Preacher's Kill

by William W. Johnstone

  Full night had fallen by the time they reached Fullerton’s Livery Stable. The proprietor, Ambrose Fullerton, was a short, round man with a white beard and a genius’s touch with animals. Preacher wouldn’t trust Horse to anybody else in St. Louis, and he knew Fullerton wouldn’t mind if Dog stayed here, too.

  Fullerton came out of the office as Preacher and Hawk led the four horses into the barn’s broad center aisle. He shook hands with Preacher and patted Horse on the shoulder and Dog on the head. They wouldn’t accept such familiarity from many people.

  “And who’s this?” Fullerton said as he smiled at Hawk.

  “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.

  CHAPTER 4

  The girl stood there in a simple homespun dress from which the sleeves had been cut to leave her arms uncovered. Actually, the garment was a little ragged and worn, but on her it looked like an elegant gown as it hugged her generously curved figure. Long, straight fair hair framed a heart-shaped face. She was a mixture of innocence and worldly beauty, and the striking contrast made her even more appealing. Preacher was too old and had known too many women to ever be thrown for a loop by any of them, but even he had to admit this one was damned good-looking.

  As for Hawk, he looked a little like he had been walloped between the eyes by an ax handle.

  The man who had been complaining about being forced to make room for Preacher and Hawk at the bar was gawking, too. The girl offered the tankard of beer to him and went on, “Here, take this. It’s on the house, isn’t it, Mike?”

  “It sure is,” Mike said. A smirk lifted the corners of his mouth. “Why don’t you take your beer over to one of the tables, mister? Maybe Chessie will bring you another one in a little while.”

  “I’d be happy to,” the girl said. She pressed the tankard into the man’s hand, turned him around, and steered him toward a table. He went willingly, with a stunned smile on his face.

  “You showed up just in time, darlin’,” Mike said to the girl he had referred to as Chessie. “Not that this would’ve been the first time a dandy little fracas got started in here, usually involving this woolly-lookin’ spalpeen you see before you. Ain’t that right, Preacher?”

  Hawk found his voice and asked, “What did he say? I am confused.”

  Preacher ignored the youngster and smiled at the gal. “Mike makes me sound like a troublemaker,” he said, “but when you come right down to it, I’m a peaceable man. They call me Preacher.”

  She held out a slim white hand and said, “Chessie Dayton.”

  Preacher clasped her hand, aware of how smooth her skin was against his rough, callused palm. “It’s a plumb honor to meet you, Miss Chessie.” He turned a little to nod at Hawk and added, “This here is my son, Hawk That Soars.”

  “What an inspiring name,” she said, then glanced at Preacher. “He’s not a . . . savage . . . is he?”

  Instead of letting Preacher answer, Hawk said, “I am savage only to my enemies, and I never make war on women. You have nothing to fear from me.”

  “Oh! You speak English.”

  “I am half-white,” Hawk said solemnly, “so I should know the white man’s tongue.”

  “You speak it very well.”

  Mike laughed and said, “Better than most of the louts who come in here.”

  Preacher said, “I don’t recollect seein’ you before, Miss Chessie.”

  “That’s because I haven’t worked here for long,” she said. “Mike was kind enough to give me a job after—”

  She stopped short. Preacher saw something in her eyes. A flash of a painful memory, maybe. That was confirmed by Mike, who leaned both hands on the bar and said quietly, “Both of Chessie’s folks died of a fever a while back. She was left to shift for herself, so I found a place for her here, servin’ drinks.” His voice hardened as he added, “And that’s all she does.”

  Preacher knew what the Irishman meant by that. Mike was warning them that Chessie wouldn’t be entertaining any men upstairs. He had a reputation for having iron-hard fists and a lump of flint for a heart, but Preacher knew Mike had a sentimental streak in him as well, like most sons of the Emerald Isle.

  “Well, it’s good to know you, miss,” the mountain man said, “and I hope that life treats you a mite better in the future.”

  “Thank you. Can I get you anything?”

  “I reckon Mike can take care of that.”

  “Indeed I can,” Mike said. He filled another tankard with ale and placed it on the bar in front of Preacher, then looked at Hawk and raised his bushy red brows quizzically.

  “I want nothing to drink,” Hawk said rather curtly.

  Since the youngster was half-white, Preacher didn’t know if liquor would affect him as badly as it did most Indians. Of course, Preacher had seen plenty of drunken white men, too. But either way, Hawk’s refusal of the drink wasn’t a bad thing. Since he was in surroundings that were almost totally alien to him, it was probably best that he keep a clear head.

  As for Preacher, alcohol had never muddled him any, so he picked up the tankard and took a long swallow. With a nod to Mike, he said, “Good as always. Really cuts the dust.”

