Preacher's Slaughter

by William W. Johnstone

  As Preacher approached, Stahlmaske replaced the saber in a velvet-lined wooden case held by his brother Roderick. The count gestured at the pair of sabers in the case and said to Preacher, “Your choice of weapons, sir.”

  Preacher wasn’t the sort to waste any time overthinking things. He picked up the saber Stahlmaske hadn’t been using, weighed it in his hand to test the balance, and nodded.

  “This’ll do fine,” he said.

  Stahlmaske took the other blade. Roderick closed the case and backed away.

  Preacher took off his hat and tossed it to Simon Russell. He glanced up at the railing along the passenger deck. Gretchen Ritter and her two brothers were there. Heinrich and Hobart looked excited, but Gretchen wore a worried frown.

  So did Senator Allingham, who was also at the rail with his wife and daughter. Sarah looked sullen this morning, thought Preacher. She was probably nursing a grudge against him because he’d rejected her the night before.

  Gerhard announced, “Each man’s second will now examine the opponent’s weapon.”

  Such formality struck Preacher as foolish, but he was willing to go along with it if it would get this foolishness started. He looked at Russell, who sighed and went to look at the count’s saber. Roderick examined the saber Preacher held. After a moment both men nodded and then got out of the way.

  “Very well,” Gerhard said. “This is a test of honor, so you will both fight like gentlemen.” He glanced at the eastern horizon. The sun had appeared, rising into view like a garish orange ball. “The duel will commence.”

  Stahlmaske raised his saber in front of his face in a salute and said, “To the death.”

  Preacher returned the salute but didn’t say anything about killing. He still hoped to avoid that.

  Stahlmaske lunged forward, thrusting with his blade. Preacher parried. Steel rang loudly against steel, and the duel was on.

  CHAPTER 13

  The count was fast. Preacher had to give him credit for that. The saber in Stahlmaske’s hand moved so swiftly it was hard for the eye to follow as it darted and slashed.

  Preacher’s incredible reflexes, honed by years of living a dangerous existence, were all that saved him from being run through or having his throat ripped open. The sound of the blades clashing was almost continuous as Preacher turned aside a flurry of attacks by the count.

  He realized that he was being forced to give ground as he defended himself. Stahlmaske had maneuvered him back almost to the edge of the cargo deck. So far Preacher hadn’t been able to launch an attack of his own. All he had done was counter Stahlmaske’s moves.

  That was no way to win a fight, and Preacher knew it. He had to go on the offensive if he was going to have any chance to win this duel.

  Gradually, Preacher realized that Stahlmaske was following a regular pattern. At that Heidelberg place, whatever it was, the count’s dueling instructors must have taught him a fairly rigid set of moves.

  Audie had told Preacher in the past about how chess masters had certain patterns of attack they followed. Those moves even had names. Preacher figured that dueling must be similar. He watched the count closely.

  Thrust, jab, jab, slash, thrust, jab, slash . . . The pattern was complex, but as Preacher parried each of the moves in turn he began to get a sense of their rhythm. When Stahlmaske got to the end of the sequence, he started over. Knowing what was coming made it easier for Preacher to block the count’s saber—and to start thinking about some moves of his own.

  The possibility that Stahlmaske might be trying to lull him into thinking that occurred to Preacher when it was almost too late. Just as he thought that he needed to be on the lookout for the count changing things up, the blade flashed at him from an unexpected direction.

  Preacher twisted his wrist just in time to catch Stahlmaske’s weapon with the tip of his own blade and send it sliding off to the side. The point burned a line across Preacher’s ribs rather than penetrating his heart.

  One of the women cried out. Preacher didn’t know which one and at the moment didn’t care.

  Stahlmaske stepped back and lifted his saber to proudly display the smear of crimson on the tip. He grinned and boasted, “First blood to me.”

  The shallow cut on Preacher’s side stung, but he was able to ignore the pain. He had ignored plenty worse in his life, like the time he had tangled with a grizzly bear.

