Forty Guns West

by William W. Johnstone

  Now Preacher could, with almost dead accuracy, name every one of the men who’d been ambushed. He dug out a scrap of paper and a pencil and began writing down the names. Most of the men back yonder had kin, and they’d have to be notified. John Day had an Injun for a wife, but Preacher didn’t have any idea where they’d chose to cabin in for the winter. Sam Curtis, on the other hand, didn’t have anybody. He’d been an orphan when he ran off from the home and come west. Same with Onie. Preacher didn’t even know Onie’s last name or even if he had one. The others in the ambushed party would just have to lie in peace unknown, for Preacher couldn’t put names to them.

  But he could avenge them. And to hell with giving them murderin’ ambushers any more chances.

  * * *

  “I found a way out,”Jackson said, stepping down from the saddle and gratefully taking the offered canteen and drinking deeply. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “But when we leave, stay bunched up; don’t wander off. It’s a twisted mess.”

  Actually, it wasn’t that bad. It was just that these eastern men had never seen anything like the tortured and rocky canyons and it panicked them.

  “Good work, Jackson,” Bones said. “Get some rest. We’ll pull out at first light.”

  “Preacher?” Van Eaton asked.

  “God only knows where he is and what he’s doing.”

  * * *

  Preacher was waiting and watching about five miles inside the entrance to the canyons. He could see Jackson winding his way through the maze, lost as a goose and had been amused by the man’s uncertain actions. Preacher had always found his part of the country rather pleasing; but it could be a mite hard on a man if he didn’t know his way around.

  While Bones and his party were resting that late afternoon, Preacher dislodged a few good-sized boulders and blocked the trail that Jackson had so carefully marked out with loads of rocks and dirt. He returned to his camp and fixed his supper, working with a cold and savage smile on his lips. Tomorrow should turn out to be right interesting, Preacher thought to himself.

  * * *

  “I thought you said this way was clear?” Lige asked Jackson, a surly expression on his unshaven face.

  “It was, yesterday,” Jackson replied. “Rock slides happen.”

  “Now what?” Bones asked.

  “We either dig through all that piled up crap or take that other way through I told you about,” Jackson said.

  Those were the last words he ever spoke. Preacher’s rifle boomed and the ball struck Jackson squarely in the center of his chest. He toppled off his horse and landed heavily on the sand.

  Panic erupted on the canyon floor. Dozens of hooves churned up so much dust it blanketed the area like a thick, dirty fog. None of the man-hunters gave even a second thought to Jackson; not pausing long enough to see if he was dead or wounded. They just spurred their horses and ran for cover.

  Preacher knew a dozen other ways out of the canyons, easier ways, for the area in which Bones thought he was trapped was really not that large. It just seemed that way to a man who was lost.

  Preacher knew he was safe on the rim of the canyon. The sides were high and straight up. From where he sat, several hundred feet up, he could see two ways to leave this particular series of canyons. But he doubted those below would ever find them in time. He waited until the dust settled and the canyons were as silent as Jackson, sprawled on the sands.

  “Bones,” Preacher called. “I found them trappers you and your scum killed back yonder.” He waited for denial. None came. “Some of them boys was friends of mine. And the worst one of them was worth more than the whole bunch of you. I been fightin’ with my mind for days, tryin’ to figure out if I should just go on and lose you crappy bunch of fools. Them you ambushed back yonder made up my mind. I can’t let you people get back to civilization and kill more decent folks. I can’t have nothin’ like that on my conscience for the rest of my life. So y’all know what that means.”

  Preacher didn’t expect any reply, and none came. “I just thought I’d let you know where you all stood,” he called, then he began shifting locations, working his way around the edge of the rim, coming up, he hoped, behind Bones and his bunch.

  “I warned you all repeatedly that we should have given those men a proper burial,” Steinwinder chided all within the sound of his voice.

