Preacher's Fortune

by William W. Johnstone

  Preacher didn’t figure things had changed all that much, but the priest wouldn’t want to hear that. He would just sneer at whatever Preacher had to say.

  “Maybe you’re right,” he muttered. “Anyway, we’ll be pushin’ on.”

  They followed the river, stopping a short time later for the noon meal, then pushing on westward. In the middle of the afternoon, they came in sight of something that, to Preacher’s keen eyes, looked unnatural and out of place in these surroundings. After a moment he realized what he was seeing was the remains of some tumbled-down stone walls. It was seeing something man-made in the midst of all these natural wonders that struck him as odd. He knew he had to be looking at the ruins of Mission Santo Domingo.

  None of the others had noticed the old walls yet. He drew back on the reins and brought Horse to a halt. Esteban stopped, too, and asked, “Is something wrong?”

  “Nope,” Preacher replied. “If you look up yonder, you’ll see what’s left of that ol’ mission the padre was talkin’ about.”

  Esteban looked where Preacher pointed, and his face grew excited. He turned in the saddle and called, “Juanita! Father Hortensio! It is the mission!” He rose in his stirrups and leveled an arm toward the ruins.

  Father Hortensio urged the Yaqui driving the lead wagon to hurry. The stolid-faced Indian flapped the reins against the backs of the mules and struck them with a long, slender stick he used as a whip. The wagons quickly caught up with Preacher and Esteban. When they stopped beside the two horsemen, Father Hortensio scrambled down from the seat of the lead wagon and peered at what was left of the fallen mission walls. He looked more excited than Preacher had seen him so far. He made the sign of the cross and then began offering up a prayer of some sort in Latin. Preacher couldn’t even come close to following the words.

  “Now that we are here, where Don Francisco started when he rode out to conceal the treasure, we can study his manuscript more closely and see where to go next,” Esteban said.

  “You’ve got the manuscript with you?” Preacher asked.

  “Of course. Did you think we would not bring it with us?”

  Preacher shrugged. “For all I knew, you just wrote down the parts about where to find the church loot and left the manuscript someplace safe.”

  “No, we brought the entire document.”

  “The only copy?”

  “Yes, but—” Esteban stopped short. “I see what you mean. If anything happened to it, our chances of finding the treasure would be much worse.”

  “That’s what I was thinkin’. I reckon we’ll stay here tonight and get a good start on the search in the mornin’. Whilst we’re here, it might be a good idea to copy down what those old pages say.”

  Esteban nodded. “Yes, I will do that. An excellent idea, Preacher. We should have thought of it before we left Mexico City.”

  “Of course, in a way you might’ve had the right idea,” Preacher mused. “If you’d left the manuscript behind, there was always the chance that somebody else could get hold of it and figure out where you’d gone and what you were after.”

  “This is true. Still, I should make a copy—”

  Father Hortensio abruptly broke off his prayer and said sharply, “Listen! Do you hear that? There are cries coming from the ruins!”

  Preacher narrowed his eyes and canted his head toward the old mission. He hadn’t noticed the sounds before, even with his keen ears, probably because the priest’s sonorous Latin had drowned them out. But now he heard them clearly enough. Somebody was up there in those ruins....

  And from the way they were hollering, they were in some sort of trouble.

  NINE

  “Stay here!” Preacher told the others. “I’ll see what’s goin’ on up there.”

  “I can come, too,” Esteban said.

  “Stay here,” Preacher said again, “and keep a hand on your gun!”

  With that, he heeled Horse into a gallop toward the tumbled-down walls. Dog bounded along with him.

  The shouts became louder and more strident as Preacher approached the ruins. Whoever was yelling must have heard him coming, because the sounds took on an added urgency. Preacher could make out the words now, and to his surprise, they were in English.

  “Help! For God’s sake, somebody help me!”

  Preacher couldn’t see anybody yet. Parts of all four walls of the mission’s main building were still standing, and one of the walls seemed to be mostly intact. Off to the side were what was left of several smaller buildings, but Preacher could see that nobody was around them. The man yelling for help had to be on the other side of that biggest mission wall.