  “First blood ain’t as important as last blood,” he said.

  “True,” the count said. He lunged forward again and resumed his attack.

  This time there was nothing predictable about his movements. Preacher knew he had narrowly escaped the trap Stahlmaske had baited for him. His inexperience at this kind of fighting had almost cost him his life.

  But he had a few tricks of his own he could try. The next time Preacher caught the count’s blade on his own and shoved it hard to the side, he took a quick step forward that brought him within reach of Stahlmaske. He balled his left hand into a fist and smashed it against the Prussian’s jaw.

  The blow took Stahlmaske by surprise and knocked him back several steps. From the passenger deck, Roderick shouted, “I say! That’s not fair!”

  Stahlmaske caught himself. His lips twisted in a snarl as he said, “I should have known you could not do battle as a gentleman. You are a savage!”

  “Was that against your fancy rules?” Preacher drawled. “Sorry, I only go by one rule: stay alive.”

  With his face darkening in fury, the count came at him again. Preacher had his hands full just blocking all the thrusts and slashes. Stahlmaske was so angry that for a moment he got careless. He put so much power behind one of his strokes that when he missed, he stumbled a little.

  Preacher had been waiting for that. He moved quickly, using sheer power to batter the count’s blade down. Then as he withdrew, a flick of his wrist sent the tip of his saber raking up Stahlmaske’s forearm.

  Stahlmaske yelled in pain as he sprang back. Blood stained the sleeve of his white shirt.

  “Reckon we’re even now on the blood-drawin’,” Preacher said.

  He didn’t mention that for a split-second, he’d had the opportunity to plunge his blade completely through the count’s body. Stahlmaske had to know that, though. If he was the experienced duelist he claimed to be, he would be aware that he had been wide open.

  “I’m willin’ to call this thing quits,” the mountain man went on. “With blood spilled on both sides, don’t that mean your honor has been satisfied?”

  “Hardly,” Stahlmaske said through clenched teeth. “I said this was a fight to the death, and I meant it!”

  “I don’t want to kill you, Count. Your sword arm’s wounded. Better just let it go.”

  “Never!”

  Stahlmaske tossed his saber from right hand to left and attacked again. Preacher hadn’t expected that at all, even though he had seen men do the same thing during knife fights in the mountains. Not only was he surprised, but having the count’s line of attack change so drastically was disorienting. Preacher had to retreat again as he barely blocked several thrusts.

  He had refrained from killing Stahlmaske once already when he’d had the chance. He didn’t know if he could afford to do that again without putting his own life at too much of a risk. All Stahlmaske needed was an opening, a split-second during which Preacher’s guard was down, and the mountain man would find himself with a foot of cold steel lodged in his body.

  He heard Heinrich and Hobart Ritter shouting encouragement to the count. Oddly enough, neither Gretchen nor Stahlmaske’s own brother were cheering him on. Uncle Gerhard just looked perturbed by the whole affair. Russell, Allingham, and Warner were flat-out worried.

  Margaret and Sarah Allingham watched intently. Excitement shone in the eyes of both women.

  Preacher didn’t really notice any of that at the moment. He was too busy defending himself as Stahlmaske came at him again.

  Preacher was getting the hang of fighting a left-handed man. The next time he
parried one of the count’s strokes, he slid his blade along Stahlmaske’s until the hilts clashed with each other. Preacher knew this might be his only chance, so he relied on sheer strength again and twisted his sword as hard as he could against Stahlmaske’s.

  The move wrenched the saber out of the count’s hand. It clattered on the deck at their feet. Preacher jerked his own saber back and let the tip rest against the hollow of Stahlmaske’s throat, not quite hard enough to draw blood.

  The count’s eyes widened. It was obvious he expected to die in the next second or two.

  Preacher didn’t press on the blade. He held it where it was for a couple of heartbeats, then stepped back and lowered the saber.

  “We’re done,” he said. “Fight’s over.”

