They Came to Kill

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  When Clementine had reloaded the Sharps and closed the breech, she lifted it with a grunt of effort and rested the barrel in the forked branch again. This time she spread her feet a little more and braced herself better. She didn’t take as much time to aim, either. After only a couple of minutes, the Sharps blasted again.

  The cluster of pine cones exploded as the heavy round ripped through them. Clementine stayed on her feet, too, even though the recoil made her rock backward a little.

  “I did it!” she cried as she peered through the smoke that had gushed from the muzzle. “I hit them!”

  “You did,” Preacher told her. “And in the time you took to do it, only a few dozen Apaches would’ve gotten to you and made sure you never fired another shot.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Clementine stared at him, first in confusion, then in disbelief, and finally in anger. Her face reddened and her eyes blazed. “I’m just learning how to shoot that rifle! I hit the target on my second shot! I think that’s pretty good.”

  “It is good,” Preacher agreed. “But you got to be a lot surer on your aim and a lot quicker handlin’ whatever gun you’re shootin’. Where we’re goin’, if there’s trouble, you likely won’t have much time to get your shots off.”

  Fletch said, “Then we are coming with you and Mr. MacCallister? You’ve made up your mind?”

  “I didn’t say that,” Preacher responded with a shake of his head. “What I should’ve said was, if you go down there with us. Luckily, it’ll take a while to round up the rest of the fellas who’ll be part of the bunch. That’ll give both of you a chance to practice and think about whether you really want to do this.” Preacher took the Sharps from Clementine and handed it to Fletch. “Let’s see what you can do.”

  Fletch looked nervous as he took the heavy rifle, but he reloaded without any trouble, having watched Clementine do it. He said, “Should I use the tree to brace the barrel, too?”

  Preacher nodded. “Sure, go ahead.”

  “What should I shoot at? Clementine already knocked down those pine cones.”

  “Aim for the branch where they were hangin’.”

  Fletch settled the rifle’s barrel in the tree fork and spread his feet wide to steady himself. He pressed his cheek against the stock and took aim. Clementine called encouragement to him, but he didn’t seem to hear her. All his attention was concentrated on what he was doing.

  Preacher and Jamie stood together and waited for Fletch to fire. Quietly, Jamie said, “The girl did better than I thought she would.”

  “Yeah, but shootin’ at pine cones ain’t the same thing as shootin’ at Apaches.”

  “Not hardly,” Jamie agreed.

  The Sharps boomed as Fletch squeezed the trigger. The recoil didn’t knock him down, but no splinters flew from the thick branch that was his target, either.

  He looked around at Preacher and Jamie and asked, “I missed, didn’t I?”

  “You did, for a fact,” Preacher replied.

  “Can I try again?”

  “Sure.” Preacher handed him another cartridge. Fletch reloaded and drew another bead.

  “You have enough cartridges for these two to practice?” Jamie asked under his breath.

  Preacher chuckled. “Can always buy more,” he said.

  Fletch’s second shot was a miss, as well. His growing frustration was apparent on his face. Clementine offered him comforting words and rubbed a hand on his arm, but that didn’t seem to do much good. In fact, Fletch looked even more upset after that. Preacher could understand how it might rankle a fella for his wife to be better at something like shooting a rifle than he was.

  Fletch buckled down to try harder but missed the target twice more. “I give up,” he said disgustedly. “I thought I could shoot at least a little, anyway, but I’m terrible!” He pressed the fingertips of his left hand against his right shoulder. “And that Sharps has a mighty powerful kick.”

  “It does,” Preacher said. “I’ve got an idea, though. Give me the rifle.”

  Fletch handed over the Sharps.

  Preacher pulled one of the Colt Dragoons from its holster, turned it around, and held it out to the young man, butt first. “Try this instead,” he suggested. “There’s a little flower bloomin’ on that bush over yonder. Try hittin’ it.”

  “That’s a really small target,” Fletch protested.