  Suddenly, Preacher pulled Horse back to a walk. It had occurred to him that he and his companions probably had enemies in these mountains. He could be riding into a trap. Instead of charging blindly around the corner of the old building, he stopped, dismounted, and drew both pistols from his belt.

  “Hello, the mission!” he called. “What’s wrong?”

  The frantic shouts stopped for a second as the man heard Preacher’s call. Then he said, “Please, sir, help me! There . . . there’s a snake . . . I . . . I’m afraid it’s going to strike! For the love of God, sir!”

  Preacher walked closer with the guns leveled in front of him. As he neared the corner of the building, he heard something that confirmed at least part of what the frightened man had said. The fierce, buzzing rattle was unmistakable. There was a rattlesnake somewhere close by, and it was mad as hell.

  Preacher thought the fear in the man’s voice was as real as that rattle, too. He took another step and swung to his right, around the corner of the old mission. He saw a man with his back pressed up to the stone wall and his hands splayed against it. The stranger was staring at a jumble of rocks about five feet away from his feet. The snake was coiled in those rocks, his thick, mottled brown body wrapped tightly around itself, his head up and his tongue flickering from his mouth as the rattle at his other end buzzed madly.

  “You’re doin’ fine, pilgrim,” Preacher told the man quietly. “Just keep standin’ still whilst I draw a bead. That rattler’s a big son of a bitch.”

  Indeed, although it was hard to tell with the snake coiled up like that, Preacher figured it was at least six feet long, which meant that if it struck, it could reach the terrified man who stood by the wall. Moving deliberately, without too much haste but without wasting any time, either, Preacher extended his right arm and aimed the pistol in his hand. It was cocked and primed and ready to fire, just as soon as he was sure of his aim....

  The rattling rose to a crescendo. The snake started to strike just as Preacher pulled the trigger.

  The pistol roared and bucked in Preacher’s hand. He was afraid that the snake’s movement had thrown his aim off a little, and as he stepped forward through the smoke, he saw that he was right. The pistol ball had struck the snake just behind the head, severing it from the body. With some momentum already established, the head itself kept going for a couple of feet before dropping to the ground.

  “Stay away from that head!” Preacher snapped at the stranger. “That bastard can still bite you! He don’t know he’s dead yet.”

  He could see the snake’s jaws still working, trying to sink his fangs into something and inject his venom into it. A couple of feet away, the headless body coiled and writhed and thrashed.

  Preacher brought the heel of his boot down on the head and felt the satisfying crunch of bones as he stomped it. He ground the head into the rocky dirt, then picked up a stick and used it to flip the grisly remains away. He did the same thing with the snake’s blood-dripping body.

  The stranger was still leaning against the wall, but it was in relief now, not terror. His face was bathed in sweat despite the coolness. He said, “Thank God you came along when you did, sir!” and started to step away from the wall.

  Preacher swept up his left-hand gun and fired again, aiming this time at the stranger’s feet. The man shrieked and leaped in the air. When he came
down, he landed awkwardly and fell to one knee.

  Preacher leaned over and lifted the body of another snake on his pistol barrel. This one was smaller, only half the size of the monster Preacher had first shot, but he had no doubt it was just as venomous. His hurried shot had been accurate, striking the serpent in the head just as it launched itself at the man’s leg. The heavy lead ball had completely disintegrated the head.

  As Preacher tossed the second snake away, he said to the stranger, “Sorry there weren’t time to warn you, friend. That snake come through a hole in the wall right next to your feet. Probably the mate o’ that big son of a bitch. Figured I’d best just go ahead and shoot it whilst I had the chance.”

  The man was shaking. “Are . . . are there any more of those awful creatures around here?”

  Preacher glanced around at the ruins of the old mission and said, “I wouldn’t be a bit surprised. Snakes like rocky places like this. Plenty o’ places for ’em to den up. If you watch where you’re steppin’, though, and don’t start turnin’ over rocks, chances are you won’t get bit. Most times, a snake’ll slither off without botherin’ nobody when a man comes around, if he’s got half a chance to. They only coil up and get angrified if they feel cornered, or if there’s a lot of loud noise. All that yellin’ you were doin’ probably irritated the hell out o’ them snakes.”

