Preacher's Blood Hunt Read online

  “I’m ready when you are,” Preacher answered without hesitation.

  “Not just yet. I want you to think about it for a while. Think good and hard about it.” Druke turned away and added over his shoulder, “Come on, Blood Eye, and bring the girl. I want to talk to her.”

  CHAPTER 29

  Charlotte thought Blood Eye was going to refuse to follow the order, but the Crow followed Druke, shoving her along with him. They went to one of the cabins, where Druke opened the door and smirked at her.

  “Welcome to my home, Miss . . . ?”

  Charlotte didn’t answer him. There was no real reason to keep her identity a secret any longer, but she had hidden it for so long that a part of her rebelled at the idea of revealing the truth.

  Mostly, though, she was numb, unwilling and to a certain extent unable to respond. The day she had spent with Blood Eye had been long and terrible.

  The really bad thing was . . . it could have been worse.

  A lot worse.

  And probably would be in the future, unless some miracle saved them.

  Blood Eye pushed her into the cabin. A candle burned on the table, its flickering light revealing the bunk and other spartan furnishings.

  Jebediah Druke fancied himself the ruler of this valley, Charlotte thought, but the existence he led in King’s Crown was hardly a luxurious one. She couldn’t understand why anybody would fight so hard for such a life.

  Of course, the life she and Will led was even more primitive, she reminded herself, and she had enjoyed each and every day of it, even the ones filled with danger. She had responded to the challenges of the frontier more enthusiastically than she had ever dreamed she would.

  The fact that she had spent those days with the man she loved had a lot to do with it.

  Their idyllic existence was over. Will would soon be dead, along with their newfound friend Preacher, and she . . . would be the plaything of a crazed renegade, at least until he grew tired of her.

  There was no way of knowing what fate might befall her after that, only that it would be horrible.

  Druke broke into those grim musings. “Do you want a drink? All I have is busthead whiskey, but it’s better than nothing. Although a lady like you might not think so.”

  Charlotte felt a little stronger because she knew nothing was likely to happen to her in the next few minutes. She looked down at her ripped buckskins. “Do I appear to you to be a lady, Mr. Druke?”

  Druke smiled. “You certainly do. You see, I thought you were just a squaw at first. It wasn’t until I got a better look at you that I realized you’re white. And then when I heard you talk . . . Well, let’s just say that you’re a far cry from what I expected Gray Otter to be.”

  Charlotte summoned up a wry smile of her own. “Then I suppose our masquerade was a successful one.”

  “For a while.” Druke’s tone hardened as he went on. “That’s all over now.”

  “Indeed it is.”

  Blood Eye asked, “What do you want of us, Druke?”

  “Of you, my friend, nothing,” Druke answered. “Your work is over for the time being, depending on how that battle between Preacher and Pierre turns out. Right now, I’m just indulging my curiosity. I want to know Miss Charlotte’s story. I want to know how a young white woman from back east winds up pretending to be a savage.”

  “The only true savages in King’s Crown are you and your men,” Charlotte said.

  Druke sat down at the table, pulled a jug over to him, and uncorked it. He took a long drink, then set the jug down and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “Sure you don’t want some?”

  “Positive,” Charlotte said. “And I’m not going to tell you anything, no matter what you do to me.”

  Druke laughed. “You sound awfully sure of yourself. Shouldn’t you know by now that Blood Eye can make anybody talk? It’s one of his most useful skills.”

  “All this talk is the practice of lizards and idiots,” Blood Eye snapped. “A waste of time. I take the woman and go.”

  Druke sat forward. “I’m still in charge here. I know what a dangerous man you are, Blood Eye, but I have more than a dozen dangerous men on my side. You can’t handle all of us.”

  One of Blood Eye’s rare smiles curved his thin lips. “If you are so sure of this, Druke, then keep on giving me orders. We shall see.”

  For a long moment, the two men stared coldly at each other. Charlotte supposed it was too much to hope that they would kill each other and give her a chance to get away.