  “And you’re a heap closer to it than you are to that tree,” Preacher pointed out. “It ain’t more ’n twenty feet away. You don’t want to be usin’ a handgun at ranges much longer than that less’n you just have to.”

  “Give it a try,” Clementine urged her husband.

  Fletch looked down at the revolver in his hand for a moment, then shrugged and nodded. He squared up to the bush Preacher had pointed out and thrust the Colt out in front of him, extending his arm as far as he could.

  “Don’t stick it out there that far, and don’t stand so stiff,” Preacher told him. “Nothin’ wrong with usin’ both hands to steady the gun, either. Try it that way.”

  Fletch nodded and adjusted his stance. He held the Colt with both hands and cocked it. After aiming for a moment, he squeezed the trigger. The gun boomed and bucked against his palms.

  The bullet ripped through the bush about a foot below the bloom that was Fletch’s target.

  While the echoes were still rolling away, Preacher said, “Not bad for the first time. You got four more rounds in there. Keep tryin’.”

  Fletch blew out his breath and nodded.

  As he lined up his second attempt, Jamie leaned over to Preacher and said, “That’s not an easy shot, you know.”

  “I know,” the mountain man said. “I just got a hunch about the boy.”

  Fletch squeezed the trigger again, and the flower disintegrated from the bullet’s impact.

  “I did it!” he whooped.

  Preacher gathered up several loose rocks about half the size of a normal man’s hand and lined them up on a tree branch.

  “Try shootin’ them offa there. Don’t take a lot of time, and don’t think all that much about what you’re doin’. Look at what you want to hit, and point the gun where you’re lookin’.”

  Fletch took another deep breath and nodded again. He raised the Colt, still using both hands, and squeezed off the three rounds as fast as he could cock the revolver. The first two shots missed, but with the third one, the rock at the far right of the trio flew off the branch.

  Clementine clapped her hands. “Fletcher, that’s wonderful!”

  “Some fellas just have more of a knack with a handgun,” Preacher said to Jamie. “I took a chance that maybe Fletch is one of ’em.”

  “He still needs a lot of work, though,” Jamie replied.

  Preacher nodded. “Yep. And we’re gonna give it to him.”

  He showed Fletch how to reload the Dragoon and set up more targets. As he continued practicing, Fletch managed to hit two out of the three rocks and finally knocked all three off the limb with three shots. He seemed to have a natural eye with the Colt that he didn’t have with the Sharps.

  “That’s enough,” Preacher said as he called a halt to the practice session. “Your arm’s already gonna be sore tomorrow from handlin’ that hogleg, Fletch.”

  The young man handed the gun back to Preacher. “I ought to get one of my own.”

  Preacher nodded toward the revolver holstered on Jamie’s hip. “The Walker’s a better design. These Dragoons are what I’m used to, though. Next time we come out here, you can try the Walker, if that’s all right with Jamie.”

  “Sure,” Jamie agreed. “I’m looking forward to seeing what you can do with it, Fletch.”

  Both members of the young couple seemed happy with the way this outing had gone.

  Then Preacher said, “You claimed you’re a good rider, Miss Clementine. Looked like you sat the saddle all right on the way out here, but what if you have to ride a mite harder than that?”

  “Like this?” Clementine asked.
<
br />   She pulled her mount’s reins loose from the bush where they were tied and swung up into the saddle. With her heels nudging the horse into a gallop, she leaned forward over the animal’s neck and rode hard toward the other side of the meadow. The wind made her blond hair stream out behind her head.

  As she pounded toward the trees on the far side of the meadow, Fletch began to look worried, but then Clementine reined in, barely slowing the horse as she pulled the animal in a tight turn and raced back toward the three men. As she brought the horse to a sliding stop near them, an abrupt halt that kicked up some dust, she called, “How’s that?”

  “Not bad,” Preacher replied. “Especially considerin’ you never rode that horse until today.”

  “You did a fine job, young lady,” Jamie added. “Of course, it’s not quite the same as if you were being chased by Apaches.”

  Clementine persisted. “But between the way we both shot and this demonstration of how well I ride, you have fewer misgivings about taking us along with you, don’t you?”

