Preacher's Fire

by William W. Johnstone

  “Do you want to tell me what’s going on here?” She had green eyes, Preacher saw now, and they were flashing with the emerald fire of anger. “This is a respectable neighborhood. I can’t have people brawling on my front lawn.”

  “Wasn’t my idea,” Preacher snapped. “Your darky grabbed me and threw me in the flower bed, and that seemed to make him go loco.”

  “Brutus takes great pride in his flowers,” Jessie said with a nod. “What were you doing coming to the front door, anyway? Tradesmen are supposed to go to the back.”

  “I’m not a tradesman. I’m a customer.”

  Jessie smiled. “Dressed like that? I don’t think so. You couldn’t afford to be a customer here, Mister . . . ?”

  “Donnelly,” Preacher said. “Jim Donnelly.”

  “Well, Mr. Donnelly, this is the most exclusive, and might I add, expensive house in St. Louis. Unless you’ve saved everything you’ve earned from your farm in the past, say, five years, I seriously doubt that you can afford to pay us a visit here.”

  “But you don’t know that, and neither did he.” Preacher nodded toward Brutus.

  Before Jessie could respond, two more men came out of the house and hurried across the lawn. They were white, and although they weren’t as big and burly as Brutus, they looked plenty tough. One of them asked, “You want us to run this varmint off, Miss Jessie?”

  She shook her head. “No, just help Brutus inside and make sure that he’s all right. I can deal with Mr. Donnelly.”

  “Are you sure?” the other man asked.

  The angry look she gave him at the question made him step back and hold up his hands.

  “Sorry, ma’am,” he muttered. “Come on, Terence, let’s do what the lady says.”

  Together, they helped Brutus to his feet. He seemed to be regaining his senses to a certain extent. He sent a murderous scowl in Preacher’s direction as the two men helped him into the house.

  “You’ve made an enemy,” Jessie commented.

  “Wasn’t my intention. But I wasn’t gonna let him toss me around like a rag doll and stomp me, neither.”

  She ignored that and continued in a haughty tone, “I think we’ve established that this isn’t the place for you, Mr. Donnelly. Why don’t you just move on? There are places down at the riverfront—”

  “Yeah, I know. I ain’t interested in those soiled doves. I want somethin’ better.”

  A chilly smile curved her full, red lips. “We can’t always get what we want, Mr. Donnelly.”

  “Why don’t you let me talk to the fella who owns this place?” Preacher shot back at her. “We’ll see what he says about it.”

  Her face remained cool and unperturbed, but he caught the flicker of surprise in her eyes. “I’m the owner,” she declared. “That’s why it’s called Jessie’s Place.”

  Preacher snorted. “Women don’t own businesses. Not even whorehouses.”

  “That’s where you’re mistaken. And you’ve just become even more offensive. I have to ask you to leave now.”

  Her hand came up from the folds of her dress gripping a little pistol that must have been stashed in a hidden pocket. The barrel was short but big enough around to tell Preacher that the gun still packed a potent punch despite being undersized. Jessie thumbed back the hammer as she raised the weapon.

  “I assure you,” she went on, “at this range, this will blow a suitable hole in you.”

  Preacher didn’t doubt that for a second. He was also aware now that she had been armed the whole time and could have pulled out that pistol and shot him any time she wanted to. That made a cold finger go down his backbone.

  “All right,” he said with ill grace. “I’m leavin’. But you remember my name. It’s Jim Donnelly.”

  “I’m not liable to forget it soon, after all this commotion you’ve caused.”

  “And remember somethin’ else,” Preacher went on. “That big fella Brutus, who I reckon is supposed to handle any trouble around here . . . I beat him. Whipped him good. Maybe what you need is somebody tougher.”

  Jessie’s eyes widened in surprise. “You’re talking about yourself, I suppose?”

  “I’m just sayin’ he was a lot bigger’n me, but it was him who wound up goin’ down and stayin’ down.”

  “Good-bye, Mr. Donnelly. Don’t come back here again.”

