Preacher's Assault Read online

  Two days later, Preacher sat on a crate inside the front of the lead wagon in the caravan. The canvas flaps had been tied back so he could get some air and see where they were going. He felt much stronger. Rest and food had done wonders for him, along with his own sturdy constitution. He had always been fast to recover from injury. He would have thought everything was going to be all right . . . if he hadn’t been consumed with worry about Casey.

  He and Roland had spent a lot of time talking about that bloody night when the grizzly bear had come rampaging into the outlaw camp. The last Preacher had seen anything of Garity, he had kicked the man underneath the wagon where Casey was tied to one of the wheels. Garity’s right arm had been broken, but other than that he was all right.

  It was possible, they had decided, that while all eyes were on Preacher’s epic battle with the bear, Garity had gotten hold of a knife with his left hand and cut the ropes holding Casey to the wheel. If he had acted quickly enough, he could have then clamped his good hand over her mouth to keep her from crying out and dragged her under the wagon with him. If that was what happened, he had probably knocked her out to keep her from struggling and crawled away from the wagons into the darkness, dragging Casey with him.

  Where Garity had gone from there, no one knew. After Lorenzo and the other men arrived to set the prisoners free, Roland had searched frantically all around the site of the outlaw camp. He had found some horse tracks and surmised that Garity had left Casey hidden somewhere while he snuck back and stole one of the outlaws’ mounts. From there, they could have gone anywhere.

  But the only destination that really made sense, Roland thought—and Preacher agreed with him—was Santa Fe.

  Garity could have forced Casey to splint and bind up his broken arm, but he would need real medical attention sooner or later, and Santa Fe was the closest place he could get it. He obviously had friends there—he’d mentioned knowing a man who ran a whorehouse and probably planned to hole up there while he recovered, as well as going ahead with his plan to sell Casey to the proprietor of the place. If Garity could do that, he would salvage what had otherwise been a disaster.

  Since Santa Fe was the closest outpost of civilization, the wagons had to proceed there as planned, anyway, but now there was another goal.

  Find Casey. Settle the score with Garity. Those were the thoughts that burned in Preacher’s brain.

  Being forced to double up on some of the wagons and teams had slowed the caravan, but two more days would bring them to Santa Fe. Preacher was looking forward to it. He could have used more like two weeks to recover from the ordeal, but a full recuperation would have to wait. By the time they reached the settlement, he would be ready to do whatever needed to be done. Anything else wasn’t an option.

  They had plenty of horses again, since they had recovered the mounts belonging to the dead outlaws. Roland kept two outriders scouting ahead and behind the wagons. He didn’t have the manpower to do any more. He was usually one of them, and as Preacher watched, the young man rode back toward the wagons after a foray ahead.

  “Everything still looks clear,” Roland reported as he swung the horse around and fell in alongside the lead wagon. “I think we’ve already had our share of trouble on this trip, and more besides.”

  “Don’t say things like that,” Preacher warned. “You’ll jinx us.”

  He hoped Roland was right, though. They were past the area where the worst danger of Indian attacks lay, and since the bear was finally dead, its great shaggy carcass far behind them, the only real threat was that they might run into another gang of outlaws. If that didn’t happen, likely they would make it to Santa Fe without any more problems.

  “I can’t stop thinking about Casey,” Roland said with a sigh. “Do you really think we’ll find her, Preacher?”

  “Damn right we’ll find her. Santa Fe ain’t that big a place. I know some people there. Somebody will have seen her and Garity and can tell us where to find them.”

  “But what if Garity didn’t take her to Santa Fe?”

  Preacher’s jaw tightened. “Where else would he go? But if he didn’t, as soon as I’m in better shape, I’ll head back to the spot where he grabbed her and pick up their trail.”

  “After all that time?” Roland sounded dubious.

  “I’ll find ’em,” Preacher said. “If it takes a year, or two, or however long, I’ll find ’em. And then Garity’ll pay for what he done.”

