Preacher's Slaughter

by William W. Johnstone

  With great splashes, the paddle wheel at the back of the boat began to turn. Running in reverse, its blades dug into the river and pulled the Sentinel away from the dock. Preacher turned and looked up into the pilot house. Through the open window he saw Captain Warner at the wheel, spinning it and guiding the boat into the middle of the stream.

  When it was well clear of the docks, the whistle blew again and the paddle wheel came to a stop, dripping silvery drops of water from the blades that were above the surface. Slowly, they began to move again, turning the other way now, and the Sentinel eased forward. The vibrations under Preacher’s feet increased a little as the engines pushed the boat ahead against the grip of the river’s current.

  They were on their way, Preacher thought.

  The sound of loud voices talking in a foreign language made him turn his attention back to the cargo deck. He walked along the rail until he could look down at the three men who had unloaded the trunks and bags off the wagon that had followed the carriages to the docks. Preacher was a little surprised to see them. He had figured they were just men Russell or somebody else had hired to bring those things from the hotel where the party had been staying.

  Since the men were still here, though, and since Preacher realized they were talking in German, it was more likely they were servants who worked for Count Stahlmaske.

  And they weren’t just talking in German.

  They were arguing.

  All three of the men were fairly big, but one of them towered over the other two. His shoulders were as wide as an ax handle, and they and his arms bulged with muscles. His head sat on a thick neck and was bald as an egg.

  The argument seemed to be between him and the other two men. Preacher had no idea what it was about, since he couldn’t follow the guttural words being thrown back and forth.

  The big bruiser must have had enough, though. His right arm suddenly lashed out, and the big fist at the end of it cracked against the jaw of the closest man. The fella who’d been hit flew backward with his arms flung out to the sides.

  For a second Preacher thought the man was going to topple off the boat into the river. He caught himself just in time to keep from getting soaked.

  With an angry yell, the third man threw himself at the big bald fella from behind, jumping onto his back and grabbing him around the neck. He began hammering punches to the side of the bald man’s head.

  The bald man reached up and back, took hold of his attacker, and heaved him up and over as he bent forward. Howling in alarm, the man flew through the air and crashed among the trunks that had been brought aboard.

  Preacher felt some admiration for the bald man. Clearly he wasn’t afraid to take on two-to-one odds.

  But then the man swung around to his first foe, slung him to the deck, dropped on top of him with both knees, and began pounding fists into his face.

  If he kept that up for very long, there was a good chance he’d kill the unlucky gent.

  Preacher leaned over the rail and shouted, “Hey! Stop that!”

  The big bald man paused in the beating he was handing out and looked up at Preacher. His face, which reminded Preacher of a lumpy potato, contorted in a snarl as he spat words at the mountain man. Preacher didn’t understand them, of course, but they sounded like cussing to him.

  Then the man went back to smashing his fists into his victim’s face.

  At least this was a simple decision for Preacher to make. He didn’t like being cussed at, and he wasn’t going to stand by while some big bruiser beat a smaller man to death. He said, “Dog, stay,” and headed for the stairs leading down to the lower deck.

  Behind him, Dog growled deep in his throat. The big cur wanted in on the action, too. But he would follow Preacher’s command, as he always did.

  By the time Preacher reached the cargo deck, several members of the riverboat’s crew had come up, drawn by the commotion of battle. They didn’t appear eager to step in, however, even though they were big and muscular enough to have done so. They probably had orders not to interfere with the passengers unless they were endangering the boat somehow.

  Preacher didn’t have to worry about that. He strode up behind the big bald man and raised his voice.

  “I told you to stop that, mister. Get away from that man, now!”

  The bald man rose to his feet and turned slowly, menacingly. He was a good six inches taller than Preacher and probably forty pounds heavier. Up close like this, he was a damn behemoth, Preacher thought.

  An ugly grin split the man’s face. He waved a hand dismissively at Preacher and said, “You damn fool American . . . back off.”

