One of the men took hold of the giant’s arm, but the big man shook off the grip like it was nothing. He took another step toward the girl, who shrank back with a look of horror on her face.
“Come here,” the giant said to her. “I want to kiss on you.”
The proprietor pushed his wife aside and moved quickly between his daughter and the big man. He reached onto a shelf and plucked a knife from it. The blade shone red, as if already drenched in blood, in the late afternoon sunlight that slanted through a window.
“Get back, Señor!” the proprietor said. “Get back, I tell you!”
Without waiting, he slashed at one of the giant’s outstretched hands. The knife ripped a gash across the back of it. Blood welled from the wound as the giant snatched his hand back and howled in pain. “You hurt me!” he roared. Furious, he lunged forward, crashing into the bar and swinging his malletlike fists at the proprietor.
Preacher didn’t have any choice then. The Mexican was half the size of the giant. He would wind up being beaten to death if Preacher didn’t stop it.
The pistol in Preacher’s left hand blasted. The ball hit the giant in the back of the leg, knocking it out from under him. He reeled and went down, finishing the job of demolishing the bar. Planks scattered around him and one of the whiskey barrels overturned. The bung popped out and the Who-Hit-John began to leak, glugging onto the floor and forming a puddle. The sharp reek of the stuff mixed with the tang of the gunpowder.
The other three men, knowing that both of Preacher’s guns were now empty, rushed him.
Preacher was expecting that. He flung the left-hand gun as hard as he could, and in these close quarters, when the gun hit one of the men in the face, it pulped his nose and sent him staggering backward, blood gushing down over his mouth and chin. Preacher ducked under a roundhouse punch thrown by one of the other men and grabbed the front of the hombre’s homespun shirt. A heave and an outthrust leg to knock his feet out from under him, and the man found himself sailing through the air to crash heavily to the puncheon floor.
That left Preacher only the short, round man to deal with, but to his surprise he quickly discovered that it was a little like fighting a buzz saw. The fella was a lot faster than he looked, and a flurry of hard punches seemed to come from every direction when he closed in. A couple of them landed solidly, knocking Preacher back a step. He caught his balance, set his feet, and swung a blow of his own, driving a fist into the man’s belly. That was another surprise. The man was built like a barrel, and punching him in the stomach was about like hitting a barrel, one made of thick, stout oak. He didn’t even grunt.
The fella with the broken nose was back in the fight, too. His bloody face was contorted in a snarl as he circled and grabbed Preacher from behind, pinning his arms to his sides. “Get him, Arnie!” he yelled thickly at the fat man. “Beat the hell out of him!”
Preacher figured he ought to consider himself lucky that they were all mad enough to fight with their fists, rather than pulling their guns. Dealing with three-to-one odds in a gunfight, and him with a couple of empty pistols at that, would have been a mite tricky. He was confident that he would have figured out a way to do it, but hell, a brawl like this was more fun, anyway.
He stomped back on the instep of the man holding him and then jerked his head back, too, snapping it into the man’s face. More cartilage crunched in the already injured nose. The man screamed and let go just as the fat man charged Preacher again. Preacher dropped to the floor and went forward into the fat man’s legs in a rolling dive. The fat man’s momentum carried him over Preacher and into his howling friend. Both of them went down in a tangle of arms and legs.
Preacher rolled on over and came up on hands and knees in time to see that the man he had shot had gotten back on his feet. He had grabbed up an ax from a table where several of them lay, and now he swung the double-bitted tool at Preacher’s head. Preacher dived aside at the last second. The ax head bit deeply into the wooden floor and lodged there.
Preacher came up from the floor, uncoiling like a snake as he threw an uppercut that landed on the wounded man’s jaw. The impact of the blow shivered all the way up Preacher’s arm, and he hoped he hadn’t busted a knuckle or two. The punch lifted the wounded man off his feet and sent him slamming down onto his back. Preacher didn’t think he would be getting up any time soon.
