CHAPTER 6
It was late enough in the evening that the young girls no longer strolled about the plaza with their dueñas, trying to catch the eye of any young caballeros who happened to be around. In fact, the open square was deserted except for half a dozen people who were clustered at one side. The young woman who had screamed was backed up against a wagon with two mules hitched to it. She was quiet because her hands were pressed to her mouth in horror.
A few yards away, a young man struggled in the grip of a much larger hombre who had his arms pinned behind his back. The youngster was trying not only to get loose, but also to avoid the fists of another man who stood there slugging away at him. Two more men stood to the side, grinning and letting out little whoops of encouragement from time to time.
Preacher had never laid eyes on any of those folks, but he knew four-to-one odds when he saw them—and he didn’t like that at all.
Luckily, Preacher could make those odds even. Himself—plus two fully loaded Colts. He slid the guns from their holsters as he stalked across the plaza.
The two spectators saw him coming first, and one of them yelled, “Clete, look out!”
The one who’d been thrashing the youngster broke off the beating and turned to see what was going on. Like the other three, he was tall and broad-shouldered, with just a little bit of a gut to keep him from being as brawny as he might have been. All four wore buckskin trousers and homespun shirts. Two had broad-brimmed felt hats, while the other pair sported coonskin caps.
Hill men, Preacher decided. Tough, with plenty of bark on them. Probably from the Smokies or the Ozarks, he guessed.
The one who’d been doing the beating leveled an arm and pointed a finger at Preacher. “Look here, old-timer!” he rasped. “You better put away them guns and skedaddle outta here ’fore you get hurt. Those Dragoons weigh too much for your old muscles. You’re liable to let one of ’em droop and shoot your own foot off.”
Preacher’s eyes narrowed. He raised the right-hand gun a little and squeezed the trigger. The booming report rolled across the plaza and the girl by the wagon cried out involuntarily. The big man’s hat flew off his head and sailed several yards through the air. He ducked, stared at Preacher in shock for a couple of seconds, and then started to claw at the butt of the pistol stuck in his waistband.
Preacher had already cocked the Dragoon again. He aimed it at the man while he kept the left-hand gun pointed in the general direction of the two spectators. “It won’t be your hat that gets ventilated next time. Now step away from those folks and their wagon. You there, the one holdin’ the boy, let go of him and move away.”
The owner of the hat with a brand-new bullet hole in it straightened and glared at Preacher. “This ain’t none of your business,” he said through clenched teeth. “And in case you ain’t noticed, there’s four of us and one of you.”
“And I’ve got nine rounds left in these Dragoons,” Preacher snapped back at him. “That’s more ’n enough to kill all of you twice over.”
“Not if you miss some of those shots when we rush you. You ain’t fast enough to drop all of us.”
“You’ll never know,” Preacher said, “because I’m blowin’ your maggot-ridden brains out first thing.”
One of the bystanders said, “I think maybe you better listen to him, Clete. The old coot looks crazy enough to do it.”
“There you go, callin’ me old again.” Preacher shook his head. “That’s plain annoyin’. Way I figure it, I’m still in the prime of life.”
As a matter of fact, he was fifty-two years old, and that was getting pretty long in the tooth for most men. But the rugged life Preacher had led had given him an iron constitution and a vitality that men twenty or thirty years younger would have envied. His weathered features and the gray in his hair and mustache were really the only signs of age he displayed.
He glanced at the man holding the youngster. “You still ain’t let that boy go like I told you to. Now, I admit I got kind of a narrow angle here, but I’m bettin’ I can slip a bullet right past his ear and into that ugly face of yours—”
With a grimace, the man let go of the youngster and stepped to the side.
As the youngster crumpled to the ground, the girl cried, “Fletch!” and rushed to him.
The young man muttered and shook his head as the girl knelt and lifted him so that his head and shoulders rested in her lap. Preacher left it to her to comfort him and motioned for the four older men to stand together, well away from the wagon. As they did, he noticed four horses with their reins dangling, standing at the edge of the plaza, and assumed the varmints had ridden there on them.