  Despite her flatly spoken words of dismissal, Preacher knew he had seen a flicker of interest in her eyes. He had made a good point, and she knew it. He let a smile play briefly over his face, but only after he had turned away so that she couldn’t see it.

  This was a start, anyway.

  Dupree’s was next.

  The saloon was closer to the waterfront than Jessie’s Place, but it wasn’t a dive, either. It stretched along an entire city block, with the entrance at the corner. Preacher lingered at a hash house across the street, keeping an eye on the place from a table by the window. He had used up a few more of his precious coins buying some supper, but he had finished that a while back and now the proprietor was casting some hard looks at him from behind the counter.

  He was about to stand up and wander out of the place, figuring he would take up a position in an alley and watch from there, when a carriage pulled up in front of Dupree’s. The sun had set, but enough light remained for Preacher to make out the shiny brass fittings and expensive dark wood of the vehicle. A team of four fine black horses was hitched to the carriage, and a black driver in a top hat was perched on the high seat. It sure looked to Preacher like the sort of carriage that a man such as Shad Beaumont would drive around in.

  Preacher stood up and strolled out of the hash house so that he could see better as the driver climbed down nimbly from the seat. The man opened the carriage door and then stepped back deferentially. The man who climbed out of the vehicle was tall and wore a beaver hat. A cape was draped over his shoulders. That was all Preacher could tell about him at first.

  Then the man turned around and held out a hand to help someone else disembark from the carriage. The light spilling through the big front windows of Dupree’s revealed the man’s face to Preacher in silhouette. It was a handsome face sporting a close-cropped dark beard. The man was smiling.

  He had good reason to smile, Preacher saw a moment later as the second passenger stepped down from the carriage. She was a blonde with a mass of curly hair under a stylish hat. Not too tall, but very well shaped and expensively dressed. She said something to the man, who laughed and linked his arm with hers. They went up the steps to the boardwalk and into Dupree’s.

  Preacher had continued ambling across the street as if he had no particular place to go and was in no hurry to get there. When he reached the other side, he stepped up onto the boardwalk and looked through the window. The two new arrivals were being ushered to a table in the back by a man in a dark suit who was probably the proprietor.

  But likely not the owner, Preacher thought. He was convinced that Shad Beaumont really owned Dupree’s, just as he felt sure Jessie’s Place belonged to Beaumont.

  And what about Jessie? Did she belong to Beaumont, too?

  Preacher frowned slightly as that thought crossed his mind. Why should it matter to him what sort of arrangement Jessie had with Beaumont? The only reason she might be important was if he could use her to get to his quarry.

  He turned toward the carriage, where the driver had climbed to the seat again and was packing chewing tobacco into his cheek. Preacher gave him a friendly nod and said, “Evenin’.”

  The man didn’t return the greeting. He was old and wizened and didn’t look like he was in the habit of talking to riffraff on the street.

  “Mighty nice carriage you got here,” Preacher went on.

  The driver sniffed. “Tain’t mine, and you know it.”

  “Yeah, but you get to drive that fine team of horses. I got to say, that’s some of the best horseflesh I’ve seen in a long time. I guess Mr. Beaumont don’t want nothin’ but the best.”

  “What Mr. Bea
umont wants or don’t want ain’t for the likes o’ you to be talkin’ about.”

  That was easy, Preacher thought . . . and about time, too. He said mildly, “Didn’t mean any offense, old-timer.”

  Then he turned, pushed the door open, and stepped into Dupree’s.

  Chapter 12

  The place was a saloon. There could be no mistake about that. Not with the long, hardwood bar that ran all the way down the left-hand wall and then turned to run along the back wall, as well. Round tables covered most of the floor space to the right, although there was an open area toward the rear where people could dance if they wanted to. Some of the tables were topped with green felt for poker playing. There was a roulette wheel as well, although no one was playing at the moment. The air was hazy with smoke from cigars and pipes and filled with talk and laughter from the customers. Chandeliers made from wagon wheels hung from the ceiling. The candles in those chandeliers cast a yellow glow over the big room. The soft light gave the place a certain air of elegance. Even the laughter was subdued, not raucous as it always was in the crude taverns to which Preacher was accustomed.

