Preacher saw the wild, looping punch coming in plenty of time to duck under it. Sinclair’s fist went harmlessly over his head as Preacher stepped in, grabbed Sinclair, and spun him around. His arms went around Sinclair from behind in a bear hug. He didn’t want to hurt the young fella, just talk some sense into him.
“Settle down, Chester,” he said. “There ain’t no call for you to be mad.”
“You . . . you were attacking Miss Faith!” Sinclair panted between clenched teeth. “I . . . I have a responsibility to protect her . . . to protect everyone in Mr. Carling’s party!”
Preacher suspected there was a little more to it than that. He had already noticed the way that Sinclair looked at Faith Carling, especially when she wasn’t paying any attention to him. Sinclair was sweet on Faith, Preacher thought—and she didn’t even know that he existed except as her brother’s assistant.
“Chester, what are you doing?” Faith asked, sounding more annoyed than anything else. “Have you lost your mind, attacking Preacher that way?”
Her words seemed to have the opposite effect on him from what she might have hoped. A rumble of anger sounded from deep inside him, and he suddenly threw himself backward, carrying Preacher with him.
Sinclair was just as tall as Preacher and packed more weight on his bones. He drove them both backward. Preacher lost his balance and fell. Sinclair crashed down on top of him. The impact drove the air out of Preacher’s lungs and made him go limp for a second.
Sinclair rolled over and his hands groped for Preacher’s throat. Even though Sinclair was a novice at this sort of rough-and-tumble fighting, anybody could get lucky, and Preacher knew that if Sinclair’s hands locked around his neck, he might not be able to get them loose in time to keep from blacking out. So even though he didn’t want to hurt Sinclair, he brought a knee up sharply, driving the point of it into Sinclair’s belly. As Sinclair grunted in pain, Preacher grabbed hold of his shirt and heaved him to one side. Freed from the bigger man’s weight, Preacher rolled and came up on his hands and knees.
He saw that Sinclair was struggling to get up. Preacher made it to his feet first. By now some of the trappers had taken note of the commotion and come on the run to see what was happening. Shouts of “Fight! Fight!” rang over the encampment, and more men hurried to watch the entertainment. Somebody caught up a burning branch from a campfire and carried it with them as a makeshift torch. The flickering light illuminated the scene as Preacher and Sinclair faced each other. Sinclair wobbled upright, hunched a little over the pain in his midsection. But his fists were still bunched, and he started toward Preacher again.
“Damn it, Sinclair, don’t do this!” Preacher urged. “We got no reason to fight.”
“Miss Faith—” Sinclair began.
“Was just sayin’ some poem she’s written.”
“That’s not true,” Sinclair accused. “I saw you kissing her!”
Preacher glanced at Faith, who stood by watching the confrontation, her face pale and tense. It wouldn’t do her reputation any good if word got around that she had thrown herself at him. Not sure why he should care about such a thing, Preacher asked through gritted teeth, “How about if I apologize to her?”
Sinclair halted his unsteady but inexorable advance. “Well,” he said, “that would be a start, I guess.”
Preacher extended a hand toward him, palm out. “Stay right there.” He turned toward Faith. “Miss Carling, I sure do beg your pardon and hope I didn’t cause you any offense by my behavior.”
Faith sniffed and said haughtily, “That’s quite all right, I suppose. It would be a mistake to expect too much in the way of proper behavior from men such as yourself.”
Dog growled, and Preacher felt a mite like growling himself. But he swallowed his pride and said, “Thanks, ma’am.” Looking back at Sinclair, he went on. “It’s all over now. No need for any more ruckus.”
Sinclair straightened and pointed a finger at Preacher. “You say away from Miss Carling in the future,” he warned.
“Believe you me,” Preacher said, “that’s exactly what I intend to do.”
Chapter Eight
There was some grumbling from the other trappers because the fight hadn’t amounted to much, but Preacher didn’t care. He was just glad he’d been able to head off the trouble before he was forced to do any serious damage to Chester Sinclair. The poor fella couldn’t help it that he was smitten with Faith Carling, just like he couldn’t do anything about the fact that Faith was such a . . . well, bitch was the word that came to mind, Preacher thought.
