work?”

  “No question about that. No cattle drive to Dodge, no money for the KK.”

  “Hell, now I feel better about things, Poke. It’s like you’re a preacher and I just seen the light. How about another drink?”

  Hylle grinned. “Don’t mind if I do, boss. We’ll drink to the ruin of the KK and the end of pretty Mrs. Kerrigan’s stay in West Texas.”

  Chapter Two

  Kate Kerrigan stood on her hearthstone and watched the rider. He was still a distance off and held his horse to a walk. The weight of the Remington .41 revolver in the pocket of her dress gave her a measure of reassurance. The little rimfire was a belly gun to be sure, but effective if she could get close enough.

  That Kate could stand on her hearthstone and see the man at a distance was not surprising since her new home was still only a frame and a somewhat rickety one at that. She’d scolded the construction foreman, but Black Barrie Delaney, captain of the brig Octopus, had assured her that he had inspected the work and the basic structure was sound. As she often did, Kate recalled their last
conversation with distaste.

  * * *

  “I did not bring, all the way from Connemara mind you, a slab of green marble for your hearthstone, Kate, only to have your new house fall about your ears.” Delaney wore a blue coat with brass buttons. Thrust into the red sash around his waist were two revolvers of the largest kind and a murderous bowie knife.

  “Barrie Delaney, I’ll never know why I let a pirate rogue like you talk me into building my house,” Kate said. “Why, ’tis well-known that you should have been hanged at Execution Dock in London town years ago.”

  “Ah, Her Majesty Queen Victoria’s mercy knows no bounds and she saw fit to spare a poor Irish sailorman like me.”

  “More fool her,” Kate said. “You’ve sent many a lively lad to Davy Jones’s locker and a goodly woman or two if the truth be known. Well, here’s a word to the wise, Barrie Delaney, fix this house to my liking or I’ll hang you myself or my name is not Kate Kerrigan.”

  Delaney, a stocky man with a brown beard and quick black eyes full of deviltry that reflected the countless mortal sins he’d committed in his fifty-eight years of life, gave a little bow. “Kate, I swear on my sainted mother’s grave that I will build you a fine house, a dwelling fit for an Irish princess.”

  “Fit for me and my family will be quite good enough,” Kate said.

  * * *

  Kate shook her head at the memory. As she watched the rider draw closer, she pushed on the support stud next to her. It seemed that the whole structure swayed and she made a mental note to hang Black Barrie Delaney at the first convenient opportunity.

  Kate’s daughters Ivy and Shannon, growing like weeds, stepped out of the cabin, butterfly nets in hand, and she ordered them back inside.