  “Aw, shut up!” Sutton told him. “I’m tared of you and that flappin’ mouth of yourn. Hell’s far, boy. You was the one who wanted to scalp some of ’em.”

  He never got to say another word. Preacher’s rifle boomed and Sutton took the ball through his head. He slumped against the now blood splattered, gray wall of the canyon.

  “What a disgusting sight!” Steinwinder said, as he quickly moved to a more secure position, away from Sutton.

  Preacher fired his second rifle and the big ball just missed Steinwinder’s head, throwing sand in the man’s eyes, and blinding him momentarily.

  “I’ve been gravely wounded!” the Austrian hollered, stumbling to his feet. “Help me. I’ve been blinded.”

  Jon Louviere jerked him down and bathed his eyes with water.

  Preacher was moving quickly, again angling for a better position. But the men had moved into the shadows of the canyon walls, and they were very difficult to spot. Preacher was all through playing games with the man-hunters. He wasn’t interested in shots that only wounded. He wanted an end to this. And he hadn’t been joking with Bones this time. Preacher was mad to the bone.

  “We’re trapped in here, Bones,” Evans said. “Preacher’ll just lay up yonder and pick us off one at a time.”

  “Maybe not. Jackson told me he’d found two ways out and marked both of them. Horace, you snake outta here and find that other pass.”

  “I’m gone,” the man said, and began crawling out, staying in the shadows.

  Up on the rim, Preacher passed up several shots that would have broken a leg or ankle or arm. He looked up at the sun. Nine o’clock, he guessed accurately. He had plenty of time.

  Horace Haywood found the other exit, but it was narrow and dark and twisting and he didn’t like the looks of it. But he liked it better than facing Preacher’s shooting. He edged his way back to Bones.

  “It’s there, all right. But it ain’t gonna be easy.”

  “Nothing has been on this trip,” Bones said wearily. “Water the horses several times today. All that we can spare. Keep them fresh and in that pocket back yonder. Strip the saddles from them and rub them down good. Then tie down anything that’ll rattle or make any kind of noise. That’ll keep the boys busy for a time. And stay in the shadows and out of sight. Come full dark, we’ll slip outta here.”

  Some of them wouldn’t.

  Flores mistook a round rock for Preacher’s head. He slipped out of the shadows and lifted his rifle to his shoulder. Preacher’s rifle sang its hot, smoky song and Flores was slammed back against the side of the canyon wall. “Mother of God,” he whispered. “I am truly going to die in this horrible place.”

  “One place is as good as another,” Prince Juan Zapata said, the Spanish penchant for fatalism surfacing at last in the man. “You are Catholic?”

  “Si.”

  “I will pray for you.”

  “Gracias, amigo.”

  Zapata’s dark, cold, and cruel eyes looked at the man. “Amigo?” He chuckled at the familiar usage from a man far beneath his royal class. “Well, why not? You know, Flores, up there on that rim is a better man than all of us.”

  “I know,” Flores whispered, both hands holding his bloody stomach. “But we found out too late. Que hombre.”

  “Yes, he is. What a grand adventure this was going to be. Some adventure, right, Flores?”

  Flores couldn’t answer. He was dead. Zapata gently closed the man’s eyes and lowered him full length to the sand.

  “What were you discussing with that peasant, Juan?” Sir Elmore asked.

  Zapata smiled. “You would never understand, Elmore. Not in
a million years. I’m not sure I do.”

  12

  Preacher had spotted the second way out of this series of canyons and left the rim above the man-hunters just after high noon. He’d seen Haywood crawling away and guessed correctly he was looking for another way out. Preacher had watched him return. From his vantage point, high above the group, Preacher would also see where the horses were being held and shortly after the man’s return, had spotted unusual activity there. He figured accurately that Haywood had found the way out and the trapped men would try to slip away just after dark. That would be just fine and dandy. He could be waiting.

  Preacher fired no more shots the remainder of that day. Just as the day began to cool and shadows were covering the entire canyon floor, Preacher heard several horses whining. Rifles loaded, he waited.