He tried to forget about the whole thing as he went on to his tent and rolled up in his blankets. The thought that he had shared these blankets with Mountain Mist only a few nights ago made it easy for him to put Faith, Sinclair, and the rest of that bunch out of his mind.
Didn’t make it any easier for him to go to sleep, though.
He woke up early the next morning, as usual. As he stepped outside his tent to stretch, he looked toward the river and saw that the fancy striped tent wasn’t there anymore. It had been taken down and packed up. Movement caught Preacher’s eye, and when he glanced up at the hills, he saw a line of riders moving along the nearest slope, trailed by a group of packhorses and mules. Despite the early hour, the Carling expedition was on the move.
Good riddance, Preacher thought. He took a moment to hope that things worked out for them, for Rip’s sake.
All over the encampment it was the same story, trappers moving out, some on foot, some on horseback, most of them trailing pack animals. Some of them took squaws with them, too, “summer wives.” Most of the buckskinners had “winter wives,” as well, and not necessarily the same women who spent the summers with them. The arrangements were casual and produced nothing lasting except a passel of half-breed kids.
Preacher brewed some coffee and ate a stale biscuit for breakfast, then took down his tent and got the rest of his gear stowed away on the packhorse. He saddled up Horse and then paused for a last look around the valley. He wouldn’t be taking fond memories away from this Rendezvous. Although it had been good to see Rip Giddens and some other old friends, too many bad things had happened. When he thought about this Rendezvous, Preacher would always have a sour taste in his mouth.
He swung up into the saddle. After three days of rest, Horse was anxious to hit the trail again. The rangy mount danced a little to the side, skittish and eager to get moving.
That skittishness saved Preacher’s life. He heard the distant boom of a shot and then the flat wind-rip of a rifle ball passing close beside his ear, right where his head had been a second earlier.
Knowing from the sound of the shot that it had come from somewhere behind him, Preacher whirled Horse around. His eyes scanned the landscape, looking for the telltale powder smoke that would tell him where the rifleman was located. He spotted a gray haze floating above a clump of trees on a hillside about two hundred yards away. With an angry shout, Preacher drove the heels of his moccasins against Horse’s flanks and sent the animal lunging into a gallop.
Preacher leaned forward over Horse’s neck, making himself a smaller target as he raced toward the trees where the would-be killer was hidden. He figured the man would try again, so after a few seconds, long enough for the rifleman to reload, Preacher veered Horse back and forth. Sure enough, a rifle ball kicked up dirt to his left. He hadn’t been able to hear the shot over the pounding of Horse’s hooves, but he knew the rifleman had fired.
And now the son of a bitch, whoever he was, wouldn’t have time to reload again before Preacher reached him.
The rifleman must have realized that, too, because when Preacher reached the trees he didn’t see any sign of the man. He reined Horse to a stop and sat tensely in the saddle for a few seconds, listening intently. He heard a swift rataplan of hoofbeats coming from farther up the hill and bit back a curse. The man who had taken those shots at him was running.
The bastard would find that he couldn’t run far enough or f
ast enough to get away from Preacher.
Stump’s heart slugged so heavily in his chest, he thought it was going to bust right out of his body and fall to the ground to flop around like a fish out of water. That was crazy, of course, and Stump knew it. He also knew that he was out of his mind with fear.
He should have listened to Luther Snell, he told himself. Snell had insisted that Preacher wouldn’t come after them. But Stump didn’t have Snell’s confidence, and even though he planned to join up with Snell in the man’s latest scheme, Stump wanted to get rid of Preacher first.
He would have, too, if that damned horse hadn’t chosen the exact wrong second to move....
Now Stump was on the run, and he knew that if he didn’t get away from Preacher, he was a dead man. He couldn’t take Preacher in a fair fight. Ambushing him had been the only chance Stump had. And now that was ruined, all because of bad luck. Bad luck for Stump, anyway. He supposed it was good for Preacher, because without it Preacher would be dead now, his brains splattered all over the campsite.