  In a voice that trembled slightly with emotion, Stahlmaske said again, “This was to be a fight to the death.”

  “Well, let’s say I just killed you, then, and let it go at that. I don’t need to see you bleedin’ to death on some riverboat deck. We both got better things to do than that.”

  “My honor—” the count began.

  “You fought a good fight. You risked your life without flinchin’. That’s the sort of thing that demonstrates a man’s honor, not how the fight comes out.”

  Silence reigned over the riverboat as everyone waited to see what the count’s reaction would be. After several moments that seemed even longer than they really were, Stahlmaske nodded.

  “What you say is acceptable. But in turn you will have to accept my word that I did not fire that shot at you last night.”

  “Fine by me,” the mountain man said. “I believe you.”

  He tossed the saber to the deck and held out his hand to his former opponent.

  Stahlmaske hesitated, but only for a second. He stepped forward and took Preacher’s hand in a firm grip. Since he was using his wounded arm, that must have hurt. He grimaced slightly.

  “You’re fortunate that I’m not quite as good with my left arm as I am with my right,” he said.

  Preacher chuckled.

  “I know it. And I ain’t one to complain about havin’ a little luck on my side, neither.”

  Since the duel was over, people began talking again. Heinrich and Hobart were still excited about the battle they had just witnessed, and they babbled to each other in German about it. Gretchen just looked relieved, as did Russell, Allingham, and Warner. The three men gathered around Preacher but had the good sense not to congratulate him on his victory. There was no point in rubbing salt into the count’s wounds.

  “You’ll need that cut on your side tended to,” Russell said.

  “It’s just a scratch,” Preacher said. “I’ll dab a little whiskey on it. It’ll be fine.”

  “How about some breakfast, then?”

  “Now, that sounds pretty good,” Preacher admitted. “Nothin’ like fightin’ a duel to work up a little appetite first thing in the mornin’.”

  “And I’ll tell the crew to start getting some steam up,” Warner said. “I want to be headed upriver before the sun’s much higher in the sky!”

  Half a mile away, two men were bellied down at the top of a slight rise. One of them, a lean man with a clean-shaven face heavily pockmarked by childhood disease, had a spyglass pressed to his right eye. He squinted through the lens as smoke began to rise into the morning sky from the riverboat’s stacks.

  “They’re getting steam up,” he told his companion without lowering the spyglass. “Reckon they’ll be on their way pretty soon.”

  “We gonna hit ’em today, Claude?” the second man asked. He was about the same height as the first man but twice as wide, with a head like a stone block topped by curly brown hair. He sported a beard of the same shade. Both men wore buckskins.

  “No, we’ll wait a few more days,” Claude said. “Let the boat get farther upriver. Maybe take ’em at Cougar Bluffs.”

  “And there’ll be a bunch of fur company money onboard, right?”

  “That’s right, Wedge. The trader will have plenty of cash to buy pelts when the boat gets where it’s going.”

  The Sentinel had something else on board besides money, Claude Binnion realized. Looking through the spyglass, he made out several figures on deck that he recognized as female. He couldn’t tell any details from this distance other than that, but it didn’t matter. A woman—any woman—was a rare and valuable thing on the frontier. He didn’t know who those gals were or what they were doing headed upriver, and he didn’t care.

  The important thing was that when he and his men raided the Sentinel, the women would be part of the loot they carried away with them.

  CHAPTER 14

  Later that day as the Sentinel steamed upriver, Simon Russell approached Preacher while the mountain man stood at the bow on the passenger deck with Dog.

  “Have you recovered from that fracas this morning?” Russell asked.

  “That so-called duel?” Preacher snorted. “I ain’t sure that little dustup was serious enough to call it a fracas.”

  “I don’t know,” Russell said as he leaned on the railing beside Preacher and looked out at the wide, muddy, slow-moving river in front of them. “It looked to me like the count came pretty damned close to sticking that saber in you a few times.”