  As the pass widened near where Preacher waited, the escaping men would be outlined faintly. Preacher would choose his targets with care, for he did not want to kill a horse. He also knew that if he got two this time, he would be lucky, for at the sound of the first shot, the man-hunters would put the spurs to their horses and leave the pass at a full gallop.

  When the lead rider was faintly outlined, Preacher sighted in and squeezed the trigger. The man tumbled from the saddle. Just as he’d predicted, the men behind the fallen man-hunter shouted and spurred their horses. Preacher grabbed up his second rifle and snapped off a shot. He saw the man jerk as the ball hit him, but the rider managed to stay in the saddle. Then the canyon was filled with dust and Preacher could see nothing. He reloaded his rifles and listened to the pound of hooves gradually fade into the early night. He wasn’t worried; that many men would leave a trail anybody could follow. He’d pick it up come the morning. He made his way down to the canyon floor and stripped the saddle and bridle from the horse, turning the animal loose.

  Preacher had been lucky, for the second man had been leading a packhorse. When the ball struck him, he lost the lead rope. Preacher smashed the weapons, rendering them useless, left the dead man where he was and took the packhorse back to his camp. The man probably had gold on him, but Preacher didn’t want it. He relieved the animal of his burden and sat down to fix supper. He’d go through the newly found supplies at first light.

  Over coffee, Preacher tried to put himself in the boots of the man-hunters. Where would they go? They were all eastern men, and most would want to get back to familiar territory. They did not know this country, and would probably elect to go back the same way they came. That was only a guess on Preacher’s part, but he felt it was a good one.

  Or was it? By now, the news of all those warrants against him being lifted would be common knowledge at Bent’s Fort. Bones might not want to take the chance of running into any of Preacher’s friends at the fort and risk gunplay. So the group might decide to head north and then cut east. Well, he’d know come the morning.

  * * *

  It was a silent bunch of men who finally reined in their weary horses and made camp. They had escaped the canyon but they all knew they had not escaped Preacher. The mountain man would be after them likes fleas to a dog.

  They’d lost one packhorse, but still had supplies a-plenty to get them back to civilization. And to a man, that’s where they wanted to go. They all agreed they wanted no more of the mountains and the mountain man called Preacher. Even the gentry agreed with that, albeit reluctantly.

  “Preacher’s gonna follow us if it takes him to hell,” Van Eaton spoke softly to Bones. “We ain’t never gonna be rid of that mountain man.”

  “I know,” Bones said, weariness in his voice. Like the others, Bones was dirty and could smell the rancid stink from his body. His clothing was stiff with dirt and days-old sweat. “But I’m out of ideas.”

  “I got one,” Van Eaton said. “We run like the devil hisself is after us.”

  “He is,” Bones whispered. “He is.”

  * * *

  Preacher had inspected the supplies, took what he needed, and turned the packhorse loose. Then he was on the trail of the man-hunters. He followed their tracks and found their now deserted camp. A dead man lay stiffening on the ground. Preacher figured it was the man he’d shot coming out of the canyon. Some of those with Bones had taken everything of value from the man, even taking his pants, jacket, and boots.

  “You shore teamed up with a pack of lousy no-counts,” Preacher said to the dead man. “But I reckon you wasn’t no better than them so I ain’t gonna waste my time plantin’ you.” He left the dead man and headed out, following the easy to see trail.

  Bones was leading the men straight north. “You won’t go north long, Bones,” Preacher said. “You’ll have to cut east in about three or four days. And I know where that’ll be.” He knew that Bones had some sort of a crude map, for one of the men who chose to remain with the missionaries had told him so.

  “So I ’spect you’ll be cuttin’ some east today. Just about noon. I’ll be a-waiting’ for you, Bones. I’m gonna drive you back into the mountains, ol’ son. You ain’t gettin’ out on the Plains. Not if I can help it. And I can help it.” He lifted the reins. “Come on, Thunder. We got some hard travelin’ to do.”