  The wagons rolled into Santa Fe’s broad plaza late in the afternoon. With Lorenzo’s help, Preacher climbed down from the vehicle where he had been riding. The mountain man wore boots, whipcord trousers, a linsey-woolsey shirt, and a broad-brimmed brown hat, all of which came from the freight carried by the caravan. His buckskins had been too bloody and shredded to be saved, but he figured he could get another set of them in the settlement . . . once the rest of his business was done.

  He was armed with a new knife, two pistols, and a rifle, also new. He had offered to owe Roland for them, but the young man wouldn’t hear of it.

  “We’d all be dead now if it weren’t for you, Preacher,” Roland had said. “I’ll never finish paying that debt.”

  “You best be careful,” Lorenzo warned as he and Preacher stood beside the wagon. “You may not be too steady on your feet yet.”

  “I’ll be fine,” Preacher said.

  Roland came over to join them. “Where’s this place you’re going?” he asked Preacher.

  The mountain man pointed. “A block down that side street over yonder. It’s called Juanita’s. Ask folks if you can’t find it. They can tell you where to go.”

  Roland nodded. “I’ll see you later, then, after I’ve made arrangements for the freight and the wagons.”

  “Good luck with that,” Preacher said.

  “Don’t worry about that,” Roland said with a smile. “Despite the fact that he didn’t know anything about the frontier, my father was a pretty canny businessman, and I learned from him. I’ll be able to strike a good deal.”

  Preacher clapped a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “I’m sure you will. Go do your pa proud.”

  He and Lorenzo walked across the plaza, not in any hurry. Preacher felt fairly steady, but he didn’t want to rush things. They went down the side street to a square adobe building where the strains of guitar music drifted out through the open front door. The cool dimness inside felt good when they walked in.

  The cantina had a hard-packed dirt floor, a scattering of rough-hewn tables and chairs, and an actual hardwood bar across the back. Old Esteban, who had owned the place, had paid a pretty penny to have the bar brought up from Mexico City ten years earlier. Unfortunately for him, he had come down with a fever and died before it ever arrived. His widow Juanita, who was considerably younger than her late husband, had continued running the cantina.

  Preacher had met her a few years later during one of his previous visits to Santa Fe and had heard the story of Esteban and the bar from Juanita while they were in bed together, basking in the afterglow of some vigorous lovemaking. Luckily for Preacher, the earthy, voluptuous widow had been finished with her mourning by the time he came along, and the two of them had hit it off splendidly.

  She was behind the bar when Preacher and Lorenzo came in. The air was thick with the smells of pipe smoke and burning hemp, tequila and beer, perfume and unwashed human flesh. Men laughed and talked, and the pretty girls who carried drinks to the tables let out the occasional yelp as the customers got a little too friendly. In the low-cut peasant blouses and long, embroidered skirts, the nubile young women put plenty of lecherous ideas in the minds of the patrons.

  Juanita set a bucket of beer on the bar to be delivered to one of the tables, then glanced at the two newcomers. Her head jerked sharply as she looked again. Her eyes widened in recognition, and a big smile appeared on her face as she hurried out from behind the bar and practically ran across the room to greet the mountain man.

  “Preacher!” she said as she threw he
r arms around him. “Dios mio! I almost didn’t recognize you, dressed like a civilized person instead of a wild Indian! What are you doing—” Juanita stopped short and frowned as she looked into Preacher’s gaunt, haggard face. “Preacher, are you all right? You look sick!”

  “Nope, I ain’t sick,” he assured her. “Just beat up and wore out. Reckon we could find an empty table and sit down?”

  “Of course.” She held on to his arm and led him to one of the tables. As the three of them sat down, she nodded toward Lorenzo and asked, “Who is your amigo?”

  “I ain’t his slave, if that’s what you’re thinkin’,” Lorenzo said.

  Juanita shook her head. “Preacher is not the sort of man who would keep another in bondage. I can tell the two of you are friends.”

  “His name’s Lorenzo,” Preacher said. “He’s kind of a cantankerous old codger, but he’s handy to have around ever’ now and then.”

  Lorenzo snorted. “Saved your bacon more’n once, I seem to recall.”

