“Things have changed, sir.”
“I noticed. You folks give badges to loudmouthed bullies, do you?”
“It can be a very rough job, Preacher. Takes a rough man.”
“He wouldn’t last fifteen minutes in the wilderness,” Preacher countered. “He’d be totin’ that badge in a mighty uncomfortable place.”
The judge could not contain his chuckle while one of the other men looked embarrassed. “Preacher,” the judge said, “I must give you some advice. You may take it, or ignore it. But I assure you, I mean well.”
“Speak your piece.”
“You have come from a land filled with hostiles and fraught with danger. But it isn’t that way here. We have laws and codes of conduct that most obey and follow. The marshal was out of line. Frankly, I feel he deserved what he got. Others will not see it that way. They would feel he was only doing his job the best he saw fit. You are traveling east, sir?”
“I am.”
“The laws will become more firmly enforced the further east you travel. You will be seeing more towns and villages with more marshals, more constables, and more sheriffs. The wearing of skins has almost passed. So you will be attracting more and more attention as you travel. Most lawmen will be cordial and civil with you. There will be some who might take a more aggressive stance.”
“If they bother me whilst I ain’t done nothin’, they won’t be aggressive for long.” Preacher spoke the words hard and flat and no man there doubted the famed mountain man’s intent.
“Some cities have passed laws forbidding the carrying of firearms.”
“I hope they don’t try to forbid me.”
“Do you understand what I am trying to tell you, Preacher?” the judge pressed him.
“Sure I do. And I thank you kindly.” He stood up. “I’m not a trouble-huntin’ man, Judge. I come east to do two things. One of them is to see my ma and pa. I ain’t seen them in over twenty years. Now compared to you-all and your hand-sewn pretty duds, I know I just look like a savage, but fancy clothes don’t no gentleman make. As long as people leave me alone, there ain’t nobody got nothin’ to fear from Preacher. Oh, tell your marshal he best find a job farmin’. Constablin’ seems to be a mite wearin’ on the man.”
Four days later, Preacher swung down from the saddle and gave the reins to a livery boy. “Rub him down and feed him good, boy,” he told the young man, who was staring openmouthed at Preacher’s manner of dress. “Dave Mott still own this place?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Fine.” He gave the boy a coin and walked into the combination general store, tavern, hotel, eatin’ place, and livery.
An old man looked up from behind the counter and grinned hugely. “Wagh!” he hollered. “Ain’t you a sight to behold, Preacher.”
The two men hugged each other and done a little dance, much to the delight of several of the patrons, who were shopping in the store.
“You old mountain lion!” Preacher said. “How can you stand it out here amongst all these pilgrims?”
Dave Mott had left the mountains about ten years back, bought this place, and settled in. Had said his rheumatism was gettin’ too bad for him to stay up in the high country any longer. Dave had kept in touch right good though. Why, he’d posted three letters west in ten years. Even though it sometimes took them two years or so to reach the addressee.
“I heard you got married, Dave.”
“I did. My wife’s visitin’ her sister up country. You let me wait on these customers and we’ll crack us a jug and talk some, Preacher.”
When the customers were gone, Dave closed the store, and then he and Preacher went into the tavern part and opened a bottle of whiskey, taking a corner table. They had the place to themselves.
“I come east for two reasons, Dave,” Preacher said. “I want to see my ma and pa one more time, and I’m huntin’ a man.”
Dave slugged back a snort and said, “I got a man stayin’ here who acts like he’s bein’ hunted. Funniest actin’ feller I ever did see. Name is Bedell.”
Preacher set his cup down with a bang. “Vic Bedell?”
But Dave shook his head. “No. But they might be brothers. This man’s name is Chris Bedell.”
“Age?”
“Oh, ’bout fifty, I’d guess. Slender man but well put together. Gray hair.”
Preacher shook his head. “That ain’t the one I’m huntin’.”
“Be that as it may, I don’t trust this gent. He’s got a shifty eye and a sharp tongue. But ... he pays hard coin and don’t cause no trouble. Maybe he’s waitin’ on this feller you’re huntin’.”