  The man pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his sweat-drenched face. “I wasn’t too happy about it myself.”

  Preacher started to reload his pistols. As he did so, he glanced at the stranger, taking his measure. The man was tall and slender and dressed like an Easterner, in tight trousers and shoes instead of boots and a tweed waistcoat. He wore a beaver hat on his head and had muttonchop side-whiskers. All in all, he looked about as out of place in the foothills of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains as a man could possibly be.

  “No offense, friend,” Preacher said as he tucked the loaded pistols behind his belt again, “but what the hell are you doin’ here?”

  “I . . . I came to study this old mission. I’m a historian and scholar of religion. My name is Rufus Chambers. Dr. Rufus Chambers.”

  Preacher frowned. “You’re a sawbones, too, besides all that other stuff you said?”

  “My doctorate is in philosophy, not medicine,” Rufus Chambers said. “I’m on sabbatical from Harvard.”

  “All right,” Preacher said, not quite sure what a sabbatical was. Some kind of wagon, maybe. He had heard of Harvard and knew it was a fancy school back East somewhere. He couldn’t for the life of him figure out how a greenhorn like Chambers had gotten from there to here without getting himself killed somewhere along the way.

  He heard hoofbeats coming from farther west along the river and looked in that direction when Dog growled. “Is . . . is that beast tame?” Chambers asked. “It looks like a wolf.”

  “Naw, he’s a dog . . . mostly,” Preacher replied. “And he’s tame . . . mostly.” He saw two riders approaching the old mission in a hurry. They wore buckskin and homespun. One sported a coonskin cap, the other a trapper’s hat with a wide brim, much like Preacher’s hat. Each man carried a rifle.

  “Ah,” Chambers said. “My guides have returned.”

  So that was how he had managed to survive. He had hired a couple of experienced frontiersmen to look after him. That was a pretty good idea, considering the man’s inexperience. Those two should have stayed closer, though, because Chambers had almost gotten himself killed wandering around by himself in these ruins.

  The men rode up and reined to a halt, casting wary glances toward Preacher as they did so. “You all right, Professor?” the one in the coonskin cap asked. “We heard a couple o’ shots.”

  “Yes, I’m fine, Mr. Powers,” Chambers said. “I had a perilous encounter with a pair of angry reptiles, but this gentleman came along in time to dispose of them for me.”

  “I shot a couple o’ rattlesnakes, is what he’s tryin’ to say,” Preacher put in.

  The man called Powers frowned at him. “Who are you, mister?”

  “They call me Preacher.”

  The two guides exchanged a glance, and Preacher knew they had heard of him.

  “Well, I’m certainly glad to meet you, Mr. Preacher,” Chambers said. “Allow me to introduce my guides, Mr. Powers and Mr. Worthy.”

  Both men gave Preacher curt nods, which he returned in kind.

  “They were scouting along the river and left me here to explore the ruins,” Chambers went on. “I didn’t think there would be any danger.”

  “Your guides there should’ve knowed better.”

  “How was we supposed to know he’d stumble into a den of rattlers?” the one called Worthy asked in surly tones.

  “You never saw any snakes in a place like this before?” Preacher shot back.

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen, there’s no need to argue,” Chambers put in. “The important thing is that no one was hurt. Well, except for the snakes, of course. And I, for one, don’t intend to lose any sleep over them.”

  Preacher turned to the Easterner again. “You plan on stayin’ around here for a while?” he asked.

  “Yes, indeed. I don’t know for how long. I’m conducting a study of Spanish missions, preparatory to writing a volume of history concerning the spread of religion through uncivilized areas and the obstacles encountered in the inevitable collision with more primitive cultures, and I suppose I’ll stay as long as my researches require.” Chambers looked guilelessly at Preacher. “Why? My presence here doesn’t represent a problem, does it?”