He noticed something else—the four men all bore distinct resemblances to each other. There were slight variations in height, weight, coloring, and the shape of their features, but when they were grouped together like that, it was obvious they were related, and pretty closely, at that.
Brothers, more than likely, he thought, considering there wasn’t a great deal of difference in their ages.
“I don’t know what sort of grudge you have against that young fella, and I don’t care,” he said. “If those are your horses over there, you’d best get on ’em and fog outta here without lookin’ back.”
“This is family business,” the one who’d been throwing the punches insisted. “You got no right to stick your nose in it.”
“Family?” Preacher repeated.
“Yeah!” another said. He pointed at the girl and the young man. “That there no-good Wylie done despoiled our lil’ sister. It’s our bounden duty to kill the skunk!”
The girl looked up from where she was stroking the youngster’s battered and bloody face and shouted, “Fletcher didn’t despoil nobody, you mush-mouthed idiot! He’s my husband! We’re married!”
“In the eyes of the law, maybe,” said the one who seemed to be in charge. “But not in the eyes of the Mahoney family, and that’s the only law you need to abide by, Clementine!”
So they were brothers and the girl was their sister, Preacher mused. And they didn’t approve of her choice for a husband. Those hill clans were, well, clannish. Quick to take offense and mighty stubborn when it came to holding grudges. Sometimes a minor insult or even a misunderstanding could turn into a long, bloody feud.
But they were in Santa Fe, a long way from the Smokies or the Ozarks or wherever these Mahoneys came from, and ganging up on a fella like that was still unacceptable in Preacher’s eyes, no matter what the family history.
So he said, “Shut up and get outta here, like I told you to do. That shot I fired a minute ago is liable to bring the law out, and if I’ve got to waste half the night talkin’ to some puffed-up official, there might as well be some bodies a-layin’ on the ground to justify it.”
The boss Mahoney glared at him for a long moment, then said, “My name is Clete Mahoney, mister. These are my brothers Lew, Harp, and Jerome. We’ll be seein’ you again.”
“Excuse me ’most to death if I say I ain’t particularly lookin’ forward to it.” Preacher kept one gun steady and motioned with the other revolver. “Light a shuck, boys.”
Glowering and muttering, the brothers shuffled off toward the waiting horses.
Preacher turned slowly and kept the Dragoons trained on them as they went. He didn’t lower the guns while the men mounted up, wheeled their horses, and rode out of the plaza along one of the darkened boulevards. He slid over closer to the wagon so he could use it for cover, just in case the shadows made the Mahoneys bold enough to try turning around and burning powder at him.
He might should have tried to disarm them before running them off, he told himself, but he didn’t know if they would have crossed that bridge or dug in their heels and decided to risk a shooting scrape. This way he’d allowed them to depart with a little of their pride intact.
The hoofbeats dwindled until they had faded away entirely.
Preacher said, “Girl . . . Clementine, was it? . . . Best get your man in the wagon a
nd move on outta here while you got the chance. Them brothers of yours may not stay gone.”
“They’ll go off somewhere and get drunk and tell themselves how big and brave they are, even though you run ’em off with their tails betwixt their legs,” the girl said, spitting the words out in a savage tone. “They’ll have to do that before they come after us again.” She sighed. “But you’re probably right. We don’t need to waste the chance you’ve given us. Come on, Fletch.” She stood and tried to help him to his feet.
But he pushed her hand away and said, “I can get up by myself. Just because I’m no match for all four of those animals doesn’t mean I’m a weakling.”
Preacher could understand him feeling that way, but just as a matter of fact, the boy was a mite on the scrawny side. Tall and slender, with a thatch of red hair and an array of freckles across his face. He was fairly well dressed, and the wagon and the mules were of good quality. He might not be rich, but his family had a nodding acquaintance with money.