“Could be.”
“Let me get the girl to fix you up in the best room I got, Preacher.”
Preacher waved that off and Dave laughed, knowing why he was refusing a bed. Took Dave five years before he could be comfortable in a bed.
Preacher said, “You know me, Dave. I don’t care for no feather ticks. I git all smothered up in them things. Too soft. I got to sleep where I can breathe and move around. I’ll pile up in the barn and wait around for a few days. Bedell ain’t no common name.” He told Dave why he was after Bedell and Dave’s face hardened.
“I won’t suggest you callin’ the law, Preacher.”
“Good. ’Cause I ain’t. But I won’t kill him here and bring no trouble down on you. That’s my word on it.”
“Good! Now let’s have us some drinks and then we’ll table up. I got meat and potatoes and gravy, and fresh baked bread and sweet butter and jams.”
“I got a better idea, Dave.”
“What?”
“Let’s eat now!”
Seven
Preacher stayed close to Dave’s businesses for several days. He kept to himself and away from Chris Bedell. But after seeing the man only one time, he knew it was Vic’s brother. The family resemblance was strong and undeniable.
Chris Bedell kept to his room most of the time, leaving only to check for mail in town every day, and to take his meals, which he did sitting alone in the tavern part of the business. No doubt about it, according to Preacher’s mind: the man was waiting for his brother.
Thunder was getting plenty of rest, food, and care, and Preacher was getting downright lazy, with no Indians to have to watch out for, or grizzlies or pumas. Damn place was just downright borin’.
On the fifth day of Preacher’s stay at the roadhouse, slimy Vic Bedell showed up. Preacher watched from the loft of the livery stable and smiled as the stagecoach stopped and Vic stepped out. His valise was tossed down to him and the stage rattled off. Chris Bedell hurried out and shook his brother’s hand and then the two of them disappeared into the large building.
Preacher was sort of at a loss as to what to do next. He didn’t want to bring no grief down on Ol’ Dave’s head, so whatever he did would have to be done away from the tavern. So that meant he had some more waiting to do. He’d already told Dave that he might leave real abruptlike, so Dave wouldn’t get alarmed if Preacher just didn’t show up for mealtime one day.
Preacher waited.
About an hour after the Bedell brothers had disappeared into the hotel, Dave came strolling out to the barn carrying a bundle and set about fiddlin’ with some bridles.
When he knew they were alone, he called, “The brothers has arranged to buy two horses from a local man. They’ll be leavin’ first thing in the morning. They’re headin’ east. They’s some dark woods about half a day’s ride from here. Runs for miles. Used to be highwaymen’s favorite place to force a stage driver to stand and deliver. Here’s food for you. It was good seein’ you again, Preacher. Give my best to all the boys back in the high country.”
Dave walked away and entered his business by the back door. He did not look back. Fifteen minutes later, Preacher had saddled up, packed up, and was gone.
The woods Dave had told him about were dark and dank, eastern woods, not like the timber in the high country. But they’d be perfect for what Preacher had in mind. He wasn�
��t sure what he was going to do with Vic’s brother. But he was equally certain the man knew all about Vic’s dirty dealings. So to Preacher’s mind, that made him just as black-hearted as Vic.
It was bitter cold, but despite that, Preacher’s fire was a small one, just enough to heat food and boil coffee. Preacher was used to the cold and did not wish to draw any attention to his presence by a lot of smoke.
He had picked his ambush point with care and was waiting there at dawn. He still didn’t know exactly how he was goin’ to pull this off. But he knew that it would come to him. He figured it would be about noon ’fore the Be-dells reached the woods. Preacher settled in. One thing he had was patience.
Wagons rumbled by, and one stagecoach heading west passed Preacher. Several horsemen rode past, but they rode swiftly, for the woods were not a very inviting place. They seemed somehow evil to Preacher.
“A right fittin’ place for Bedell to meet his end,” Preacher muttered.