  A moan came from the man lying on the deck with his face bloody and already swollen almost beyond recognition. Preacher nodded toward him and told the bald man, “Leave him alone. You keep hittin’ him like that and you’re liable to kill him.”

  “Jawohl, that is right, I kill him.” The bald man’s voice sounded like rusty nails being shaken in a keg. “He need killing.”

  “What in blazes did he do?”

  “He says Gunther is . . . is . . .” The big man frowned as he searched for the right word. “Stupid!”

  “And you’d be Gunther, I reckon?”

  “Ja.” The man pounded one massive fist into the palm of the other hand. “Gunther Klostermann.”

  “Well, leave him alone, Gunther. You’ve already done enough damage.”

  “I take no orders from you, American. I take orders from Count Stahlmaske.”

  The man on the deck groaned again and rolled onto his side. He tried to get his hands and knees under him so he could crawl away. Gunther twisted toward him and with another of those strangled German curses lifted a foot into the man’s midsection in a savage kick.

  “Damn it,” Preacher said. He sprang forward, grabbed Gunther’s shoulder with his left hand, jerked him around, and crashed his right fist into the Prussian’s mouth.

  Preacher was lean and rawboned, not the sort of hulking bruiser Gunther Klostermann was, but the mountain man packed an incredible amount of strength in his frame. He put as much of that power as he could behind the punch, and it landed cleanly.

  Gunther grunted and went backward a couple of steps, but then he caught himself. Blood oozed from his split lips, but that didn’t stop him from grinning again.

  “Well, hell,” Preacher said.

  Gunther stopped grinning. He bellowed and came at Preacher like an avalanche. Preacher tried to twist out of the way, but Gunther snagged his buckskin shirt and threw him against the structure that housed the boilers and engine room. Preacher hit the wall with tooth-jolting force that took his breath away.

  The clumping of heavy footsteps warned him that Gunther was about to ram him against the wall again. This time Preacher was able to get out of the way so that the bigger man didn’t crush him and probably snap some of his ribs. Gunther was the one who ran into the wall.

  Preacher hit him in the back, then clubbed his hands and smashed them against the back of Gunther’s neck. When Preacher hit a man like that, it usually knocked him out.

  Not in this case. Gunther swung an arm in a backhanded blow that felt like someone had smashed Preacher across the chest with a tree trunk. The mountain man stumbled backward.

  Preacher tripped over the man Gunther had been thrashing earlier and sprawled on the deck. Gunther came after him. Preacher figured the big Prussian might kick and stomp him to death if he got a chance, so he rolled out of the way and swung his leg around.

  The move took Gunther by surprise and swept his legs out from under him. With a crash that seemed to shake the whole boat, Gunther slammed down on the deck. Before he could catch his breath, Preacher landed on top of him, driving a knee into the big man’s belly and throwing a left and a right that rocked Gunther’s head from side of side.

  Gunther seemed groggy now. The back of his head had hit the desk pretty hard when he fell, Preacher knew. Not wanting to waste even a momentary advantage, Preacher hit his foe again an
d again. He didn’t let up for a second.

  He knew that if he gave Gunther any chance to recover, he might not have another opportunity to defeat the giant.

  The boom of a gunshot stayed Preacher’s fists. He heard a ball hum over his head and saw the little splash where it hit the river beside the boat. Preacher froze with his right fist lifted over his head, poised to come crashing down on Gunther’s face again.

  “Stand up and step away from that man or I’ll kill you!”

  Preacher looked back over his shoulder and saw Count Albert Stahlmaske standing at the railing on the passenger deck. The count held two flintlock pistols. A tendril of gray smoke still curled from the muzzle of the weapon in his left hand.

  The gun in his right hand was aimed straight at Preacher’s head, and the mountain man could tell from the cold fury he saw in Stahlmaske’s eyes that the count really wanted to pull the trigger right about now.

  CHAPTER 7

  Simon Russell appeared on the passenger deck, hurrying toward Stahlmaske with his hands outstretched.