  She didn’t want to escape. She just wanted an opportunity to free Will and Preacher. Maybe get her hands on her bow and arrows . . .

  Then they would all gladly take their chances.

  “Take her and go,” Druke said abruptly. “But stay close. In an hour, Preacher and Pierre will fight. Depending on how that turns out—and whether or not I decide to honor the agreement I made with Preacher—your services might be needed.”

  Blood Eye’s hand closed around Charlotte’s arm again.

  She looked at Druke. “I beg you, sir—”

  “Don’t waste your time,” he said with a harsh laugh. “Get this through your head, girl. You raised hell with me and my men for months. I don’t care what happens to you. That’s up to Blood Eye now.”

  Charlotte knew that barring the miracle she had hoped for earlier, she had just been condemned to hell.

  Will raged as Druke and Blood Eye took Charlotte away, but tied to the post as he was, he couldn’t do anything about it. As he cursed and strained against his bonds, Preacher felt a twinge of pity for the youngster.

  Not too much, though. Will and Charlotte had decided to journey to King’s Crown, and somewhere along the way they had come up with the idea for Charlotte to pose as an Indian. They were the ones who had gone to war against Jebediah Druke and earned the man’s ruthless enmity.

  Preacher could sympathize with that, of course. If ever a man needed killing, it was Druke. And Blood Eye, too. That went without saying.

  To Will and Charlotte, trying to help the honest trappers in the valley probably had seemed like some sort of romantic quest. It went right along with William Pendexter’s fascination with Fenimore Cooper’s writings.

  Since their time might be short, Preacher figured it was time he had himself a talk with the youngster.

  Will’s head had sagged forward again. He muttered bitter curses under his breath as he hung on the post.

  “Will,” Preacher said sharply, to break through the young man’s self-pity and fear for Charlotte. “Will, listen to me.”

  Will lifted his head and gazed dully at the mountain man. “What is it?”

  “I know who you really are. I talked to your pa back in St. Louis.”

  A confused frown creased Will’s forehead. “What? You talked to my father?”

  “That’s right. He gave me the job of comin’ out here and findin’ you. He wanted me to give you a message, and since this might be the last chance I get to deliver it . . . Anyway, he wants you to know that he forgives you for runnin’ off the way you did. He wants you to go home. He didn’t hire me to force you to go back east, which I wouldn’t have done anyway, but he wanted to make sure you understood that he’d like to mend the fences between the two of you.”

  Will stared at Preacher in what appeared to be total incomprehension. After a moment, he shook his head. “What you’re telling me is impossible, Preacher. My father never met you or anybody else in St. Louis. He never traveled any farther west than Pennsylvania. And he’s been dead for five years!”

  The words shocked Preacher. Will certainly sounded like he was telling the truth. But Preacher had seen the evidence with his own eyes.

  “Look, I saw that birthmark on the back of your neck, Will. I know that you’re really William Pendexter.”

  Will’s eyes widened as he looked over at Preacher. “Pendexter!” he exclaimed.

  “That’s right. Your pa, Barnabas Pendexter, hired me to find you and give
you that message. He staked me when I was flat broke, and he gave me your name and description, right down to that birthmark.”

  Will surprised Preacher again by laughing. “I have that birthmark, true enough, but Barnabas Pendexter isn’t my father, not by a long shot. My name is really Will Gardner, like I told you—”

  Will broke off as a large group of men came toward them, led by Druke and Sam. The giant Pierre was right behind them. Several of the men carried burning torches.

  Preacher looked for Charlotte and Blood Eye, but didn’t see them. He didn’t know where they had gone, but there was no time to worry about that.

  Druke had decided that he had let the prisoners stew in their own juices long enough.

  It was time for battle.

  CHAPTER 30

  Druke came to a stop in front of Preacher and Will and regarded them with a self-satisfied grin. “So, have the two of you been thinking about what’s in store for you? Still hoping for that quick bullet in the head?”

  “If that’s the best we can do,” Preacher said, “I’d rather have that than be carved on by that damned ugly heathen. Where is he, anyway?”