  The bar was crowded, and drinkers occupied most of the tables. A couple of poker games were going on. Preacher found an open place at the bar and bellied up to the hardwood, which had been polished to a high gleam.

  A bartender as bald as a billiard ball came over to him. Preacher ordered a beer.

  “Let’s see your money first, pilgrim,” the bartender replied.

  Preacher slid a coin onto the bar. The bartender picked it up, studied it for a second, and then nodded.

  “All right, farm boy. I’ll be back.”

  Preacher waited while the bartender filled a pewter mug with beer from a keg. When the man brought it back to him, he nodded and said, “Much obliged.”

  “New in town?”

  Preacher took a sip of the beer, which was good, and nodded. “That’s right.”

  “Then you probably don’t know that Dupree’s caters to a higher class of customer than you. You can finish your drink, then you’d better be moving along.”

  Preacher felt a surge of anger but didn’t show it. He didn’t like people who put on airs, even bartenders. But unlike at Jessie’s Place, where he had deliberately taken offense, he played this hand differently.

  “Sorry, mister,” he said. “Didn’t mean to butt in where my kind ain’t welcome.”

  The bartender got a look of magnanimous superiorty on his florid face and said, “That’s all right. You didn’t know any better. Anyway, your money spends as well as anybody else’s, I reckon.”

  “Like his over there?” Preacher asked, inclining his head toward the table where Shad Beaumont sat with the blonde. They were sharing a bottle of brandy. No buckets of beer for them.

  The bartender laughed. “No, Mr. Beaumont’s money is better than anybody else’s around here. Or rather, I reckon you could say that it’s no good in Dupree’s.”

  “You mean he don’t have to pay for anything just ’cause he’s some fancy swell?”

  “I mean drink up and get out of here,” the bartender said, his face and voice hardening. “What Mr. Beaumont pays for or don’t pay for is none of your damn business.”

  “No, sir, it’s sure not,” Preacher said quickly. He lifted the cup to his lips and drank some more of the beer.

  That was more than enough confirmation. He was certain now of Beaumont’s identity and had gotten a good enough look at him in here that he knew he would recognize Beaumont the next time he saw the man. He would be able to describe Beaumont and his carriage to Uncle Dan, too, which was important to the plan.

  “Is it always this crowded in here?” he asked the bartender, trying to sound idly curious.

  “Dupree’s is the best place in town,” the man replied, pride in his voice.

  “Does that fella Beaumont come in here every night?”

  “Mister Beaumont is a regular customer, yes. And again—”

  “I know, I know,” Preacher said. “None of my business.”

  “That’s right. You gonna finish that beer?”

  Preacher drained the last of the liquid from the cup and set the empty back on the bar. “Much obliged,” he said again.

  “From now on, do your drinking in the taverns down along the waterfront, with the river men and the rest of the farm boys who’ve come west looking for adventure.”

  “Yes, sir, I’ll sure do that.”

  Preacher practically had to force the words out, when what he really wanted to do with ram that smug smile down the bartender’s throat with a knobby-knuckled fist.

  But that would be jumping the gun. Maybe he’d have a chance to teach the fella a lesson later.

  He’d be coming back to Dupree’s.

  When he was ready.

  That thought was going through his head as he turned to walk out of the saloon. His gaze roved briefly over the room and then stopped suddenly when he spotted a familiar face at one of the poker tables. The gambler called Cleve was dealing a hand. Preacher wasn’t particularly surprised to see him. The man obviously had a taste for the finer things in life. He patronized the best whorehouse in St. Louis, so there was no reason he wouldn’t do his gambling and drinking in the best saloon, too.

  Cleve glanced up, and for a second his eyes locked with Preacher’s. Then Preacher continued walking out.

  He hoped this wasn’t going to be an added complication. He had enough on his plate just figuring out what he was going to do about Shad Beaumont.

  Horse was tied at the hitch rail. Preacher untied the reins and swung up into the saddle. He rode out of St. Louis, on his way to meet Uncle Dan.