But that still left three men—well, two, since the one with the broken nose was lying huddled on the floor, his hands pressed to his face, whimpering—but those two might want to tussle some more. Preacher clenched his fists and waited to see if they were going to attack again.
He heard a familiar, ominous, metallic clicking sound from behind him. “Step aside, Señor!” the proprietor cried. “Step aside, and I will deal with these animals as they deserve!”
Preacher threw a look over his shoulder and saw the owner of the trading post standing there with a double-barreled shotgun in his hands. The man’s face was dark with outrage, and Preacher could tell that he wanted to pull the triggers and blast all five of the hard cases into bloody shreds.
That didn’t sound like such a bad idea, but Preacher knew it wasn’t the right thing to do. He said softly, “Hold on there, amigo. I don’t reckon you want to kill these men.”
“Oh, but I do, Señor, I do!”
Preacher shook his head. “Right now you do, but I can tell by lookin’ at you that you ain’t the type to kill a man in cold blood. If you do, it’ll eat on you from now on, and you wouldn’t never know a minute’s peace.”
“The law would not blame me! I am defending my home and my family and my honor!”
“I ain’t talkin’ about the law. I’m talkin’ about what’s in your own heart.”
The man hesitated. Preacher knew he had read him right. The barrels of the shotgun lowered slightly.
“That’s right,” Preacher said. “What you need to do is give me the shotgun. I’ll kill ’em, and I won’t never lose a second’s sleep over it.”
The man seized the opportunity and pressed the shotgun into Preacher’s hands. He leveled it at the five men. From the terror-stricken looks on the faces of four of them—the giant with the wounded leg lay there sobbing in pain, not really knowing what was going on—they thought they were about to die.
“I will kill you,” Preacher went on, “unless you pick yourselves up, get the hell out of here, and never come back. If you do, if you cause these good folks even one second of trouble or grief, I’ll hear about it, and I’ll hunt you down and kill you slow. I’ve lived with the Injuns, boys, and they taught me all their tricks. I can keep a fella alive for days, sufferin’ more pain than you ever dreamed a man could suffer. It’s up to you. Die now, die later . . . or be smart and live.”
Cobey, the one Preacher had shot in the arm, looked at him and grated, “Who the hell are you?”
A grin stretched across the mountain man’s lean face. “They call me Preacher.”
The name meant something to a couple of the men, including the short, fat one. He said, “Damn it, Cobey, I’ve heard of Preacher. The Injuns call him Bear Killer. He fought a grizzly with just a knife.”
The other one who recognized Preacher’s name added, “We better do what he says. I ain’t hankerin’ to die today.”
Cobey didn’t look happy about it, but he couldn’t ignore what his companions had told him. He struggled to his feet, clutching his wounded arm again, and said, “Get Wick, and let’s get out of here.”
It took all three of the other men, including the one who was still blubbering about his nose being busted, to lift the giant off the floor. All three of them supported him as he limped toward the door. As he went out, he twisted his head around to look one last time at the girl. “Pretty,” he muttered. “Mighty pretty.”
From the corner of his eye, Preacher saw a shiver go through the girl’s slender form.
Cobey was the last one to back through the door onto the trading post’s porch. “I ain’t gonna forget y
ou, Preacher,” he said. “Our trails will cross again one of these days.”
“You’d best hope not,” Preacher said. “Next time, I might just shoot you on sight.”
“Not if I shoot you first.”
With that threat, Cobey turned away and stumbled after his friends, who were struggling to get the giant mounted on a rangy mule tied up outside along with the horses belonging to the rest of them.
Preacher stepped into the doorway and kept an eye on them as they mounted up. The shotgun was tucked under his arm now, but he could bring it into play in an instant if he needed to, and they knew it. He stood there, tall and vigilant, and watched as they rode away. He didn’t go back inside until the five men were out of sight.
The proprietor and his wife and daughter had already started trying to clean up the mess that the brawl had made. Preacher set the shotgun on a counter at the side of the room and moved to help them.
“No, Señor,” the proprietor said. “You have done enough already.” He pulled a chair over. “Please, sit. Would you like something to eat or drink?”