  “Blood Eye is around somewhere,” Druke replied with a vague wave of his hand. “He always is. But he’s usually where you least expect him to be. That’s the way he takes you by surprise, when it’s too late to do you any good.”

  “What about the girl? She’s still with him?”

  “Oh, I think you can count on that.” Druke leered. “Unless I miss my guess, he’s not going to let her out of his sight for a while. Or out of his reach, either.”

  Will Gardner—which was how Preacher still thought of him and what he insisted was his real name—lunged forward against his bonds as much as he could and cursed fiercely at Druke. “You’ll pay for what you’ve done,” Will raged. “You and all of your vile bunch, including that Indian.”

  Preacher could have told Will not to waste his breath, but it was too late. Druke stepped closer to the young man and swung a vicious backhand that smashed across Will’s face. The force of the blow twisted Will’s head to the side. A crimson thread of blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.

  “You don’t have a say about anything anymore, boy,” Druke jeered at him. “Your little ladyfriend is gone, and Preacher controls whether you die quick and easy or slow and screaming.”

  “Let’s just get on with it.” Preacher’s voice and face were grim as he was careful not to betray the leap in spirits he had suddenly experienced.

  Ever since he had regained consciousness, he had wondered what had happened to Dog. He remembered hearing a shot and the big cur’s yelp of pain, but nothing about his old friend’s fate after that. Although he always tried to hold out hope in desperate situations, he’d halfway accepted that Dog was dead.

  But he had just spotted a ghostly gray shape gliding through the shadows outside the ring of firelight, and something about it was familiar enough to have sent that thrill through him.

  If Dog was alive and had tracked them, it was like having a secret weapon on his side. If Preacher had his hands free and his old friend to fight at his side . . .

  Well, there was no telling what might happen.

  “I don’t blame you for being eager.” Druke flipped a beefy hand at Preacher and told his lieutenant, “Cut him loose.”

  As Sam started toward the mountain man with a knife in his hand, Druke went on. “Three or four of you men draw a bead on Preacher. If he tries anything funny while Turner’s cutting him loose, go ahead and kill him.”

  “Just be careful you don’t shoot me while you’re at it, boys,” Sam added.

  “All you have to do to guarantee a quick death is make a grab for the knife, Preacher,” Druke continued. “But if you do, our deal is off and Blood Eye gets to see just how long he can keep Gardner alive. Or what passes for alive, anyway.”

  “I’ll keep our bargain,” Preacher said as Sam went behind him. “I’m a man of my word.”

  “Are you suggesting that I’m not?” Druke demanded.

  “I’m just sayin’ you’ll get your show.”

  “That’s all I asked for.”

  Preacher barely felt the blade sawing at the rawhide lashings around his wrists. When his arms came loose and swung forward, pain throbbed in his shoulders. He almost fell on his face since his feet were still tied, but he managed to catch himself.

  A moment later, his feet were free, too, but he didn’t trust himself to take a step just yet. He stood there and let the blood flow back into his extremities. He flexed his fingers and rubbed his hands together in an attempt to speed up the process. The pins-and-needles sensation as feeling returned was devilishly painful, but he knew it wouldn’t last long.

  While Preacher was working at that, Druke said, “I’ve had a talk with Pierre. He understands that he’s not supposed to kill you, only defeat you. I think he’ll honor that . . . but it’s always a little hard to be sure what a brute like Pierre really comprehends.”

  Instead of being insulted by those words, Pierre gave a rumbling laugh. To Preacher the noise sounded a little like a rockslide.

  Druke made another motion to his men. The ones carrying torches spread out into a rough circle about thirty feet wide. They plunged the torches into the ground and left them standing upright. They formed a ring with fairly large gaps between them.

  “Consider that your prize ring,” Druke said to Preacher, “and the prize is death. Step out of the circle, or let Pierre throw you out of the circle, and you lose. Blood Eye gets both you and Gardner to do with whatever he wants. Pierre knocks you unconscious or breaks a leg or anything else that makes it impossible for you to keep fighting, you lose and Blood Eye gets you. Clear enough?”