Stump kept his horse moving, heading up the hill where he had hidden to take his shot at Preacher. He knew that beyond the hill was a series of rough hogback ridges. If he could reach that rugged terrain, he might have a chance of giving Preacher the slip. A slim chance, to be sure, but right now Stump would take any chance at all and be glad to get it.
He never should have believed Snell in the first place. He knew that now. Snell was a vicious, lying bastard, and Stump should have known that he had more in mind than knocking out Preacher and bedding Preacher’s squaw. That wouldn’t have been enough to satisfy Snell’s twisted need for revenge.
And why had Snell felt that way? Because Preacher had interfered when he started bothering that redheaded gal from back East, and Snell had been forced to back down in front of half the folks at the Rendezvous. That had been such an insult to Snell’s pride that he had been willing to sink to murder to settle the score.
Stump knew about wanting to get even with somebody. Hell, he’d been mad at Preacher for making fun of him, too. All his life, people had been making fun of Stump because he was short. He had gotten used to that. But then one of the squaws he’d been with had told some of her friends about his lack of size in a certain area, and those squaws had told other squaws, and it had gotten back to the trappers they consorted with, and suddenly, before you knew it, he was a laughingstock, an object of ridicule from one end of the Rockies to the other. All for something that wasn’t his fault, something he really hadn’t had anything to do with.
Damn them, Stump thought. Damn all of them.
And suddenly, he didn’t care what had happened to Mountain Mist. He was glad that Preacher had suffered over it. Preacher deserved that pain for making sport of him. Preacher didn’t really know what pain was—but Stump did.
Stump reined in and looked around. He was several miles from the valley where the Rendezvous had been held. He had reached the first of the ridges where he had hoped to hide from Preacher.
After a moment, he plunged into that rugged, desolate terrain, but he no longer thought of it as a place to hide.
Now he told himself it was going to be a good place for a trap. A trap for Preacher . . .
Preacher hadn’t come in sight of the fleeing bushwhacker by the time he reached the rocky spines of the ridges that twisted their way across the landscape. Those sharp, steep folds of stone and earth were dotted here and there by scrubby pines and clumps of hardy brush. The ground was too hard to take many prints. With his rifle across the saddle in front of him, Preacher proceeded more slowly now, aware that he might be riding into an ambush. But he knew, too, that if the mysterious rifleman wasn’t laying for him, there was a good chance that the man was increasing his lead at that very moment.
This wasn’t the first time Preacher had been between such a rock and a hard place. He pushed on, determined not to let the man get away.
He had a pretty good idea who he would find when he caught up to the bushwhacker—Luther Snell. Snell knew Preacher’s reputation, knew that he would never be truly safe from reprisals for Mountain Mist’s death as long as Preacher was alive.
So he had decided to take care of that little problem by shooting Preacher from ambush. That was the coward’s way—but then, Snell was a coward. He had proven that by attacking a woman.
Most of Preacher’s senses came into play now as he stalked his quarry. He looked, he listened, he even sniffed the air, searching for the smallest hint that the bushwhacker had passed this way. He was careful not to skyline himself on top of any of the ridges. His path twisted back and forth like a drunken snake. Dog had followed him from the encampment, and Preacher said to the big cur in a low voice, “Find him, Dog. Find the jasper who took those shots at me.”
Dog bounded off, nose to the ground. He soon vanished in the desolate terrain, but Preacher knew he would still be close by.
In addition to his senses, Preacher also paid close attention to his instincts. His gut told him that he was being watched before his eyes spotted a tiny red flash on the ridge that loomed to his left. He knew it was the rising sun reflecting off metal, and the most likely metal to be up there in those trees was the barrel of a gun. Preacher rolled out of the saddle as a rifle boomed.
The ball sizzled through the air just above Horse’s back and whined off a rock. Preacher landed on his feet, yelled, “Horse! Go!” and scrambled toward a boulder that would give him some cover. Horse galloped ahead, out of the line of fire.
Preacher knelt behind the boulder and laid the barrel of his rifle on top of it. He knew where the shot had come from, so he cocked the rifle, lined his sights on the spot, and squeezed the trigger. The rifle roared and belched a cloud of grayish-black powder smoke as it kicked against Preacher’s shoulder. The hidden killer was well protected by trees and scattered rocks, but a lucky shot was always possible. Even if he didn’t hit the bushwhacker, Preacher figured his shot came close enough to make the bastard duck.