  “Please, Count, there’s no need for any gunplay,” Russell implored. “I don’t know what’s going on here, but I’m sure we can sort it out.”

  Stahlmaske didn’t lower the gun he had pointed at Preacher. Without taking his eyes off the mountain man, he said, “That unwashed lout attacked one of my servants.”

  “That ain’t exactly the way it happened, Simon,” Preacher said. “I threw the first punch, true enough, but only to keep this big galoot from beatin’ that other fella to death.”

  Senator Allingham came along the passenger deck, too, evidently summoned from his cabin by the commotion. He looked alarmed when he saw the pistols Stahlmaske was holding.

  “What’s this?” he demanded.

  “Just another demonstration of how most of your fellow Americans are little more than dangerous, uncivilized barbarians, Senator,” Stahlmaske snapped.

  Gunther was starting to look a little less groggy, Preacher noticed. If the giant got his wits about him, he was liable to start the ruckus all over again. Preacher stood up and moved back a step. He didn’t want to be within easy arm’s reach if Gunther decided to act up again.

  “I really reckon it’d be a good idea for you to put that gun away, Count,” he said. “My dog’s startin’ to get a mite peeved about you pointin’ it at me.”

  Stahlmaske glanced along the deck toward the bow, where Dog still waited, obeying Preacher’s order to stay. The big cur wasn’t sitting down peacefully anymore, though. He was on his feet, with the hair on his back standing up and his teeth bared in a snarl. Dog knew when his master was being threatened.

  The count cursed in German and started to swing the pistol toward Dog. Preacher snatched the tomahawk from behind his belt. He thought he could break Stahlmaske’s arm with a well-aimed throw before the count could pull the trigger.

  Neither of those things happened because Simon Russell leaped forward with some of his old speed and agility and put himself in front of Stahlmaske’s gun.

  “Hold your fire!” he said.

  “You dare give orders to me?” Stahlmaske roared, but he didn’t press the trigger.

  Senator Allingham said quickly, “I believe we should allow cooler heads to prevail, gentlemen. I assure you we’ll get to the bottom of this incident and deal with it appropriately, Count.”

  Stahlmaske looked like he didn’t want to agree, but after a long moment he lowered the pistol.

  “Very well,” he said. “But I want that man to stay away from me and my people.”

  He jerked his head in a nod toward Preacher.

  “That ain’t gonna be a problem,” the mountain man said. “I’ll be more than happy to steer clear of that bunch.”

  Stahlmaske glared at him but didn’t say anything else. The count allowed Allingham to lead him away from the railing. The senator was talking and making animated gestures, but Stahlmaske didn’t appear to be listening.

  On the cargo deck, Gunther rolled onto his side and muttered darkly as he struggled to get up. Preacher backed away. If Gunther still wanted to fight, Preacher would oblige him, but the mountain man hoped this fracas was over.

  Unsteadily, Gunther climbed to his feet. Blood still oozed from his lips and trickled down his chin. He pointed a blunt, sausage-like finger at Preacher and said thickly, “We will finish this another time, American.”

  “I’ll be around,” Preacher said, “any time you want to look me up.”

  Gunther turned and tried to swagger off, but he was still a little too shaky to make the arrogant pose convincing. He had to put a hand against the engine room wall for a second to brace himself before he could go on.

  Preacher stuck his tomahawk behind his belt again and went over to the man who’d been the object of Gunther’s wrath. The other servant was already there, kneeling beside his friend and helping him sit up.

  The second man looked up at Preacher and started saying something in German, then at the mountain man’s uncomprehending expression he switched to halting English.

  “Thank you . . . but you should not have . . . with Gunther interfered. He is . . . a very bad man.”

  “I’ve dealt with bad gents before,” Preacher assured him. “Lemme give you a hand with your pard there.”

  He took one of the beaten man’s arms while the second servant got on the other side. Together they lifted him to his feet. He tried to say something, but his jaw was already so bruised and swollen from the pounding Gunther’s fists had given it that he couldn’t get the words out.