  “If I worried about every time I’ve come close to dyin’, I wouldn’t have time to do anything else. And I figure I’ll get in plenty more scrapes before my time’s up.”

  “I wouldn’t be a bit surprised.” Russell paused for a moment, then went on, “You know, we still didn’t figure out who took that shot at you last night.”

  “I been ponderin’ on it,” Preacher said as his eyes narrowed in thought.

  “Do you believe the count when he says he didn’t do it?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do. I don’t like him, but I got a hunch he ain’t a liar. As for ol’ Gunther, what Stahlmaske says about him is probably right, too. He’s the sort who’d rather rely on his fists than on a gun.”

  “So where does that leave you? Who else on this riverboat has any reason to be carrying a grudge against you?”

  “That’s a mighty good question,” Preacher said. “I can’t think of a soul. Hell, most of these folks, I barely know ’em.”

  That was true. Sarah Allingham might be a little angry with him for chasing her back to the boat the night before instead of succumbing to her feminine wiles, but that had happened after the shooting.

  Anyway, Sarah didn’t seem the type to resort to gunplay, either. Not as long as she thought she could get her way by pouting and being seductive.

  “You have a reputation as being a bad man to cross,” Russell mused. “Maybe if somebody was planning to cause trouble somewhere along the way, they might want to get rid of you before the time came.”

  “Like if somebody on board was workin’ with a bunch of those river pirates who’ve hit these boats before?”

  “The thought crossed my mind,” Russell said.

  “Mine, too,” Preacher admitted. “Right now that seems like the most likely explanation. Might be somethin’ goin’ on that we don’t know anything about, though. Seems like we may have to just wait until whoever it was tries again.”

  “Paint a big target on your back and wait for somebody to shoot at it, in other words.”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time,” Preacher drawled.

  “I’ll keep my eyes open and see if I spot anybody acting suspicious.”

  Preacher nodded and said, “I’ll do the same.” He nodded toward the terrain on both sides of the river. “And I’ll be watchin’ out yonder, too, in case any trouble comes at us from that direction.”

  Later, after Russell had gone back into the salon, Preacher heard footsteps behind him again and looked over his shoulder to see Gretchen Ritter approaching him. That was a surprise. He didn’t think the redhead had said more than a dozen words to him so far on this journey.

  She wore her dark green traveling outfit, but her head was bare. Her thick au
burn hair was even more beautiful with the sun shining on it. Now that Preacher got a closer look at her, he saw that her eyes were green, a shade lighter than her dress.

  He nodded politely to her and said, “Good afternoon, Fraulein Ritter.”

  She cocked her head a little to the side.

  “You speak German, Herr Preacher?”

  “Not much,” Preacher said with a smile. “I’ve known some German trappers and traders over the years. That’s how I was able to pick up a few words. But you’ll be better off stickin’ to English, if that’s all right with you.”

  “Of course. I made sure that I was reasonably fluent in your language before I ever came to this country.”

  He couldn’t figure out what she wanted with him, so he asked, “How’s the count doin’?”

  “Albert is fine. One of the maids cleaned and dressed his wound. He insists that in a few days it will be completely healed.” She smiled. “Albert does not like being less than perfect. He is very stubborn about such things.”

  “I got that feelin’,” Preacher said dryly. He had a hunch Count Stahlmaske was very stubborn about everything.

  “At any rate, I saw you standing out here and knew that I should speak to you.”

  “What about?” Preacher asked.

  “I want to thank you.”

  He frowned.

  “For what?”

  “For not killing the man I am engaged to wed.”

  Not The man I’m in love with or The man I’m going to marry, Preacher thought. Gretchen made it sound more like a business arrangement, and he wondered if that was the case. Those nobles over in Europe were all the time marrying each other for financial or political reasons. Sometimes the easiest way to avoid going to war was to marry off some royal daughter to some other inbred, crown-wearing galoot.

  “I never wanted to kill the count,” he said. “Shoot, I never even wanted to fight that duel in the first place.”