  Preacher didn’t argue about that. Instead he turned to Juanita and said, “You’re lookin’ as pretty as ever, darlin’.” His compliments still had the power to make her blush with pleasure, he noted.

  She said, “Of course I’m glad to see you, Preacher, but what brings you to Santa Fe?”

  “I need a place to stay, Juanita.”

  “With me,” she replied instantly. “Do not even think about arguing.”

  Preacher chuckled. “I wasn’t intendin’ to. Reckon you can find a bed for Lorenzo, too?”

  “Of course. You can both stay as long as you like. At least a month. It will take that long for my cooking to fatten you up and make you healthy again.”

  Preacher’s mouth watered a little at the memory of all the savory vittles Juanita had fixed for him in the past. Beans and tortillas, strips of beef, and the peppers . . . Lord, the peppers! There was nothing like them to get a man’s vital juices stirring. Juanita was right. A month of her cooking would put him back on his feet again, good and proper. Washed down with plenty of tequila, of course.

  “I can’t tell you how good that sounds, darlin’,” he said, “but there’s something else I need to take care of first.”

  She heard the edge in his voice. She frowned again as she said, “Trouble. That’s what you mean.”

  “You’re right,” Preacher admitted. “I’m lookin’ for an hombre.”

  “A man you intend to kill.”

  Juanita’s words were a statement, not a question, but Preacher inclined his head in agreement anyway.

  She looked at Lorenzo and asked, “If you’re his friend, have you not told him that he is no shape to be seeking a battle?”

  “I reckon you’ve knowed him longer’n I have, ma’am,” Lorenzo said. “You think it does any good to tell Preacher anything?”

  She sighed. “Not really. Not once his mind is made up.” She looked at Preacher again. “So tell me, who is this evil man whose life you wish to end?”

  “How do you know he’s evil?” Preacher asked.

  “Because if he wasn’t, you would not want to kill him. Despite all the rough edges, you are a good man, Arturo.”

  Lorenzo looked across the table and raised his eyebrows as he repeated, “Arturo?”

  “Never you mind about that,” Preacher snapped. He had told Juanita the name he’d been born with—Arthur—and sometimes she called him Arturo in bed. It was the first time she had used it anywhere else. He went on, “The fella I’m lookin’ for is named Garity. I never heard his first name.”

  He went on to describe the outlaw while Juanita nodded slowly. He told her about how Garity and the other thieves had attacked the wagon train twice, how they had tortured him, how Garity had escaped during the battle with the bear and evidently taken Casey with him. Juanita’s eyes widened in amazement as she listened.

  “Dios mio, Preacher,” she said when he was finished, “how can one man get into so much trouble?”

  “That’s what I been askin’ myself for a long time now,” Preacher growled. “Seems like some of us are just born to it.”

  “And now you want my help finding this man Garity and the woman he has with him? Who is this Casey to you?”

  “A friend,” Preacher replied honestly. She had been more than that to him for a while. That was over, but he still cared for her, and wanted to help her. “She’s been through a lot in her life, and whatever’s happenin’ to her now, she don’t deserve it.”

  Juanita thought about it for a moment and then nodded. “You say Garity might have taken her to a house of ill repute?”

  “More than likely. He’s probably stayin’ there himself while that busted arm of his heals up.”

  “I don’t know every whorehouse in Santa Fe, you know. I run a respectable establishment here.”

  Calling that cantina respectable was stretching the definition a mite, Preacher thought, but he didn’t say it. Instead, he said, “You know a lot of people, though. I figured you could put the word out, quiet-like. Let folks know you’re interested in findin’ out if an hombre with a busted wing and a pretty young blonde has showed up in town lately, and if they have, you want to know where they’re stayin’. Don’t say anything except to people you trust. I don’t want word gettin’ back to Garity that I’m lookin’ for him. He don’t need to know I’m in Santa Fe . . . until I’m ready for him to know.”

  Juanita nodded. “I will help you, Preacher,” she said. “But then you have to let me take care of you until you are well again.”

