Preacher's Showdown

by William W. Johnstone

  Twenty-six

  Preacher heard the cry, followed a second later by the boom of a gun from somewhere up on the slope to his right. He wasn’t sure what was going on up there, but the sounds were proof enough for him that the wagons had been rolling right into an ambush, just as he had feared.

  He whirled Horse around and lifted his rifle over his head, using it to motion the wagons back toward the mouth of the canyon. “Turn around!” he bellowed. “Get the hell out of here!”

  But while it was possible to turn the wagons in this narrow canyon, it was going to take time . . . time they didn’t have. More shots roared from both slopes. Preacher heard the wind-rip of heavy rifle balls passing close beside his head. He saw Jake diving back into the bed of the lead wagon, and was glad that the boy was doing as he had been told. He hoped that Deborah was doing likewise.

  One of the riflemen concealed on the slope was careless and edged out from behind the boulder where he had been hidden. Preacher whipped his rifle to his shoulder and pressed the trigger. As smoke plumed from the weapon’s barrel, Preacher saw the man fly backward as the ball tore through his body. He hit another rock, bounced off, and flopped forward lifelessly.

  A howl of pain made Preacher jerk his head around. He saw Jerome Hart sagging on the seat of the lead wagon, his right hand clutching at a suddenly bloody left arm. Jake scrambled back over the seat, grabbed the reins, and started trying to haul the oxen around. Preacher gave the boy credit for guts, but he didn’t think Jake was going to be able to make the team do what he wanted.

  As another ball whipped past his ear, Preacher heeled Horse into a run. He saw Corliss struggling to get the second wagon turned around. There was no sign of Deborah, so Preacher assumed she was inside the wagon where she was supposed to be.

  On the third wagon, Gil Robinson bolted to his feet on the driver’s box and doubled over with both hands pressed to his stomach. Crimson flooded over his fingers. Gut-shot, he toppled onto the backs of the oxen in his team, spooking them. Robinson managed to scream as he slipped off their backs and fell to the ground under their hooves. The oxen weren’t moving much, but enough to trample Robinson’s body into the dirt as his shriek was abruptly cut off.

  That meant the third wagon wasn’t going anywhere. Neither was the fourth, because Pete Carey clapped a hand to his thigh where a ball ripped a deep gash.

  The storm of lead pouring down from both sides of the canyon told Preacher there were at least two dozen killers hidden up there, maybe more. There was no way to save the wagons, but maybe he could keep anybody else from getting killed. He waved a hand and shouted over the din of gunfire, “Leave the wagons! Get out of the canyon!” He veered Horse toward the lead wagon. “Jake! Climb on!”

  Jake hesitated, but then reached out to grasp Preacher’s arm as the mountain man lifted him from the wagon seat and placed him on Horse’s back behind the saddle.

  Still clutching his wounded arm, Jerome said, “We can’t abandon the wagons and all the goods!”

  “It’s that or get killed!” Preacher told him. “Come on, damn it! Get down from there and run!”

  Jerome had no idea how badly the idea of running stuck in Preacher’s craw. When the Good Lord had made the mountain man, He hadn’t included any back-up in Preacher’s nature. But Preacher could be pragmatic when he had to, and he knew that if they stayed here in the canyon, they would all be wiped out.

  Jerome must have understood that, too, because he half-climbed, half-fell from the wagon seat, caught his balance, and hurried toward the canyon mouth. “Come on, Corliss!” he shouted at his cousin. “Where’s Deborah?”

  “I’ll get her!” Corliss said, wide-eyed with fear. He waved Preacher, Jake, and Jerome on.

  Lars Neilson had dropped to the ground from his wagon and run forward to give the wounded Pete Carey a hand. They made an awkward pair, the short, squat Carey and the tall, burly Neilson, but nonetheless, they were moving fairly quickly with one of the Swede’s arms around Carey’s waist, supporting him.

  Blackie was on the ground, too, squinting through his lone eye over the barrel of his rifle as he drew a bead on one of the bushwhackers. The gun roared, and Blackie turned to Preacher with a grin on his weathered face. “Got the son of a bitch!” he exulted.

