Deadly Day in Tombstone
Page 25
“My son, Hawk,” Preacher explained. “We’ve been doin’ some trappin’ together.”
“It’s good to meet you, Hawk. You’ll find that your pa has a lot of friends here in Sant Looey.”
Hawk nodded solemnly and said, “I am beginning to understand this. He likes to talk about how many enemies he has made, but I think he has made more friends.”
“Not necessarily,” Fullerton said. “Most of Preacher’s enemies are dead.”
Preacher ignored that and jerked a thumb toward the two extra horses. “Seen these mounts before?”
Fullerton looked the horses over, studying them for a couple of minutes before he said, “As a matter of fact, I think I have. I believe they were stabled here for a few nights, a week or so ago.”
“Remember what their owners looked like?”
“One was a tall, dark-haired fella. Had a lean and hungry look about him, as Audie might say when he’s spouting old Bill Shakespeare. The other one was shorter. Had a red beard, as I recall.”
Preacher nodded. “That’s them, all right.”
Fullerton regarded Preacher intently for a second, then said, “I don’t suppose they’ll be needing those horses anymore.”
“Nope, they sure won’t.”
“In that case, I can take them off your hands if you want. Give you a fair price.”
Preacher didn’t bother haggling this time. He took what Fullerton offered him, then said, “You don’t happen to know the names of those two fellas, do you? Or if they had any family around here? If they did, the money for the horses should rightfully go to them.”
Fullerton shook his head. “They didn’t offer their names, and I didn’t ask. They didn’t act like they were from around here, though. Fact is, they rode into town with some other fellas. All of them were new to these parts, seems like.”
“How many other men are we talkin’ about?” Preacher asked.
“Fourteen or fifteen, I’d say. Some kept their horses here, some didn’t. But they’re all gone now. I didn’t get names for any of them, either.” Fullerton rubbed his chin. “I can tell you about one of them, though. Hard to forget him. He was even bigger than you, Preacher. Didn’t have a beard, but he was sporting one of those long mustaches that curl up on the ends. Funny-lookin’ thing. The way the others acted, he was sort of the leader of the bunch.”
“But they’re not around anymore, you say?”
Fullerton shook his head and said, “I haven’t seen any of ’em for a few days. I reckon they took off for greener pastures, wherever that might be.”
Greener pastures, thought Preacher. Like lurking around west of the settlement to rob and kill trappers on their way to St. Louis with a load of pelts. Well, two members of the gang wouldn’t be doing that anymore.
As they left the stable, Hawk asked, “Where will we stay tonight? We should make camp before it gets much later.”
“We won’t have to sleep on the ground tonight,” Preacher said. “A friend of mine has a place here in town. It’s mostly a tavern, but he rents rooms, too, and we can get something to eat there. That’s where we’re headed now.”
“Sleep . . . in one of these buildings?”
“You’ve slept in tepees your whole life.”
“Those are different.”
Preacher laughed. “We’re gonna have this same conversation about everything when it comes to civilization, ain’t we?”
“Sleeping in a building.” Hawk shook his head. “It seems wrong.”
“Well, you’ll just have to see if you like it. The place we’re headed is called Red Mike’s.”
Preacher led the way to the tavern not far from the waterfront. He stopped here every time he visited St. Louis and considered the burly Irishman who ran the place to be a friend. More than once, Preacher had gotten into fights either inside Red Mike’s or near the place, but that didn’t stop him from returning.
The streets were busy, and now that night had fallen, it was likely there weren’t too many innocents out and about. Preacher and Hawk passed a number of hard-looking men, but those fellows gave them a wide berth. Preacher supposed some of them recognized him and figured it wouldn’t be a good idea to tangle with him. Others just instinctively gave him room.
He knew he had something of a lean and hungry look himself. He recognized the quote because he’d heard it often enough from his friend Audie, who had been a college professor many years ago, before giving up that life to come west and take up trapping.
There were also women in the windows of some of the buildings they passed, calling down coarse invitations to the men in the street and sometimes displaying their charms by lantern light. Preacher could tell Hawk was trying not to stare at them but only partially succeeding.
“There are too many people here,” Hawk said with a scowl as they walked along.
“I hear tell there are even bigger, more crowded settlements back East, and I’ve even spent some time in one called New Orleans, down near the mouth of the Mississippi.”
Hawk shook his head. “It cannot be. That many people would breathe up all the air.”
“Sometimes I feel that way myself,” Preacher agreed.
They came to an unimpressive-looking building which had no sign on it because everybody knew where Red Mike’s was. Preacher opened the door and went inside. Hawk followed him but stopped short, making a face at the thick clouds of grayish-blue smoke that filled the air. At least half of the men in the tavern were puffing on pipes. Some of the serving wenches were, too. Adding to the miasma in the air were odors of spilled beer and whiskey, vomit, and human waste.
“How do you stand it?” Hawk asked when Preacher looked back to see what was keeping him.
“I’d say you get used to it, but I ain’t sure if that’s true or not, because I’ve never been here long enough for that. I spend a night or two now and then, but after that I’m on my way back to the mountains.”
“That sounds like a good plan. Let us go now.”
Preacher laughed and clapped a hand on his son’s shoulder. “Come on. It ain’t that bad. I’ll introduce you to Mike.”
Hawk allowed himself to be led reluctantly toward the bar at the side of the low-ceilinged room. On the other side of the tavern, stairs led up to the second floor, where those rooms for rent Preacher had mentioned were located.
The bar was crowded, but when Mike spotted Preacher, he bellowed, “Step aside there, step aside! Make room!”
“What the hell, Mike!” one of the drinkers protested. “We got as much right here as anybody else.” The man glanced around to see who was going to displace them, then added with a frown, “More right than a damn Injun!”
“That’s my son you’re talkin’ about, mister,” Preacher said in a flat, hard voice.
“Then he’s a dirty half-breed, and he shouldn’t even be in here!”
Preacher stiffened. He was proud of his boy, and he wasn’t going to let anybody insult Hawk that way. It was an insult to Bird in a Tree, too, and that was even more intolerable. He was about to throw a punch, despite the look he got from Mike that implored him not to start anything, when a voice like beautiful music from a bell cut through the hubbub in the room.
“Gentlemen, wouldn’t you rather drink than fight?”
A bare arm, complete with smooth, creamy female flesh, was thrust in front of him, and the hand at the end of that arm held a foaming, brimming tankard of beer. He lifted his gaze to the prettiest pair of blue eyes he had seen in a long time, and behind him he heard Hawk exclaim softly in what sounded like awe.
ABOUT THE AUTORS
WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of over 300 books, including the series Preacher, the First Mountain Man, MacCallister, Luke Jensen, Bounty Hunter, Flintlock, Those Jensen Boys!, Savage Texas, Matt Jensen, the Last Mountain Man, and The Family Jensen. His thrillers include Tyranny, Stand Your Ground, Suicide Mission, and the upcoming Black Friday.
Visit his webs
ite at www.williamjohnstone.net.
Being the all-around assistant, typist, researcher, and fact-checker to one of the most popular western authors of all time, J. A. JOHNSTONE learned from the master, Uncle William W. Johnstone.
The elder Johnstone began tutoring J.A. at an early age. After-school hours were often spent retyping manuscripts or researching his massive American Western History library as well as the more modern wars and conflicts. J.A. worked hard—and learned.
“Every day with Bill was an adventure story in itself. Bill taught me all he could about the art of storytelling. ‘Keep the historical facts accurate,’ he would say. ‘Remember the readers—and as your grandfather once told me, I am telling you now: Be the best J. A. Johnstone you can be.’”