  Some men at one of the tables were calling for service. Mike pointed them out to Chessie and handed her a bucket of beer. As she left to deliver the bucket, Mike said to Preacher and Hawk, “I appreciate you fellows holding your temper just now.”

  “We didn’t come in here lookin’ for a fight,” Preacher said. “We’re more interested in findin’ a place to spend a night or two before we head back to the mountains.”

  “Did you bring in a load of pelts to sell?”

  Preacher nodded. “Yeah. Made a deal for ’em with Vernon Pritchard over at the American Fur Company.”

  Mike frowned and asked, “Has he paid you yet?”

  “No, we’ll go by there tomorrow and pick up the money. Why do you want to know? I’ve got a few gold and silver pieces, I can pay for our rooms—”

  Mike stopped the mountain man with a wave of his hand. “It’s not that. I was just going to warn you that if you’re carrying a very big sum, it’d be a good idea for you to get out of St. Louis as quickly as you can. ’Tis not as safe here as it once was. You’d be better off out on the trail.”

  “Yeah, I keep hearin’ that,” Preacher said, “but we were out on the trail when we got ambushed a couple of days ago.”

  “Ambushed!” Mike repeated. “What happened?”

  Between sips of beer, Preacher explained to the tavern keeper about the two men who had taken potshots at him and Hawk.

  “I put their horses down at Fullerton’s along with our mounts,” Preacher concluded. “Ol’ Ambrose recognized ’em. Said he had them there in his stalls for a few nights, and that the men who were ridin’ ’em came into town with a bunch of other hard-lookin’ fellas. The boss seemed to be a big man with one of those fancy curlicue mustaches.”

  “Like this?” Mike pantomimed a mustache that curled up on the ends.

  “That’s what Fullerton said.”

  Mike leaned on the bar again, frowned darkly, and said, “Preacher, I’ve seen that fella in here. He’s Hoyt Ryker.”

  Preacher was taking a drink as Mike spoke. He stopped, slowly lowered the tankard to the bar, and stiffened.

  “Ryker?”

  “None other.”

  “He didn’t have a mustache like that the last time I saw him.”

  “No, I don’t suppose he did,” Mike said. “How long ago was it that the two of you had that run-in?”

  Preacher rubbed his darkly beard-stubbled chin and frowned in thought as he tried to remember. After a moment he said, “Got to be three or four years. Maybe even longer.”

  “Yeah, Ryker’s changed some since then. He’s gotten bigger and meaner, if that’s possible.”

  Preacher grunted. “Wouldn’t have thought it was.”

  His mind went back to his previous encounter with Hoyt Ryker. The trouble hadn’t happened here in Red Mike’s but rather in another tavern, closer to the river and even more of a dive. A tall, brawny young man had come in and started boasting of his prowess at throwing a knife. Preacher had no use for braggarts, so he ignored the man as best he could.

  Others in the tavern had egged him on, though, daring him to back up his boasts. All of them were drunk, including the young man, but that hadn’t stopped him from grabbing one of the serving girls, shoving her up against the wall, and ordering her to stand there as he took out a long,
heavy-bladed hunting knife. He’d claimed that he could stand across the room, throw the knife, and put it within six inches of the girl’s ear.

  Preacher figured the proprietor might put a stop to this dangerous tomfoolery, but the man didn’t seem to care as long as his customers kept spending money. And if the man with the knife missed . . . what was one wench more or less in this world?

  Finally, Preacher’s disgust had forced him to his feet. The knife thrower was standing there with a big, drunken grin on his face as he drew back his arm and got ready. Other men shouted encouragement and furiously placed bets on whether or not the girl would survive.

  On the other side of the room, the pale, terrified girl shook like she had the ague. The young man had warned her not to move, though, or else he’d give her a beating. And none of the riverfront scum in this place would stop him . . .

  Except for one man whose home was the mountains.

  The sleeves of the young man’s homespun shirt were rather loose and hung down a little. Standing twenty feet away, Preacher drew his own knife and let fly without a lot of posing and posturing as he aimed. The blade flew true, pierced the man’s shirtsleeve without touching the flesh underneath, and pinned the garment to the wall behind the man, jerking him a step along with it. He let out a startled shout and dropped the knife.

  Preacher had walked across the suddenly quiet room, kicked the fallen knife aside, and then turned to look at the girl and say, “Go on and get outta here, darlin’, while you got the chance.”

  While he was doing that, the boastful young man, his face twisted with hate, reached up with his other hand, wrenched Preacher’s knife free from the wall, and tried to plunge the blade into the mountain man’s back.

  Preacher had expected that. He turned, seemingly leisurely, and caught hold of the young man’s wrist before the thrust could strike him. A twist hard enough to make bones grind together had sent the young man to his knees and brought a cry of pain to his lips. With his other hand, Preacher easily plucked the knife out of the man’s suddenly nerveless fingers.