  “That’s one thing about the frontier,” Preacher said, not answering the question directly. “A fella can go where he pleases, as long as he can stay alive doin’ it.”

  “Oh. Of course. I thought perhaps you represented the Mexican government. I have permission from the government to be here, arranged through the university in Mexico City.”

  “I don’t represent nobody but myself,” Preacher said. “I sure as hell don’t speak for any government, Mexican, American, or otherwise.”

  Powers spoke up. “Professor, when we were ridin’ in, we spotted a couple of wagons parked beside the river a few hundred yards east of here.”

  “Those folks are with me,” Preacher said.

  “I suppose you want to move on, then,” Chambers said. He extended his hand. “Thank you for stopping and coming to my assistance, Mister . . . Preacher, was it?”

  “Just Preacher.” He ignored the professor’s hand. “Fact of the matter is, we were bound for this old mission, too.”

  “Oh.” Chambers’s face lit up. “Are your companions scholars, too?”

  “You could say that. One of ’em’s a priest.”

  “Excellent! I can question him directly about the expansion of the Church into the province of Nuevo Mexico. It’s quite a bloodstained tale, from what I understand.”

  Preacher rubbed his chin. He didn’t like Powers and Worthy, and Rufus Chambers seemed like the sort of fella who would get mighty annoying to have around after a while. Not only that, but the presence of these three Americans at Mission Santo Domingo could complicate the search for the missing treasure that much more.

  Still, Preacher thought that watching the professor and Father Hortensio going at it hammer and tongs might be pretty entertaining to watch. There was nothing he could do about it, either. If he tried to run off Chambers and the two guides, that would likely just make them suspicious.

  He and Esteban and Juanita would have to come up with some reasonable story to explain why they were here. Then he and Esteban could carry on with the search while Juanita, Father Hortensio, and the Yaquis stayed here at the mission to keep an eye on Chambers and the other two men. The whole situation was trickier now, but not impossible.

  “I’ll ride on out and bring the wagons in,” Preacher said. “You watch your step, Professor, hear?”

  “Indeed I shall! I don’t want to stir up any more poisonous snakes.”

  “Venomous,” Preac
her said as he gathered Horse’s reins.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Them rattlers ain’t poisonous. I’ve eaten rattlesnake meat more’n once in my life. Tastes a mite like chicken. They can’t hurt you unless they bite you, so they’re venomous.”

  “I see,” Chambers said with a frown. “Perhaps you should be teaching the natural sciences back at Harvard, Preacher.”

  The mountain man swung up into the saddle. “Professor Preacher?” He shook his head. “I don’t reckon that’d be a good idea.”

  He had his doctorate, whatever that was, in staying alive.

  TEN

  Esteban and Juanita were worried about the news that Preacher brought back to the wagons, but Father Hortensio was absolutely livid.

  “Impossible!” the priest declared. “Those men have no right to be here!”

  “They claim they got permission from the Mexican government.”

  “Impossible!” Father Hortensio said again. “The government and the Church work closely together. If there was some sort of American expedition bound for Mission Santo Domingo, I would have heard about it.”

  “Maybe the arrangements were made after we left Mexico City,” Esteban suggested. “We have been on the trail quite some time, after all.”

  That explanation made sense to Preacher. He didn’t know how long it took to get from Harvard to Nuevo Mexico. To tell the truth, he wasn’t exactly sure where Harvard was. He was a mite foggy on his geography when it came to places east of the Mississippi.

  “No matter what the arrangements were,” he said, “Professor Chambers and them other two fellas are here, and I don’t reckon we can run ’em off without causin’ more trouble. We’ll just have to keep an eye on ’em, that’s all.”

  Father Hortensio muttered some more, but Preacher ignored him. It was Esteban who asked a more pertinent question.

  “What do we tell them about why we are here?”

  “I been thinkin’ on that,” Preacher said. “How about we say that you and your sister have an old land grant from the King of Spain that gives you the right to some land up here, and you’re scoutin’ it out for the family?”