“Maybe later,” Preacher said as he nudged the chair aside. “Right now I’d like to help you straighten up. I’m partly to blame for that ruckus, I reckon.”
“Not at all,” the Mexican insisted. “Those gringo dogs deserve all the blame. No offense,” he added quickly.
Preacher flashed a grin. “None taken. I can’t speak for my dog, though. He might be insulted by the comparison.”
That made him look around. Dog had trotted off into a nearby stand of pines as they rode up, probably sniffing out a rabbit or something, so he hadn’t been around to take part in the fracas. Having the big cur at his side would have evened the odds considerably, but Preacher figured he had done all right on his own. He didn’t see Dog, but he knew the animal would be back later.
Together, he and the Mexican righted the whiskey barrel before all of the fiery stuff could leak out. The fumes were still potent. Preacher waved a hand in front of his face and said, “A fella could get drunk just takin’ a few deep breaths.”
“Lupita, open all the windows,” the proprietor said. “We must let more air in.”
“Si, Papá,” the girl said as she hurried to carry out his command.
The Mexican turned back to Preacher and extended his hand. “I am Vincente Ojeida. That is my wife Elgera and my daughter Lupita.”
Preacher shook hands with the man and said, “Glad to meet you, Vincente. I reckon you heard my name.”
“Sí. The fame of the mountain man called Preacher has reached even here.”
Preacher waved a hand. “Fame’s just a matter of luck, usually bad. You run into enough trouble and live through it, folks start to talk about you.”
“Like killing a grizzly bear with only a knife.”
“What folks don’t mention,” Preacher said dryly, “is that that ol’ griz came might dang close to killin’ me, too.”
“And yet you live.”
“I got an advantage some folks don’t,” Preacher said. “I’m just too blasted stubborn to die.”
THREE
Preacher and Vincente put the planks on the barrels to form a bar again while Elgera and Lupita mopped up the spilled whiskey as best they could and straightened the chairs and tables that had been knocked over. Both of the females fussed over Preacher, sitting him down at one of the tables and hurrying off to the kitchen in the rear of the building to prepare a meal for him. Vincente poured a couple of drinks, brought them over to the table, and sat down with Preacher. He sipped the whiskey, licked his lips, and said in satisfaction, “Ah.”
“I thought you fellas drank tequila, mescal, things like that,” Preacher commented.
“As a young man I ate many worms from the bottom of a bottle,” Vincente said, “but as I grew older and began to trade with Señors Bent and St. Vrain, I have learned to appreciate a good Scotch whiskey.”
Preacher laughed. “I don’t reckon I can argue with that.”
Vincente grew more serious. “I cannot thank you enough for what you did, Señor Preacher. I knew those men were trouble as soon as they came in, but I could not reach my shotgun in time. They were between me and it.”
“I’m a little surprised you don’t carry a pistol.”
“I am not a good shot,” Vincente said with a shrug. “The fact of the matter is, I am a man of peace, more suited to running a trading post than I am to fighting. I need a shotgun if I want to hit anything.” He drank a little more of the whiskey. “But you are right, Señor. From now on, I will always have a pistol close at hand.”
“That’s a good idea, out in the middle of nowhere like this. You never know when Injuns might come raidin’.”
“The Indians in the area are peaceful, for the most part. It is the white men I worry about. Again, I mean no offense.”
Preacher leaned back in his chair and cocked an ankle on the other knee. “I imagine there are a whole heap more gringos around here than there were before the Santa Fe Trail opened up.”
Vincente nodded. “Sí. The wagon trains pass through here every few weeks. Also, trappers who run their lines in the Sangre de Cristos come here for supplies. This is the closest place they can trade their pelts.”
Preacher’s interest perked up at the mention of trapping. “Many beaver to be found up in them mountains?”
“Some. Not the same as farther north. But there are fewer men trapping this far south, so it evens out, so to speak.”
“I was on my way back up to the Tetons, but I might tarry for a spell in the Sangre de Cristos, sort of check out the streams.”
