Preacher's Blood Hunt Read online

  “You could call it that,” Preacher said.

  Pendexter sighed as his expression grew solemn. “I needed something to lift my spirits for a moment. You see, Preacher . . . it’s all right to call you Preacher?”

  The mountain man gestured with the beer mug to indicate that it was fine.

  “You see,” Pendexter went on, “I’m carrying a great burden right now, Preacher. My son William is . . . missing.”

  “Something happen to him?” Preacher asked, more out of politeness than real interest.

  “That’s just it. I don’t know. He wasn’t kidnapped or anything like that. He left home voluntarily. You see, William is fascinated by the mountains. Back home in Philadelphia, we don’t have anything quite so spectacular. At least I assume we don’t, since I can’t speak from personal experience. I’ve never laid eyes on the Rockies myself. Neither had William, but ever since he read about them, he’s wanted to see them for himself.”

  “I can understand that. When I was a youngster, I used to hear fellas who had been west talkin’ about the things they’d seen, and it wasn’t long before I was bound and determined to see ’em for myself. How old’s your boy?”

  “Actually, he’s a grown man. Twenty-two.” Pendexter paused and a note of anger surfaced in his voice. “Old enough to know better than to run away from home like a child.”

  “So that’s what he did? Left on his own and came west?”

  “I assume so. We argued, you see. William read Fenimore Cooper’s book about the Mohicans and was so taken by the romance of it that he decided to become a woodsman himself. Since every place back east is settled, and since he had such an interest in the mountains, he wanted to come west. I refused to give my blessing to such an ill-advised journey, of course. William would never survive very long on the frontier. He’s been pampered and coddled his entire life, I’m ashamed to say. But his mother . . . well, she was very attached to him, and before she passed away she made me promise that I would take care of William the same way she would have. He’s suited for carrying on in my business and nothing else.”

  “What is your business?” Preacher asked, becoming interested in Pendexter’s story despite himself.

  “Banking,” the man replied.

  That didn’t surprise Preacher. With his expensive clothes and well-groomed appearance, Pendexter looked like a banker.

  “So, your boy disappeared and you think he ran off to the Rockies,” Preacher said. “Where do I come into this?” He had a pretty good idea what Pendexter’s answer would be, but he wanted to hear it anyway.

  “It’s quite simple, really. I want you to find him.”

  “And do what? You said yourself that he’s a grown man. I can’t make a fella do something he don’t want to do, not if he ain’t hurtin’ anybody.”

  Pendexter nodded. “I know that. It would be enough for you to find him, make sure he’s safe, and deliver a message to him for me. I . . . I want him to know that I love him and want him to return home. I want him to know that he’s always welcome.”

  Pendexter looked uncomfortable. Clearly, putting those emotions into words was difficult for him. As a banker, he was more used to dealing with figures in a ledger book than he was with his own feelings.

  The two fiddle players had launched into another sprightly tune, which Preacher ignored. He drained the rest of the beer in the mug and set it on the table. “There’s a couple things wrong with your idea, Mr. Pendexter. The first and most important is . . . do you have any idea just how big the Rocky Mountains are?”

  “I understand that they’re vast.”

  “Vast ain’t a strong enough word. They stretch all the way from Canada damn near to Mexico, and there ain’t just hundreds of places a fella like your son could be. There are thousands. Maybe more than that. A fella who don’t want to be found can disappear into those mountains and never be seen again.”

  “I’m not sure William doesn’t want to be found. Anyway, I’ve had inquiry agents working here in St. Louis for the past couple months, questioning every man they can find who’s been in the mountains recently. I have reports that a young man matching William’s description has been seen in an area called . . . what was it again?” Pendexter frowned in thought for a moment. “King’s Crown, that was it. Are you familiar with it?”

  Now the man really did have Preacher’s interest. “Yeah, I know King’s Crown. It’s a valley, more of a hole, really, with mountains surroundin’ it in a circle so that they look sort of like the points on a crown. The valley’s a good twenty miles across, with a couple good streams runnin’ through it. Prime beaver country.”

  “That’s exactly the sort of place William would seek out. He was convinced that he could be a success as a fur trapper. I’m not sure what made him feel like that, but the obsessions of youth don’t always make sense, do they?”

  “Been too long since I was young,” Preacher said. “I’ve plumb forgot.”

  “You said there was a second objection. What’s that?”

  “You want to hire me to find your boy, right?”

  “That’s what I had in mind, yes.”

  “But to do that, I’d have to be goin’ back to the mountains myself, and right now I can’t do that. I don’t have a stake, anymore.”

  “Money to finance the trip, you mean.” Pendexter waved a hand. “That’s no problem. I’ll not only pay you a fee for your help in this matter, I’ll supply anything you need.”

  “Anything within reason, you mean.”

  “Anything,” Pendexter repeated bluntly. “If you say you need something to find William, I’ll provide it, no questions asked.”

  Preacher studied the man’s smooth, earnest face for a moment, then said, “Some folks would try to take advantage of anybody who said that.”

  “But everyone I’ve talked to says that you’re an honest man. And now that I’ve talked to you myself, Preacher, I can see that they’re right. I’m a good judge of character, you see. I know that if you and I come to an agreement, you’ll honor it to the very best of your ability.” Pendexter held out his hand across the table. “So, can we do that? Can we come to an agreement?”

  Preacher didn’t shake right away. He spent a couple seconds thinking about the prospect of spending weeks or months in St. Louis, trying to come up with the money for a new outfit. He might be able to find somebody to grubstake him . . . but somebody who wanted to do exactly that sat across the table from him. Running into Pendexter was a stroke of luck. Preacher knew better than to turn his back on good fortune.

  He gripped Pendexter’s hand. “I reckon we’ve got a deal.”