  “What’d they fight over, anyway?” Preacher asked the second man.

  “Ludwig here—he is Ludwig and I am Egon—he commented to me that Gunther is a . . . a dummkopf. This is true, but it is not wise to let Gunther hear you say such a thing. Him it angers.”

  Preacher grunted.

  “Yeah, I’d say so.”

  “For a while we stay away from him. Calm down, he will.”

  “I hope you’re right, Egon.”

  Simon Russell had come down the stairs from the passenger deck. He approached the men and told them, “There are a couple of rooms next to the engine room that are being used for servants’ quarters. Got cots in there so that fella can lay down for a while if he needs to.”

  Egon nodded.

  “Danke, Herr Russell. Thank you.”

  As Egon led his friend away, Russell turned to the mountain man, shook his head, and said, “I’m sorry about that, Preacher. We’ve barely steamed away from the dock and already there’s been trouble.”

  “I ain’t sure a little scrap like this qualifies as real trouble,” Preacher replied with a trace of a smile. “At least nobody got hurt too bad.”

  “Yeah, well, I wish it hadn’t happened, anyway.”

  “You did everything you could to keep it from gettin’ worse,” Preacher pointed out. “And it sure as hell would have if that count fella had taken a shot at Dog.”

  Russell looked at Preacher and slowly nodded.

  “You’d have killed him, wouldn’t you?”

  “More than likely.” The mountain man shrugged. “Thanks to you, I didn’t have to.”

  “Thank God it didn’t come to that. If anything happened to the count, there’s no telling how much trouble it would cause between his country and ours. He’s not gonna forget that you stood up to him. He doesn’t like that.”

  “Fair enough. I don’t like him.”

  Russell grinned and said, “I’ve got a jug in my cabin. I know it’s a little early in the day—”

  “Never too early in the day to clear away the cobwebs in a fella’s throat,” Preacher said as he clapped a hand on his old friend’s shoulder.

  A short time later the Sentinel steamed into the mouth of the Missouri River. It would follow this broad stream known as the Big Muddy for hundreds of miles to the mouth of the Yellowstone River, where trappers would congregate to sell their pelts. Preacher knew that word of the riverboat’s arrival would spr
ead with surprising speed through the mountains.

  That day was still a couple of weeks in the future, though, and if today’s events were any indication, those weeks wouldn’t be peaceful ones.

  By evening, things on the boat seemed to have calmed down. The passengers had spent most of the day in their cabins. Preacher had spent his time on deck, not wanting to be cooped up inside four walls when he could be outside in the sun and fresh air.

  He sat on a crate of supplies, smoking a pipe and watching the rolling landscape go by on both sides of the river. Dog sat beside him on the deck, tongue lolling out. The barge loaded with horses floated along behind the boat, attached by heavy ropes.

  This far downriver, the Missouri was wide and deep. It wouldn’t be until they got farther upstream that it would become treacherous, filled with snags that could rip out a boat’s hull and sandbars where a vessel could get stuck.

  As evening approached, Captain Warner turned the boat toward the southern bank where the Sentinel would put in for the night. Even in this more placid section of river, traveling in the dark was just too dangerous.

  Like most river pilots, Warner knew the best places to stop. The boat steamed toward a tree-lined stretch of bank. Not only would the Sentinel tie up here, but the crew could also chop a little wood to replace what had been burned during the day. Farther upriver, trees would be few and far between, so it was good to take on fuel for the burners whenever there was a chance.

  Preacher was standing at the railing watching the shore come closer when Senator Allingham approached him.

  “Hello, Preacher,” the politician said.

  “Senator,” Preacher replied, trying not to sound too curt. He didn’t care for government folks just on general principles, but Allingham seemed to be a likable enough fella.

  “You’ll be dining with us tonight, I hope.”

  Preacher looked over at him and squinted.

  “After what happened this mornin’, I don’t reckon the count would be too happy to have me sittin’ at the same table as him.”