When the sun was directly overhead, Preacher heard the sounds of horses. He peeked out of the brush and pulled his pistols. Vic and Chris Bedell were walking their horses through the timber. When they reached the ambush point, Preacher stepped out and leveled his pistols.
“End of the trail, Vic,” he said. “Dismount. The both of you.”
“What?” Chris Bedell blurted, clearly frightened at the sight of Preacher.
Vic just sat his saddle and cussed Preacher.
Preacher cocked his pistols and Vic and his brother fell silent. “Dismount or I kill you both right here.”
“The mountain man you spoke of?” Chris asked.
Vic was so angry he could not speak. He merely nodded his head.
“I am a man of some means, sir,” Chris Bedell said. “A thousand dollars to you if you’ll go and leave us. I think that is a fair offer.”
“You know what your brother done?” Preacher asked.
“Yes. But killing him won’t bring those women back. Take the money, man, and leave us be. I must warn you, sir, I am a man of importance in this state. Harming me would ensure a noose around your neck.”
The woods seemed to grow colder and Preacher felt a dark anger seize him in a hard grip. He thought of Snake, of Charlie and Ned and Ring. Of the bodies of the women, raped and abused and tortured, lyin’ cold in the ground. The boys and girls buried in the lonesome. The brave soldiers all dead. Hammer galloped through his mind, wild and free. He just could not believe what the older Bedell was saying. How could anyone cloak over what Vic had done?
“You know all that your brother done and you want to defend him?” Preacher’s words were hard-spoken, choked with emotion. “You’re as sorry as your no-count brother.”
“We’re brothers!” Chris Bedell said. “Blood is thick, mountain man.”
“Not none of yours,” Preacher said. “Bedell blood is tainted. You’re both evil.”
Chris Bedell cursed then grabbed for a pistol and Preacher drilled him clean, the ball dead-centering the man in the chest. Chris’s horse panicked and the horse charged into the trees. Chris’s foot was hung up in the stirrup and horse and man disappeared into the woods. Vic spurred his horse and Preacher dropped his pistols and leaped forward, dragging the man from the saddle.
Preacher did not know how long he took or how many times he struck Vic Bedell, but when he finally let the man fall, Vic Bedell was dead. Preacher had beaten the man to death with his fists. The mountain man stood for a moment by the side of the dark road, his chest heaving. He caught his breath and gathered up his pistols, then dragged Vic’s body into the cold timber and dumped him several hundred yards from the road. He stripped saddle and bridle from Vic’s horse and turned him loose. Preacher found Chris Bedell—what was left of him after having been dragged for hundreds of yards—and left him where he lay, a bloody heap of rags and torn flesh in a shallow depression. He found Chris’s horse and freed the animal of saddle and bridle and whacked him on the rump, sending him galloping off. He took all papers and wallets from the men, not checking the contents.
Preacher erased all signs of his tiny camp and got gone from there. In this weather, the bodies of the Bedell brothers would not begin to stink for days or weeks, or they might never be found. Whatever the case, the deed was done and Preacher put miles behind him before he swung off into timber along a tiny crick and made his lonely camp for the night.
One thing he knew for certain, Victor Bedell’s reign of terror was over and done with.
Sitting by his tiny fire that night, Preacher inspected the contents of the wallets he’d taken. He burned all papers that identified the men—Vic had changed his name to Walter Burdette—and counted the money. A lot of money. More paper and gold than Preacher had ever seen. It boggled his mind. But it was dirty money; had blood on it.
On his way east, Preacher stopped at a store and bought clothes to fit the time and locale, carefully stashing his buckskins among his belonging on the packhorse. He stored his pistols with his clothing and carried only his knife on his belt and his Hawken in the saddle boot. And he began dropping off the dirty money along the way, giving it to poor houses and orphanages and churches and down on their luck families who was havin’ a tough time of it in this hard winter. Never no huge amount in any one place—not enough to draw any particular attention to him—but stretching it and doling it out a bit here and a bit there.