As he began to reload, Preacher heard a sudden outburst of growling and snarling up there on the ridge, followed by an alarmed yell and then a howl of pain. Dog had found the bushwhacker and was introducing himself. Preacher finished ramming home a fresh charge in the rifle. Then he darted out from behind the boulder and his long legs carried him toward the slope at a dead run.
He heard a pistol crack and worried that Dog had been shot. The snarling and barking continued, though, as did the frenzied yells. Preacher started up the ridge, heading for the trees where the rifleman was concealed. They were about fifty yards away. The slope was steep enough so that even with Preacher’s strength and conditioning, his heart was pounding by the time he got there.
As he came into the trees, Preacher spotted a buckskin-clad figure struggling with Dog. The big cur had the man’s left arm in his mouth and was savaging it, but the man managed to grope at his belt with his right hand and pulled a big hunting knife. The blade rose, ready to strike at the dog.
“Hey!” Preacher yelled.
Taken by surprise, the bushwhacker twisted toward him. Preacher had time to realize with a shock, just before he pulled the trigger, that he was looking at the little trapper called Stump, not Luther Snell. Then the rifle blasted and Stump was thrown backward as the heavy lead ball smashed into him. The knife flew from his fingers as he fell.
“Dog!” Preacher called commandingly as he ran forward. “Dog, back off!”
The wolflike creature obeyed the command, letting go of Stump’s arm and backing away, although he continued to growl. Preacher pulled one of his pistols as he approached the fallen Stump. The gun was double-shotted, with a heavy charge of powder, and if Stump tried any tricks, Preacher would blast a hole clean through him.
Stump was in no shape to attempt any trickery. Preacher’s shot had hit him high on the right side of the chest. As Stump’s chest rose and fell, Preacher heard the faint whistling sound that meant the rifle ball had penetrated a lung. Blood bubbled frothily from S
tump’s mouth. The little trapper didn’t have long to live.
Preacher dropped to a knee beside the wounded man and said, “Stump, what the hell were you thinkin’, potshottin’ at me that way? You and me always got along all right.”
Stump stared up at him through pain-glazed eyes. “You mean . . . you made fun o’ me . . . and I never did nothin’ . . . about it.”
“Aw, hell, Stump,” Preacher said, upset that some joshing had led to this. “It didn’t mean nothin’.”
“Not to you . . . maybe. I . . . hated you . . . for it.”
Preacher hadn’t known. He shook his head, sorry for the part he had played in all this. But then he stiffened and those feelings were forgotten as Stump continued to gasp out words accompanied by more blood.
“That’s why I . . . went along with Snell . . . He said we’d . . . get even with you.”
“What did you do, Stump?” Preacher demanded through gritted teeth. “What did Snell do?”
“Him and me and . . . some other fellas . . . called you out of your tent . . . clouted you over the head . . . then Snell and the rest of us . . . went inside . . . to take turns . . . with your squaw . . .”
Stump closed his eyes and a shudder ran through him. For a second Preacher thought he was gone. But then Stump forced his eyes open again and licked some of the blood off his lips. Looking up at Preacher, he rasped, “It was Snell . . . he’s the one who started . . . hittin’ and kickin’ her . . . nobody else really planned on . . . hurtin’ her.”
“But you stood by and let it happen,” Preacher said accusingly. “I’ll bet some of you even helped him.”
Stump didn’t deny it. He just said, “I never meant to . . . hurt nobody . . . but I knew you . . . wouldn’t believe that, Preacher. Snell wanted me to . . . come with him and the others . . . and go after those pilgrims . . . but I had to . . . try to get rid of you . . . first.”
Preacher tensed even more as he listened to Stump gasping out the words. He didn’t care that much anymore about the little trapper trying to ambush him. Something else Stump had said had caught his attention. He leaned closer and asked sharply, “What pilgrims are you talkin’ about? Willard Carling and his bunch?”
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