  “It’s a deal,” Preacher said. “If I’m still alive.”

  Juanita glared at him. “You had damned well better be!”

  CHAPTER 25

  Preacher knew it might take a few days for Juanita’s quest for information about Casey and Garity to pay off. He spent that time taking it easy, recovering from everything he had been through. Every minute that passed while he didn’t know where Casey was gnawed at his nerves.

  He forced himself to relax. Juanita fed him well, as she had promised, and each day he felt a little stronger. She deemed him still too weak for any exercise in the bedroom, and although he might have argued that point, he didn’t make an issue of it. If they got the chance, they would make up for lost time later, he figured.

  Roland paid several visits to the cantina. When they located Casey and mounted a rescue attempt, he wanted to be part of it. Preacher was inclined to go along with that. Roland had grown up some during the journey from Missouri. That plan he had hatched to get Preacher and Casey away from Garity hadn’t been too bad. It hadn’t actually worked, of course, but nobody’s plans worked all the time, not even Preacher’s.

  “How’d you fare with sellin’ that freight?” Preacher asked the young man as they sat at a secluded table in a corner of the cantina with Lorenzo and Juanita.

  “I’m working on it,” Roland replied. He had been letting his beard grow, and with the dark tan his skin had acquired during the journey over the Santa Fe Trail, he was starting to look a little like one of the Nuevo Mexicanos. “The deal has turned out to be more complicated than I expected, but I’m confident I’ll come to a suitable arrangement soon.” He took a sip from the cup of tequila he held. “Anyway, I’m in no hurry to leave Santa Fe. I won’t be going anywhere until we have Casey back safe and sound.”

  Preacher had a hunch Casey was still alive—the girl had proven herself to be a survivor, after all—but they had no guarantees that was true. Taking care of Garity might come down to avenging Casey’s death rather than rescuing her, Preacher knew. Roland ought to be prepared for that possibility.

  Before he could say anything, the old man who played the guitar in the cantina during the evenings came into the place and looked around. Spotting them at the table, he headed across the room toward them with an excited look on his white-bearded face. His sombrero was thumbed back on his mostly bald head, and his guitar was slung by its strap on his back.

  He tugged the broad-brimmed, steeple-crowne
d straw hat off and held it in front of him respectfully as he stopped beside the table and said, “Señora.”

  “What is it, Pepé?” Juanita asked.

  “I have news of the man and the woman you seek,” the old man said.

  Preacher, Roland, and Lorenzo all leaned forward in anticipation. They had been waiting for that moment, and they hoped it turned out to be true.

  “Go ahead, Pepé,” Juanita told him. “What have you discovered?”

  “I have been talking to my nephew Pablo. He came into town yesterday with a mule train from Mexico City. Well, you know Pablo . . . The first thing he had to do when he arrived was to find a pretty señorita with whom to spend some time. The boy is my sister’s niño, and I love him, but like all young men, he thinks of little else but romance.”

  Preacher felt a surge of impatience. He wanted to tell the old man to hurry up and get to what they wanted to know, but he reined in the impulse. Trying to hurry Pepé might result in slowing him down even more.

  “Yes, go ahead,” Juanita gently prodded. She knew how to handle him.

  “He mentioned that he went to the house of ill repute owned by Egan Powell.”

  Juanita’s eyes widened, and Preacher asked, “Who’s Egan Powell?”

  “A very bad man,” Juanita replied. “An American, as you can tell by the name. He came here several years ago and became a Mexican citizen, saying that he never wanted to go back to the United States. You can probably guess why.”

  “He was a wanted man there,” Preacher drawled. “The law probably made it too hot for him.”

  Juanita nodded. “That is the rumor, although no one knows for certain. What I do know is that Powell has killed several men since he has been in Santa Fe, each of them with his bare hands.”

  Lorenzo asked, “They let fellas get away with murder in this town?”

  “Those killings were not murder. In each case, the man got drunk and caused trouble in Powell’s business. They were all armed with guns or knives. Powell took their weapons away and beat them to death.”