The girl, on the other hand . . . well, she was enough to make any man look twice if he had eyes in his head to see, and even some blind fellas might instinctively know she was something special. Thick waves of honey-colored hair around a sweet face highlighted by big eyes and a generous mouth. In this bad light, Preacher couldn’t tell what color her eyes were, but he guessed either a deep lake blue or a rich brown. Poor illumination from flickering torches or not, he could see the full-bosomed figure just fine, displayed as it was in a white blouse that scooped down and left her shoulders half bare and a long brown skirt that clung to swelling hips. Clementine Mahoney Wylie, to put her full married name on her, was a downright beautiful young woman.
Honestly, too beautiful for a fella like Fletcher Wylie, especially with that surly attitude he was exhibiting. But being chased and harassed by four brutes like the Mahoney brothers was enough to make anybody proddy. Preacher knew that if he’d been in Fletch’s boots, he’d have committed mayhem a-plenty.
Preacher finally pouched the irons he held and snagged the mules’ reins to hold them while Fletch helped Clementine climb to the wagon seat.
The youngster hauled himself up after her, took the reins from Preacher, and said, “Thank you, mister . . . ?”
“Just Preacher,” the mountain man told him. “No mister.” Something occurred to him. “You folks have a place to stay?”
“Well . . . no. It was after dark when we got here. We knew Santa Fe had to be close, so we just kept pushing on.”
“We can find a place, can’t we?” Clementine asked.
“Maybe. At this hour, though, it might not be what you’d call a decent place.” Preacher glanced into the back of the wagon, under its canvas cover. He couldn’t see very well, but the bed seemed to be pretty full of household goods and supplies. “Tell you what. I know a good livery stable and wagon yard where you can leave this wagon and it’ll be safe. Then the two of you can have my hotel room.”
“We couldn’t do that,” Fletch protested.
“We’ d never put you out of your own room,” Clementine added.
Preacher shook his head. “You wouldn’t be doin’ me a disservice. To tell you the truth, I was a mite worried about how I was gonna sleep. I ain’t what you’d call accustomed to havin’ a roof over my head, but I thought I’d try it for a change. I’d be just fine with seein’ you folks get some better use out of it.”
“But you’ve already helped us so much,” Fletch said. “Why are you doing this?”
Preacher smiled. “Let’s just say I was young once myself.”
CHAPTER 7
The owner of the livery stable yawned as he came out to lead the mules into the adobe barn through the big double doors.
While he was doing that, Clementine gasped in fear, shrank against Fletch, and exclaimed, “Is that a wolf ?”
Preacher grinned as the big cur that had trotted out of the barn reared up and rested his paws on the mountain man’s shoulders. “There might be some wolf blood in him. I don’t rightly know his, what you call it, pedigree. But he’s mostly dog, I reckon. Fact is, that’s what I call him. Dog.”
“Those are very . . . impressive . . . teeth,” Fletch commented. He had his arm around Clementine’s shoulders.
Preacher ruffled the fur on Dog’s head. “Yeah, I’d claim his bark’s worse ’n his bite, but to tell the truth, he don’t bark all that much and he’s got quite a bite on him when he wants to. But he’s a good trail partner.”
This one was the latest in a long line of similar companions, all called Dog, all devoted to Preacher and almost supernaturally smart. Now and then, he wondered about the good fortune that had allowed all of them to find their way to him, one way or another, but he had never been one to spit in the face of luck, so he didn’t waste a lot of time pondering the question. Some things just were.
“He’s stayin’ here, along with my horse, since folks at the hotel tend to look a mite askance at the likes of him in their establishment,” Preacher went on. “In fact, I’ll be comin’ back here myself, once I get the two of you settled in at the hotel.”
“You’re going to sleep in a barn?” Clementine asked.
Preacher grinned. “A good pile of hay’s the height of luxury, if you don’t mind maybe sharin’ it with a critter or two.”
“I still feel like we’re putting you out,” Fletch said with a shake of his head.
“Not a bit. Grab your gear and come on.”