  Then he staggered as he was hit. Preacher didn’t know how bad it was, but he reached down and grabbed hold of Blackie as he passed, straining to lift the man and drape him across Horse’s back in front of the saddle. Horse was carrying three riders now, but he was big enough and strong enough to maintain that for a short distance, and that was all that was required to get out of the canyon where they would be safer.

  Horse lunged out from the narrow space between the steep slopes a moment later, carrying the triple burden. Preacher reined in and turned to see the others running after him. Neilson helping Carey, Jerome stumbling along, Corliss behind him . . .

  Where the hell was Deborah Morrigan?

  * * *

  The scream was the most bloodcurdling thing Schuyler had ever heard. He twisted around and saw the Indian hurtling through the air toward him. The savage’s red, painted face was twisted in an expression of pure hatred. Schuyler’s brain had only an instant to register that fact as he tried to bring his rifle to bear on the Indian.

  Too late. The warrior crashed into him and drove him back against the boulder before Schuyler had time to pull the trigger.

  But at least the barrel of the rifle struck the Indian’s arm and knocked the knife aside before he could bury the blade in Schuyler’s chest. The knife hit the rock instead, and the unexpected impact tore the weapon’s grip out of the Indian’s hand. The savage’s other hand flashed toward Schuyler’s throat with fingers hooked to close around it and choke the life out of him.

  The next instant, Fairfax’s pistol boomed, so close and loud that the roar nearly deafened Schuyler. But the Indian’s weight pressed against him was gone suddenly. Schuyler straightened, and saw that the warrior had fallen, driven off his feet by the ball from Fairfax’s pistol that had struck him in the side.

  The Indian didn’t stay down long. He was up a second later, leaping to his feet despite the wound in his side that welled blood. Schuyler tried again to draw a bead on the redskinned varmint, but the warrior was too fast, bounding away among the rocks.

  “Let him go! ” Fairfax said, and as Schuyler heard his partner’s raised voice, he realized that guns were going off on both sides of the canyon. The other members of the gang had taken Fairfax’s shot at the Indian for the signal to begin the ambush.

  “We have more important things to worry about than one crazy Indian!” Fairfax went on. “Kill Preacher before it’s too late!”

  Schuyler turned back to the business at hand. He saw that the drivers of the wagons were trying to turn them around and escape the trap, but they weren’t having much luck at it, despite Preacher’s urging. Schuyler brought the rifle to his shoulder, and settled the sights on the mountain man as Preacher rode toward the lead wagon.

  Preacher veered his mount toward the wagon and reached out to grab the kid from the seat just as Schuyler pressed the trigger. Even before the smoke from the barrel began to clear, Schuyler knew he had missed Preacher yet again. Bitter curses tumbled from his lips. That damned mountain man had a lucky angel riding on his shoulder, looking out for him.

  So did the rest of the members of the Hart expedition apparently. One of the drivers fell, mortally wounded, and some of the others were hit as the bushwhackers continued to pour lead down into the canyon for the next couple of minutes, but they were able to flee from the ambush even though they had to abandon the wagons to do so.

  “Do we go after them?” Schuyler asked as he reloaded after firing several shots. The attack seemed to have been going on for a long time, but he knew that wasn’t really the case.

  “We’ll secure the wagons first,” Fairfax said. “That’s more important than whether or not the rest of those bastards get away.”

 
; Schuyler frowned. “We need to make sure Preacher’s dead. I don’t want that son of a bitch on my trail.”

  “He’s just one man, and he’ll be saddled with wounded men. He must realize by now how outnumbered he is, too.”

  Fairfax didn’t sound too concerned. Schuyler didn’t share that attitude. He didn’t think anything good could come out of allowing Preacher to escape.

  What did it take to kill that man anyway?

  * * *

  “When I get down, climb up here in the saddle and hang on to Blackie!” Preacher told Jake. “Don’t let him fall off!”

  Then he swung down from the stallion’s back and ran to meet the four men from the wagon train. Corliss was bringing up the rear. Preacher shouted at him, “Where’s Miss Morrigan? Damn it, Hart—”

  Corliss stopped short and stared at Preacher for a second, then jerked around to stare back toward the canyon mouth. “She was right behind me,” he said. “My God! Deborah!”