  “We’ll think about it,” Preacher promised. “Thing of it is, none of us have to make up our minds right now. It’s gonna take some time to get the bunch together, so you’ll have more chances to practice your shootin’. No matter how things turn out with this job of Jamie’s, the better the both of you can handle a gun and ride, the better your chances of makin’ it to California like you planned.”

  The others mounted up, and they started back toward town. Preacher scanned their surroundings, wondering if any of the Mahoney brothers had trailed them and watched what they were doing. If that was the case, maybe Fletch’s burgeoning prowess with the Colt Dragoon would make them think twice about their vengeful pursuit.

  Again, though, Preacher doubted if that would actually turn out to be true.

  “Did you have anybody in particular in mind for joinin’ up with us?” Preacher asked Jamie as they rode side by side.

  Fletch and Clementine were a short distance ahead of them.

  “Well, we know quite a few of the same fellas,” Jamie replied. “I thought you might have some ideas on the subject. I trust anybody you’d want to have with us, that goes without saying.”

  Preacher rubbed his gray-stubbled chin for a moment. “Yeah, I know a heap of fellas who like a good fight better ’n just about anything in the world. Even have a pretty good idea where most of ’em are. But there’s a good chance I won’t be able to get in touch with all of them.”

  “Well, find the ones you can,” Jamie said. “And tell them that if it’s a fight they’re looking for, we’ve got a dandy for them!”

  CHAPTER 12

  They spent the next month in Santa Fe. Preacher and Jamie each wrote letters and also spread the word by telling acquaintances drifting through town who they were looking for. The mail was undependable, of course, so there was no way of knowing how long it would take for those letters to reach the ones they were intended for, or even if they ever would. Passing the word in person was also slow, with no guarantee of results.

  But as Jamie explained, General Charlton hadn’t given him any sort of deadline. The government was more interested in how well this chore was carried out, instead of how fast.

  And the good thing about the delay was that it gave Preacher and Jamie plenty of time to work with Fletch and Clementine on their shooting and riding. The young couple had no timetable for reaching California, either.

  As the days went past and turned into weeks, they saw no sign of Clementine’s brothers. However, Preacher didn’t take that to mean that the Mahoney brothers had given up and gone back home to Tennessee. He figured they were just laying low, waiting for a chance to kill Fletch and grab Clementine. He and Jamie didn’t plan on giving them that chance. One or both of them were always nearby except when the young couple were alone in their hotel room.

  Every day, the four of them rode into the foothills. Jamie bought Clementine a pair of canvas trousers for riding so she wouldn’t have to tie up her skirt anymore. He offered to get her a sidesaddle, which would have been a lot more ladylike, but Clementine refused.

  “I grew up riding astride,” she explained. “If I tried to use one of those fancy sidesaddles, I’d probably just fall off and break my neck.”

  She continued to improve her shooting eye, although Preacher wasn’t sure she would ever be strong enough to handle the heavy Sharps without a strain.

  “You need somethin’ with more punch to it than a squirrel rifle,” he told her, “but lighter than that Sharps. We’ll look around and see if we can find somethin’ better suited for you to use.”

  Fletch took to the Walker Colt even better than he had to the Dragoon. Preacher bought him one of his own, along with the holster to carry it.

  That prompted Fletch to say, “You and Mr. MacCallister keep buying things for us. You’re even paying for the hotel room. I can’t help but think that we’re taking advantage of you.”

  “Nothin’ of the sort,” Preacher assured him. “I’m still usin’ that money I won the same night we met, and Jamie’s done well for himself with that ranch up in Colorado. We ain’t hurtin’ for funds.”

  “Besides,” Jamie put in, “I remember what it’s like being young and just starting out in a marriage. You and Clementine will need money when you start your new life in California, so you might as well hang on to what you have.” He thought for a second and went on. “Not only that, but the government’s authorized me to pay the men who go along with me on this mission. The two of you aren’t really part of that, but you’ll probably lend a hand along the way, so it’s only fair that you get some of the wages, too.”