  * * *

  “This ain’t like Preacher,” Bones said. “I don’t believe for a second he’s given up. So where is he?”

  The nobility had been strangely silent for the past two days. They had finally begun to grasp the seriousness of it all. They had finally got it through their aristrocratic noggins that there was a very good chance they were going to die. Juan Zapata had sensed it first, back in the canyon. Robert Tassin had been next in line to understand the gravity of it all, and that feeling of doom had quickly spread to the others. They understood now that out here in the wilderness, their wealth and station in life meant nothing. They were in a situation where their money could not buy them out of it. And that knowledge was beginning to show on them. For the past two nights they had huddled together, speaking in low tones.

  Bones knew the gentry was up to something. What, he didn’t know. And he didn’t care. He personally hoped they would break off and go it alone.

  And that’s exactly what they did.

  The group had been traveling through a rough and dense part of the country, with each man having to concentrate on his own business. No one seemed to notice as the nobility began lagging behind ... along with several other men. When Bones halted the group for food and rest at about noon, the gentry were gone, along with Dutch, Percy, Falcon, Hunter, and Bates.

  “Hell with them,” Van Eaton said. “I’m glad to be shut of the whole bunch.”

  “Yeah,” Haywood said. “We got our money so who cares. Maybe Preacher will spend his time chasin’ after them and leave us alone.”

  “But they took two of the mules and a lot of supplies,” Lige pointed out.

  Bones shrugged his shoulders. “I’m just glad they’re gone. Good riddance.”

  * * *

  Preacher studied the ground carefully. The bunch had separated here. Bones and his people were still headin’ for the Plains, and twelve or thirteen others had continued on to the north. “Interestin’,” Preacher muttered.

  He had miscalculated where Bones would cut due east, and lost time in backtracking. But Bones had made a bad choice and had to travel through mighty rough country. Preacher figured he was only hours behind Bones. So he’d come up behind them. That was fine. He knew a short cut around this bushy tangle that Bones knew nothing about. And that might put him ahead of Bones. But it would be close. Real close.

  * * *

  “You seem to be the most capable among us, Mister, ah, Dutch,” Sir Elmore Jerrold-Taylor said to the burly man. “So we have voted and you shall lead.”

  “Fine. First thing we got to do is get hid from Preacher. And I mean, hid good. When we get done restin’ here, we’ll take to that crick over yonder and stay in it long as we can. We’ll leave it several times, but always come back to it. That’ll cause Preacher to waste a lot of time huntin’ for ou
r tracks. We’ll find us a place to hole up. Bet on it.”

  “Excellent thinkingl” the duke exclaimed. “You get us through, and you shall receive a bonus.”

  Dutch nodded his head. “I want me a shot at Preacher. I owe that no-good. I really do.”

  “Perhaps you might think up a fine plan for an ambush, Dutch?” Baron Wilhelm Zaunbelcher suggested.

  “I been thinkin’ on one. I surely have.”

  * * *

  Preacher beat Bones and his bunch by only a few minutes. But it was time enough for him to load up all his rifles and get into position. He would be shooting downhill, but the grade was a gentle one. And they had to come through, or try to come through, this pass, or else go miles out of their way. But Preacher wasn’t going to allow them through ... if he could help it.

  Preacher let the first few riders enter the pass and then he emptied a saddle. Will Herdman was slammed out of his saddle, dead before he bounced on the rocky trail. Preacher grabbed up another rifle, but he was too late. Bones and crew were learning fast. Those who had entered the pass had left their horses and taken cover behind the huge boulders that littered the gap. Preacher reloaded and settled down for a long wait.

  “Preacher!” Bones shouted from the mouth of the pass. “Listen to me, Preacher. The gentry is gone. They left us. We ain’t got no more quarrel with you. This was a job of work, Preacher. That’s all. You takin’ this personal.”