He neither heard nor read any news about the bodies of the Bedell brothers ever being found. After this long a time, if the bodies had not been found and planted, they would have been gnawed on by varmints and the like, and positive identification would be near impossible.
And Preacher was amazed, awed, and, he had to admit, a bit frightened as he rode deeper and deeper into civilization. He saw a huge train roarin’ through the countryside on steel tracks, the damn thing a belchin’ smoke and spewin’ out sparks and racin’ along at a terrible rate of speed. Made a horrible noise, too. Couldn’t even think until the thing had passed. Scared his horses something awful. Preacher couldn’t imagine how anybody would be comfortable riding that fast. Wasn’t a natural thing to his mind. Damned if he’d ever get on one of them things.
He saw some amazing things as he traveled, things that he’d only read about and never dreamt of actual seeing. He saw new inventions and learned that the U.S. Government now had over ten thousand post offices and two hundred thousand miles of postal route. Preacher couldn’t figure out just who in the hell would have that much to say to a body that they’d have to write it down and post it clear across the country? He learned that there were over half a million people now living in Indiana. He couldn’t even imagine that many people. And he read in a newspaper that Chicago now had over six thousand people living there, and New Orleans had over seventy thousand people all jammed up there. Preacher sure didn’t have any desires to visit them places. All crowded up like that a body would be sure to catch some horrible disease.
Even with his store-bought clothes he drew stares. For he did not belong in this part of the country and clothing would not hide that fact. The women cut their eyes to him and the men were a tad on the hostile side. But not too hostile. For the men pegged the hard-eyed and windburned and sun-darkened man as being a man one had best not push. And they were damn sure right about that.
He crossed over into Ohio and stopped at a roadhouse to ask directions. The man was friendly enough and told Preacher that he was only about a two hours ride away from the village where his family lived. The innkeeper knowed them all and said they was right nice people. But he didn’t care much for their kids. They was all a tad on the uppity side to suit him.
Preacher didn’t tell the innkeeper that he was kin to the old man and woman. Just a friend of the family. He thanked the man and rode on.
Then Preacher got him an idea. He reined up in a copse of woods and damn near froze his privates off changin’ back into his buckskins; the new ones that he’d swapped from back on the Plains. My but they was fancy and fit him to a fare-
thee-well, they did. He unwrapped his new bright red sash he’d bought back in the city and wound it around his flat and hard-muscled belly, sticking one of his big pistols behind the sash.
By God, he was a mountain man, not no damn pilgrim. These were his clothes, and if anybody didn’t like the way he dressed, they could go kiss a duck.
Now, he’d go see his ma and pa.
Eight
Preacher got all choked up and sort of misty eyed when he swung down from the saddle in front of the neat little home on the edge of town. There was an old man choppin’ kindlin’ wood by the side of the house, and some good smells comin’ from the house. His ma was bakin’ bread. But why was pa havin’ to chop wood? Seemed like some of his brothers could come over every day and tend to that. Preacher would have to talk to his brothers about that, and make arrangements of some sort. One way or the other.
Preacher pushed open the gate and stepped inside the small yard, walking around to the side of the house. He stood for a moment, looking at his father. The man grew conscious of eyes on him and straightened up with an effort, to stand staring at the rugged-looking stranger in buckskins.
“Can I help you, stranger?” the old man asked.
Preacher had to clear his throat a time or two before replying to that. Stranger? Then Preacher realized that he’d been gone for twenty-odd years. And he had changed.
“You want me to finish up the choppin’ and tote that wood in for you, Pa?” he managed to say.
The old man moved closer. “Arthur? Art, boy? Is that really you, son?”
“It’s me, Pa.”
The back door opened and a gray-haired lady stepped out. “Who’s there, Homer?”
The old man smiled. “The wanderer’s come back, Mother. It’s our son, Art.”
The lady caught her breath and then quickly dabbed at her eyes with a tiny hanky. Then she was off the porch and into Preacher’s arms.
The mountain man had come home.
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Absaroka Ambush Page 26