Fletch hefted the bag he had taken from the wagon. “You can at least let us pay the liveryman—”
“No, I told you, I won a good deal of dinero earlier this evenin’. This’ll keep some of it from weighin’ down my poke as much.”
They walked around the corner and a couple of blocks along the street to the hotel, a two-story adobe building with a wooden balcony along the front, which faced another plaza. The balcony with its wrought-iron railing formed an awning over the flagstone gallery that ran the length of the hotel. Decorative gourds hung on ropes from the bottom of the balcony.
Preacher led the young couple inside and informed the clerk at the desk that they would be taking his room for the night. The man started to frown and say something about two guests instead of one maybe costing more, but he fell silent at the hard look Preacher gave him.
With a bob of his head, the clerk swallowed and said, “Yes, sir, that’ll be fine. Just fine.”
Preacher turned to Fletch and Clementine. “You said you pushed on after dark to get here. Does that mean you ain’t had supper?”
“Well . . .” Fletch said.
“I figured as much.” Preacher jerked his head toward an arched door to the side of the hotel lobby. “Dinin’ room’s still open. Let’s get some food in you.”
“You’re not going to pay for that, too,” Fletch insisted.
“All right.” Preacher grinned. “Shoot, you can even buy me a cup of coffee.”
“That’s a deal.”
The dining room was almost empty, only a few guests making use of it so late.
A Mexican waitress came over to the table where they sat. “There’s not much left in the kitchen. Beans and tortillas and maybe a little cabrito.”
“That’ll do,” Preacher said. “Bring it for these fine young folks, and bring me a cup of coffee.”
“Sí, señor.”
While they waited, Clementine said, “I really don’t understand why you’re being so kind to us, Mr. Preacher.”
He raised a finger. “I told you about that mister business.” His grin belied the stern tone of the words. “I wouldn’t go so far as to say that Fletch here reminds me of me—”
“I can’t even begin to imagine that anybody would think that,” Fletch said.
“For one thing,” Preacher continued, “I left the farm my family had and lit a shuck for the frontier when I was mighty young, little more ’n a boy. I had me a right strong hankerin’ to see the elephant, or at least some real mountains. I wound up seein’ ’em, all right,
and plenty more besides.”
He paused because the waitress arrived with coffee for all of them. He waited until he had taken a couple of sips of the strong, black brew before he said, “I was still pretty young, though, not even Fletch’s age, I’d say, when I met a gal who took my fancy.”
“Oh,” Clementine said, then asked eagerly, “What was her name?”
“Jenny,” Preacher said. His mind drifted back to those long-ago days. Jenny had been beautiful, no doubt about that, but the image of her in Preacher’s head was a dim one, blurred by time even though she had been Preacher’s first love. Things between them had ended badly, but these two didn’t have to know that.
“And we remind you of what you and Jenny had?” Clementine asked.
“Sort of. But come to think of it,” Preacher said, “you remind me even more of another young couple I once knew. Ran into ’em many years ago, so they ain’t young anymore, but they were at the time. About the same age as you two, and fresh married, so they was just startin’ out, too.” He sipped the coffee again. “Jamie and Kate MacCallister. Remember those days almost like they was last week.”
“What happened to them?” Fletch asked.
“They went on to have a passel of kids and start themselves a big ranch up Colorado way. Mighty nice place, and mighty nice family.”
“They’re still together?” Clementine wanted to know.
“They sure are, last I heard. And it was only a year or so ago that I saw Jamie last.”
The waitress set platters of food in front of them, and from the way Fletch and Clementine dug in, Preacher knew they were hungry.
With satisfaction, he watched them eat for a few minutes, then said, “I ain’t over-fond of talkin’ about myself. Let’s hear about the two o’ you. Where are you from?”
“Tennessee,” Fletch answered. “A little town in the Great Smoky Mountains.”
Preacher nodded, pleased that his hunch about their origins had been confirmed.
“Fletch’s father owns the store there,” Clementine said with a note of pride in her voice.
They Came to Kill Page 4