Vincente beamed at him. “You will always be welcome here, Señor Preacher.”
“Make it just Preacher. Señor means mister, and I ain’t never been too comfortable with that.”
“Very well, Preacher. My house is your house.”
Elgera and Lupita came in then with platters of tortillas and bowls of beans and a pot of stew that smelled enticingly of chilies. Preacher and Vincente dug in, and although the stew was so hot it bid fair to blister his innards, it went down well and Preacher thoroughly enjoyed it. He had such a good time eating and visiting with the Ojeida family, in fact, that he almost forgot about the violence that had taken place earlier in the trading post. He was mighty glad he had decided to stop here for the night.
Later, he tended to Horse and left the big stallion in a shed behind the main building. Dog came dragging in, licking his chops, so Preacher knew he had filled up on rabbit and prairie dog, more than likely. Vincente had offered to let Preacher have the trading post’s one bedroom, saying that he and his family could make pallets for themselves in the main room, but Preacher wouldn’t hear of it. The weather was warm, although at this elevation the temperature would cool off considerably by morning, and he had a good bedroll that would suit him just fine. He told Vincente that he would spread his robes under the nearby trees.
“That’ll let me keep an eye on the place, too,” Preacher added in a low voice as he and Vincente stood on the porch after supper. Night had fallen, and the heavens were ablaze with a canopy of bright, twinkling stars. “Just in case that bunch decides to come back.”
“You do not think they would, do you?” Vincente asked with a worried frown on his face.
“No, I don’t,” Preacher answered honestly. “Shot up and beat up like they are, I reckon they went off somewheres to lick their wounds for a while. I don’t think they’ll bother you again. But you can’t never tell for sure what two-legged skunks will do. They’re worser than the four-legged kind.”
“Gracias, Preacher. Sleep well.”
“I always do. That’s the sign of a clear conscience, I reckon.”
Vincente hesitated. “I have heard it said that you have killed many men. . . .”
“Only them that needed killin’,” Preacher said.
The five men sat huddled around a small campfire, not far from the foot of the pass. They passed around a whiskey bottle. Mos
t of the time, the only sounds were the crackling of flames and an occasional muttered curse.
Cobey’s arm hurt like blazes. Once they had made camp, he had ordered Arnie to clean out the wound with some of their whiskey. Arnie had been reluctant to use good liquor for that purpose, but Cobey had insisted. He’d told Arnie to clean the wound in Wick’s leg the same way. Wick had whimpered and mewled like a hurt kitten the whole time.
There wasn’t much they could do for Hank’s busted nose. Arnie had tried for a while to push everything back into place, but he had given up because Hank was howling so much and thrashing around. “Let it heal crooked, for all I care,” Arnie had said in disgust.
Bert McDermott, who had been lucky enough to come through the brawl with only a few bruises, had laughed and said, “Yeah, Hank, it ain’t like you’re so handsome the gals are linin’ up for you. The rest of you is so ugly, chances are they’ll never notice a little thing like a crooked nose.”
Hank had taken offense at that, of course, and there might have been a fight if Cobey hadn’t growled at them to put a cork in it and settle down. They did what he said. None of the others really wanted to cross Cobey Larson, especially when he was mad to start with.
Now, as they sat around the fire, being careful not to stare into the flames and ruin their night vision, Cobey took a nip from the bottle and said, “That bastard’s gonna be sorry he ever crossed our trail.”
“I’m already sorry he crossed our trail,” Arnie said. “I was lookin’ forward to some beans an’ tortillas.”
“I wanted some tequila,” Bert said. “I can’t stand greasers, but they make some fine booze.”
Wick said, “That little girl sure was pretty. I wanted to comb my fingers through that long black hair of hers.”
“That ain’t all you wanted to do to her,” Bert gibed.
Wick looked down at the ground and flushed in embarrassment, although it was hard to tell that in the ruddy glow of the campfire. “I wouldn’t’a hurt her,” he said. “I’d’a been real careful with her, like she was a little doll or somethin’.”
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