  Preacher and Jamie had discussed their plans for trying to keep the two young people safe during the inevitable hostilities. The group would need a base camp of sorts, and the Wylie wagon could provide that, as well as carrying some of the necessary supplies. Preacher hoped to put together a large enough group that one or two men could stay to guard the camp at all times, while the others ventured out in their forays against the Apaches.

  But at least to a certain extent, Fletch and Clementine would have to be responsible for their own protection, and to that end, Preacher and Jamie continued working with them on their shooting.

  They practiced for several hours almost every day. Fletch progressed to the point that he could whip out the Walker Colt with a fair degree of swiftness, and he hit what he aimed at most of the time.

  Clementine’s accuracy improved, too, especially after Preacher found her a lighter-weight Mississippi rifle and presented it to her. The only drawback was that it was a muzzle-loading percussion weapon instead of a breechloader, so he had to teach her how to handle that chore. It was slower to reload than the Sharps, but Clementine was a better markswoman with it. After a few days, she was well on her way to stripping the pine trees of all their cones on the far side of their favorite practice spot.

  * * *

  The four of them were having dinner in the hotel dining room one evening when Preacher suddenly lifted his head, sniffed, wrinkled his nose, and frowned.

  Jamie saw the reaction and asked, “What is it?”

  “I know that smell,” the mountain man replied. “See if you get a whiff of it.”

  Jamie drew in a deep breath, made a face, and said, “Phew.”

  “Exactly,” Preacher said.

  Clementine looked a little queasy as she smelled the strong, distinctive aroma, too. “What is that?”

  “Not what,” Preacher said with a smile. “Who.”

  He turned in his chair, spotted a man in filthy buckskins standing in the dining room’s entrance, and raised a hand to catch the newcomer’s attention. The man’s grimy face lit up with recognition. He grinned as he started across the room toward them. Guests at the tables he passed leaned back away from him and looked dismayed as he went by. The smell he carried with him washed out in front of him like a wave.

  “Preacher!” the man exclaimed. “Boy, howdy, it’s good to see you ag
ain.”

  Preacher was on his feet and grasped the hand the newcomer thrust out at him, and then they pounded each other heartily on the back.

  “Good to see you, too, Pugh.” Preacher turned and gestured toward the others at the table. “You know Jamie Ian MacCallister.”

  “We ain’t ever met, as I recollect, but I sure do know of him,” the man called Pugh said. “Howdy, Jamie.”

  Jamie stood up and shook hands. “Glad to meet you. Pugh, was it?”

  The man cackled with laughter. “That’s my name, but ever since I went to the mountains and started trappin’, nigh on to thirty year ago, folks been callin’ me Phew. I answer to either of them monikers.”

  “And this is Fletch Wylie and his missus, Miss Clementine,” Preacher went on.

  “Howdy, Fletch,” Pugh greeted the young man. Then he swept off his stained, battered old hat and made a creditable bow toward Clementine. “Miss Clementine, it’s a plumb honor and a privilege to make your acquaintance.”

  “Yes, uh, I’m . . . I’m glad to meet you as well, Mister . . . Pugh,” Clementine said tentatively.

  “I apologize for the smell, ma’am. It seems to follow me around for some reason.”

  Preacher said, “The reason is, you plumb hate water and don’t never take a bath less’n you happen to fall into a river or a lake.”

  Pugh frowned. “Bathin’ ain’t natural. Iffen the Good Lord had meant for man to have much truck with water, He’d ’ve given us gills, like He done with fish.”

  “You can argue about what the Good Lord did or didn’t intend with Audie when he gets here.”

  “Audie’s comin’ along on this here jaunt?” Pugh’s face showed excitement and interest again.

  “I ain’t heard from him yet, but I’m hopin’ so. Him and Nighthawk both.”

  “Well, sure, iffen Audie shows up, Nighthawk will, too. Them two are always together. I reckon Nighthawk’s as big a talker as ever?”