  Preacher had had other things to distract him during the attack, like the rifle balls whizzing around his head, but he didn’t recall seeing Deborah at all once the shooting started. He sure as hell hadn’t seen her following Corliss out of the canyon. Corliss was engaged to her and was supposed to love her. Surely, he hadn’t yelled for her to follow him and then taken off running, assuming that she would do so. Hadn’t he looked back even once to make sure she was coming?

  Even as Preacher asked himself those questions, he had a sickening feeling that that was exactly what had happened. Corliss had panicked and left Deborah behind in the wagon. With all the shooting going on, she had probably been too scared to follow him, if she had even heard him tell her to do so over the din of the assault.

  That meant Preacher had to go back for her, but first he wanted to get the others to a place of relative safety. A gully cut across the valley about three hundred yards from the mouth of the canyon. That would give them some protection from the occasional potshot that came winging their way from the slopes of the canyon.

  “Move!” he told them as he waved them toward the gully. “Get back yonder and stay down! Jake, can you ride?”

  “A little,” the boy replied, sounding scared.

  Preacher didn’t blame him. “Then hang on and get Blackie into that gully with the others.” He turned back toward the canyon. “Come on, Dog!”

  With the big, wolflike cur at his heels, Preacher ran toward the wagons. He still hadn’t had a chance to reload his rifle, but he had two loaded, charged, and primed pistols behind his belt.

  Of course, a brace of pistols against two dozen or more bloodthirsty renegades was pretty damned bad odds. Preacher found out just how bad when the bushwhackers opened fire on him again, forcing him to launch into a low dive that took him behind a pine log just to avoid being riddled. Dog hunkered beside him, growling with rage.

  Preacher felt like doing some snarling and growling himself, but he knew it wouldn’t do any good. As balls thudded into the log, throwing pieces of bark and splinters of wood into the air, Preacher felt the trunk shivering under the impacts and knew that if he stood up, or even stuck his head up, they would ventilate him. He and Dog were pinned down here, pinned down good and proper.

  He twisted his head to look back toward the gully, and saw Neilson helping Pete Carey down into it. They were the last ones still visible from Preacher’s position. As soon as Carey was clear, the Swede dived after him. The now-riderless Horse had trotted far off to one side, pretty much out of the line of fire for now.

  Preacher heard shouts from the bushwhackers as some of them emerged from their cover and started down toward the wagons. The words were in English, which came as no surprise to him. When that many gunshots had rung out, he knew the attackers had to be white. The Indians who lived in these foothills had a few rifles, but he doubted that any of the bands would have been able to muster that many firearms at one time.

  When he heard a woman’s scream from the canyon, it took all of his willpower to keep his head from popping up so he could take a look. He was willing to bet that at least a few of the bastards still had their rifles trained on this log where he had taken cover. They would be just waiting for another shot at him.

  “Deborah! Oh, my God, Deborah!”

  The furious, agonized shout came from Corliss Hart. Preacher looked around to see Corliss climbing out of the gully. Immediately, some of the riflemen on the slopes of the canyon opened fire on him. He would have been hit if Lars Neilson hadn’t reached up with a long arm, snagged the back of his shirt, and yanked him back into the gully.

  “Stay down, blast it!” Preacher yelled at the men in the gully. “Gettin’ yourselves shot full o’ holes ain’t gonna help anything!”

  He lay there, seething in anger and gritting his teeth against the flood of curses that welled up inside him, as Deborah screamed again and then fell silent. With a creaking and screeching of wagon wheels, the heavy vehicles lurched into motion again. Preacher heard that and knew the thieves were driving the wagons on through the canyon. The shooting started again. The men peppered the log, and also fired at the gully where the others had taken cover, keeping the group pinned down until the wagons were gone . . . taking Deborah with them.

  * * *

  “Burns, Loomis, take half-a-dozen men with you and circle around on horseback so you can come in behind Preacher and the rest of that bunch,” Fairfax ordered. “The rest of us will go on with the wagons. You can catch up quickly enough when you’ve killed all of them.”

  “Can’t I go with them?” Schuyler asked.