  The old-timer was camped about a mile west of the city. He and Preacher had agreed on the general area where they would meet, so Preacher just rode along in the darkness until he heard an owl hoot. The sound came from the deep shadows within a grove of trees. He reined in and returned the call. A moment later, Uncle Dan stepped out from under the trees and waved Preacher on into camp.

  As Preacher dismounted, Uncle Dan asked, “Anybody follow you out here?”

  Preacher chuckled.

  “Well, it could’a happened, I reckon,” Uncle Dan went on. “You ain’t got eyes in the back o’ your head.”

  “No, but I’ve got ears, and so does Horse. I trust him even more than I do my own self. Nobody followed us.”

  “I didn’t figure they would. You find Beaumont?”

  “I did. Got any hot coffee left?”

  “I been keepin’ it warm for you. Sit down.”

  Preacher sat on a log while Uncle Dan picked up the coffeepot from a small fire that had sunk down to little more than glowing embers. The old-timer had piled rocks around the fire so that not even that faint glow could be seen unless a person was within a few feet of it. He poured coffee in a cup and handed it to Preacher.

  “I don’t know where Beaumont lives yet,” the mountain man said after he’d taken a sip of the strong black brew, “but I know where I can find him. He’ll be at a saloon called Dupree’s, or if we can’t catch up with him there, we can try at a fancy whorehouse called Jessie’s Place.”

  Uncle Dan laughed. “A saloon or a whorehouse. What a choice for a feller to have to make.”

  “From what I was able to find out, he’s at Dupree’s almost every night. Here’s what he looks like.”

  Preacher described Beaumont, the blonde who’d accompanied him, and the fancy carriage that had brought them to Dupree’s. For good measure, he told Uncle Dan everything he knew about Jessie’s, too. It wouldn’t hurt anything for the old-timer to know everything that he knew . . . just in case.

  When Preacher was finished, Uncle Dan scratched at his beard and said, “You know . . . you could just climb up on the roof o’ the buildin’ across the street from that saloon with a rifle and shoot the son of a bitch.”

  “I know,” Preacher said. “Don’t think I haven’t considered it. But then I thought about all the innocent folks who�
��ve died because of Beaumont, like your nephew, and somehow . . . it just didn’t seem like shootin’ him down like a dog was good enough.”

  “Been some not-so-innocent folks died because of him, too, like that Mallory woman.”

  Preacher nodded as his fingers tightened on the tin cup holding his coffee. Uncle Dan was right about one thing: Laura Mallory hadn’t been innocent. But she hadn’t deserved to die, either, and she wouldn’t have if not for Shad Beaumont.

  “Yeah,” he mused, “I guess what we’re doin’ is for all the folks whose blood is on Beaumont’s hands.”

  “Good enough for me. Say, you didn’t happen to bring a jug back from town, did you?”

  “Afraid not.”

  Uncle Dan sighed. “Well, I reckon we’ll have to do without, then. Got a couple of biscuits and a little bacon left, if you’re interested.”

  “Now you’re talkin’,” Preacher said.

  He spent the night at the camp and rode back into St. Louis early the next morning, well before sunup so that he could slip into town without anyone seeing him. It would be better, he thought, if no one knew he had left the settlement the night before.

  With nothing to do until evening, Preacher found a small livery stable and used the last of his money to rent a stall for Horse. Then he asked the proprietor if he could muck out the place in return for something to eat and the right to sleep in the loft that night. He was pleased when the man agreed. That arrangement accomplished two goals. It kept him off the street for most of the day—as much as he had changed his appearance, he didn’t think anybody in St. Louis would recognize him, but why take extra chances?—and if anyone asked about “Jim Donnelly,” it established that he was broke and willing to do just about anything, no matter how nasty a job it was.

  Preacher didn’t know how long he might have to stay here. The next step in his plan might work out that very night, or it might take several more days to come to fruition.

  At midday, the liveryman shared a meager lunch with him, then Preacher went back to his work. By nightfall, he had the place about as spotless as a livery barn could ever get.