The room became very quiet, very quickly.
“What’d you call me?” the badge-toter said in a shocked tone.
“I said you was a lard-ass.” Preacher raised his voice. “And don’t you be callin’ my horse funny-lookin’. You’ll hurt his feelin’s. I got to live with him, you don’t. You ever tried to ride a humiliated horse?”
Heavy footsteps shook the floor. The badge-toter stopped at Preacher’s table and stared down at him. “I’m the law around here.”
“Congratulations. Now go away.”
A heavy hand fell on Preacher’s shoulders. It was a very bad mistake. “I think you better come with me to the jail. I don’t like you very much.”
Preacher drove his fist into the big man’s groin. The marshal hit the floor, both hands to his groin. He rolled around and moaned and groaned.
Preacher ignored him and finished his meal, laying a coin on the table when he was done. Then he stood up and plopped his hat on his head just as the marshal was slowly getting to his boots. The marshal made his second mistake when he reached for the pistol in his belt. Preacher flattened him, stretching him out stone-cold unconscious on the floor. Feller seemed to like the floor a lot, Preacher thought.
Preacher turned as several men crowded in through the front door. One of them was an older feller, an intelligent-looking, nicely dressed man who bore an air of importance about him. Preacher got the impression that the man had been across the river a few times. He had that look about him.
The older man sized up the mountain man quickly. He’d seen the type and knew them for men who could be extremely dangerous at the blink of an eye. “Why did you knock Marshal Bobbins to the floor, young man?”
“’Cause he insulted my horse and then put his goddamn hands on me and tried to tote me off to jail. No man puts his hands on me. Not you, not nobody.”
The older man could not contain his smile. “And your name, sir?”
“Preacher.”
All heads turned. Preacher was one of the most famous mountain men in all the nation. Right up there with Carson, Bridger, Beckwourth, Smith, and Hugh Glass.
“I…see,” the man replied. “Well, I am Judge Madison. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Mister, ah, Preacher.”
“Same here,” Preacher said, and stepped over the unconscious marshal, who had not moved since his latest encounter with the tavern floor.
“Might I have a few words with you, sir?” the judge asked.
“All right.”
“We’ll use your back room, Sidney,” the judge told the barman. Sidney nodded.
Preacher picked up his rifle and followed the judge and the other men into the vacant room. “Ale, Sidney,” the judge said. “And some of you men carry the marshal back to his office.” Then he closed the door.
Seated at the table, the pitcher of ale and glasses before them, the judge asked, “Your first time back to, ah, civilization, Preacher?”
“It’s been a while.”
“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 wh
ere 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!”
7
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 said, “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 Bedells 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 belongings on the packhorse. He stored his pistols with his clothing and carried only his knife on h
is 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 actually 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 routes. 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.
Absaroka Ambush (first Mt Man)/Courage Of The Mt Man Page 26