  “What do I have to do to beat that bruiser of yours?” Preacher asked.

  “It’s the same set of rules. Throw him out of the circle, knock him out, disable him some other way. That’s all it takes to win a bullet, Preacher.” Druke grinned. “But I’m betting you can’t do it.”

  Preacher looked at the other men gathered around the ring of torches. “Maybe you fellas should do some wagerin’,” he suggested. “You might make yourselves a little money.”

  “By betting against me?” Druke said. “I don’t think anybody’s interested in doing that.”

  “You got ’em buffaloed that much, do you?”

  Some of the men looked a little uncomfortable at the way the conversation was going.

  Druke scowled and snapped, “Forget it. You won’t drive a wedge between me and my men. Now get on with it. You’ve had enough time to get the feeling back in your hands and feet.”

  That was true. Preacher’s feet and legs still felt a little clumsy, but he thought he could get around all right. His hands were almost back to normal.

  Druke pulled out a pistol and pointed it at Preacher. “Move. Get into the circle, now.”

  Preacher flexed his hands a few more times as he walked between a couple blazing brands into the ring of torches. Pierre lumbered after him.

  Preacher walked to the center of the rough circle and stopped. Druke’s men closed in around the makeshift arena, so he couldn’t see Will Gardner anymore.

  He hadn’t spotted Dog since that first glance, either. Maybe what he’d seen wasn’t really the big cur. It could have been just some phantom of his imagination, he told himself, more of a hope than anything real.

  But if it was a hope, he was going to hang on to it stubbornly. He and Dog had been through a hell of a lot together. He wasn’t going to give up on the gallant, shaggy beast.

  Pierre came to a stop a few yards away. His eyes were dull, but he wore a big grin on his hairy face. He flexed his hands, too, but Preacher had a hunch it was out of eagerness to get them on an enemy.

  Preacher looked over at Druke, who stood just beyond the ring formed by the torches. “I don’t reckon you’d let a man have a drink before he has to fight for his life, would you? I’ve worked up a hell of a thirst bein�
� a prisoner.”

  “Don’t forget, you’re not fighting for your life. You’re fighting for an easier death,” Druke reminded him.

  “I don’t reckon you’re gonna let me forget. What about that drink?”

  Druke shrugged. “Why not? Sam, go fetch the jug from my cabin.”

  As Turner hurried away, Pierre asked, “We fight now?”

  “In a minute, Pierre,” Druke told him. “I can’t really blame Preacher. I’d want to be drunk if I had to fight you, too.”

  Preacher shook his head. “I don’t plan to get drunk. Just need a little something to cut the dry in my throat.”

  Turner came trotting back with a corked jug. He handed it to Druke, who moved a step into the ring and tossed it to Preacher. The mountain man caught it deftly, pulled the cork, and tilted the jug to his mouth. Fiery liquor gurgled down his throat.

  The whiskey had a bracing effect, but that wasn’t the only reason Preacher had asked for it. He lowered the jug, wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, and replaced the cork. He said quietly, “Is the fight on?”

  “What?” Druke asked. “What did you say?”

  “I asked is the fight on?” Preacher repeated, still pitching his voice low.

  “Speak up, damn you!” Druke burst out. “Muttering’s not going to do you any good.”

  Preacher took a deep breath and raised his voice. “I said, is the fight on?”

  “Yes!” Druke answered impatiently. “Yes, the damned fight’s on!”

  “Good.” Preacher turned, almost too fast for the eye to see, swung the jug with both hands, and smashed it into Pierre’s face as hard as he could.

  CHAPTER 31

  Pierre went down like a poleaxed steer. For a couple seconds that seemed longer than they really were, stunned silence from the crowd greeted Preacher’s unexpected attack.

  Then angry yells burst from the men, and several of them surged forward until Druke yelled, “Hold it!” and waved them back.