  Fairfax shook his head. “I want you to stay with me. Anyway, you haven’t had any luck where Preacher’s concerned. If you’re jinxed when it comes to him, maybe it’ll be better if you just steer clear of him until he’s dead.”

  Schuyler didn’t like that, but he supposed Fairfax probably had a point. Anyway, Burns and Loomis were good men. They could handle the job of disposing of Preacher and the others while the rest of the group pushed on with the stolen wagons.

  And the woman.

  That was a stroke of good fortune. None of them had known there was a woman along on the Hart expedition, especially not one so young and pretty. After gagging her, tying her up, and stashing her in one of the wagons, Fairfax had ordered that she be left alone otherwise. Once they reached South Pass and set up the trading post, the woman could be sent back to Beaumont with the men who would be returning to St. Louis. When they got there, she would be turned over to Beaumont, who would surely be able to figure out some way to turn a profit on her. If she came from a wealthy family, she could be held for ransom. If not, she could be put to work in one of the whorehouses Beaumont owned. Either way, it was important for now that she remain unharmed, so Fairfax’s orders to that effect had been firm.

  He and Schuyler tied their horses on behind the lead wagon and climbed to the driver’s seat. “Take the reins,” Fairfax said. Schuyler felt a sense of satisfaction as he grasped the leathers. They might not have succeeded in killing Preacher—yet—but by God, the wagons and all they contained now belonged to them!

  Behind them, as the wagons rolled on through the canyon, more shots rang out as a handful of men kept Preacher and the others pinned down while Burns, Loomis, and the rest of their hand-picked killers circled around on horseback to get behind them and wipe them out.

  * * *

  Preacher heard hoofbeats coming from the trees and figured out what was going on. It didn’t surprise him that the thieves didn’t want to leave anyone alive behind them. If they knew who he was, they would know that if he survived, he would never rest until he’d tracked them down.

  He shouted, “Behind you!” and then rolled over and lifted the rifle he had reloaded earlier, while he was trapped here behind this log. As riders emerged from the trees and thundered toward the gully, Preacher settled his sights on the man in the lead. He snapped, “Go get ’em, Dog!” then pressed the trigger.

  The flintlock roared and sent a heavy lea
d ball driving into the chest of the lead rider. The impact swept him backward out of the saddle like a punch from a giant fist.

  At the same time, Dog broke from cover and dashed toward the attackers, darting back and forth so that the men on the slope couldn’t draw a bead on him. Shots kicked up dust behind the big cur, but didn’t come all that close to him. Dog leaped the gully and then leaped again, crashing into one of the attackers and knocking him off his horse. Man and dog went down in a welter of dust and flailing arms and legs. Screams mixed with growls and snarls as sharp teeth flashed and rended.

  While that was going on, the men in the gully were putting up a fight, too. Pete Carey couldn’t stand on his wounded leg, but he propped himself up at the edge of the gully and fired a brace of pistols at the oncoming horsemen. Corliss, Jerome, and Neilson each had a pistol, and fired those weapons as well. Jake poked the barrel of a rifle over the edge of the gully and squeezed off a shot. Preacher took all that in with a glance as he reloaded his own rifle. He didn’t see Blackie and wondered if the one-eyed man was dead.

  The gunfire from the gully took a toll. Two more of the attackers went down, tumbling off their mounts. But they had been shooting, too, as they charged, and Lars Neilson was thrown backward as two pistol balls smashed into him. He rolled to the bottom of the gully and lay motionless.

  Preacher fired again and saw blood spray from the head of another man as the ball bored through his skull. That left just one man on horseback. He wheeled his mount to flee, knowing that the attack had backfired on them. The move came too late, as Jerome put a pistol ball in his back and toppled him off the horse.

  Instead of wiping out the survivors from the wagon train, the thieves and killers had been wiped out instead.

  Preacher heard more hoofbeats and ventured a look. Three or four men rode through the canyon and out the far end, galloping after the wagons, which had disappeared by now. No more shots came from the slopes of the canyon. The men who had just fled must have been the ones posted up there to keep Preacher and his companions trapped while the others circled around. They rode out of sight, and silence settled down over the valley.