  CHAPTER 3

  The ring of snow-capped peaks that formed King’s Crown gradually faded from view as night settled down over the mountains. A hint of red lingering from the sunset remained in the western sky. When it disappeared the stars began to appear, millions of brilliant pinpoints of whitish-silver light against the ebony backdrop of the heavens.

  Along one of the streams that meandered through the mountain-ringed valley, three men sat around a campfire, two of them smoking pipes while the third cooked their supper for the evening. They had been told that the Indians in the area were fairly peaceful and hadn’t caused any trouble for a good while, so they figured it was safe to have the fire. Even though the days were warm, the nights were still cool enough that the heat from the flames felt mighty good.

  Not only that, the men were all too aware of the vast wilderness around them, and the light seemed to keep its threatening immensity at bay.

  They weren’t old men, but neither were they youngsters. All three had wives and children back east. Carl Pennington was from Ohio and had worked in a store there. Enos Mitchell had been a surveyer in Indiana. John Burton had come the farthest, all the way from New Jersey where he had been a clerk in a law firm. All three men had been dissatisfied with their lives and had headed west, striving to find something better, hoping to make their fortunes in the fur business and then go ho
me. They had met in St. Louis and decided to partner up after hitting it off well.

  The stocky, curly-haired Mitchell was the one frying up salt pork and cooking biscuits for their supper. Over the sizzling of fat in the pan, he said, “I have a feeling that all our traps are going to be full in the morning, boys.”

  “You keep that optimism, Enos.” John Burton was a dour-faced, balding man who would never look comfortable in buckskins, no matter how long he wore them. On the other hand, the tight collars and the suits he had worn in the legal office had been even worse.

  Carl Pennington puffed on his pipe. A red-faced bear of a man running to fat, his body was finally starting to toughen up after the soft life he had led in Ohio. He looked around at the darkness beyond the circle of flickering red light cast by the fire. “I always feel like there’s something out there watching us.”

  “That’s because there probably is,” Mitchell said. “You’ve seen how much wildlife there is around here, Carl. There are probably plenty of animals watching us right now.” “Wolves,” Burton said. “Bears.”

  “Maybe, but they won’t bother us. The fire will keep them away.”

  “We can hope so,” Pennington said.

  Back in St. Louis, they had talked to as many fur trappers as they could before setting out for the Rockies, learning from the veteran mountain men how to go about setting their traps and luring the beaver into them. So far, it was a knack the three newcomers to the mountains hadn’t really picked up. They hadn’t been completely unsuccessful—they had about a dozen plews dried and packed away—but at this rate it would take them a long time to amass enough pelts to make their efforts worthwhile.

  Mitchell took the skillet away from the fire and set it on a rock near the flames. “All right, boys, help yourselves.”

  “Think you could have burned that salt pork any more than you did?” Burton asked.

  Mitchell didn’t seem offended by the question. “Tomorrow night’ll be your turn to cook again, John. We’ll see how you do.”

  Burton grunted and reached for one of the biscuits.

  His hand stopped in mid-air as somewhere in the brush not far from the camp, a branch snapped with a sharp crack that sounded almost like a gunshot.

  Jebediah Druke closed long, sausage-like fingers around the throat of the man next to him. He leaned over and whispered harshly into Sam Turner’s ear, “I said be quiet, you damned fool, not go stompin’ through the brush like a damned ox.”

  Turner made a little croaking sound. Druke knew the man couldn’t breathe. If he hung on for a little longer, Turner would pass out. If Druke kept his tight grip on the man’s neck for a few moments beyond that, Turner would die.

  Druke didn’t want that. He let him go. Turner might be a clumsy idiot at times, but he was still useful.

  Turner rubbed his neck and tried not to gasp too hard for breath. That would make noise, too.

  They might as well get on with their business, Druke thought. Thanks to Turner, the three trappers by the fire already knew somebody was out in the brush. Druke had seen them react to the breaking branch. There was no longer any point in trying to be stealthy.

  He straightened to his full height, which was considerable, cradled his rifle in his left arm, and stepped into the light. He knew his burly, broad-shouldered figure was impressive, even more so with the reddish firelight washing over it. To the men seated on the ground, he must have looked like a menacing giant.

  It was exactly the way Druke wanted to look.

  “Hello, the camp,” he said in a mocking voice. “All right to come on in?”

  He was already in, and they knew it. Their rifles were lying on the ground within easy reach.

  Druke saw them glance at the weapons, then decide against reaching for the rifles as Turner and five other men had emerged from the brush behind him.

  The three trappers quickly realized that they were badly outnumbered. They clung to the hope that the newcomers weren’t looking for trouble.

  Druke saw that in their eyes, as well.

  The one who’d been doing the cooking swallowed hard. “Sure, come on in. Our supper’s a mite skimpy, fellas, but you’re welcome to share in it anyway.”

  “Mighty generous of you,” Druke said without making a move to help himself to the food. “Maybe you’d be willing to share the pelts in those packs over there, too.”

  The skinny, sour-faced one said, “That’s nearly a month’s work for us, and pretty slim pickings, at that. Not worth your time to steal.”

  “Who said anything about stealing?” Druke thumbed back his hat on his bald, bullet-shaped head. “I thought we were all just bein’ generous here and sharin’.”

  “What have you got to share?” the trapper snapped.

  Druke abandoned his affable pose, since no one would have believed it, anyway. His mouth twisted in a sneer. “Powder and shot, mister. Powder and shot.”

  The sourpuss started to bluster, “You can’t come in here and threaten us—”

  “I’d say we’re already doin’ it,” Druke cut in. He drew one of his pistols from behind his belt and thumbed back the hammer. Behind him, he heard Turner and the other men cocking their weapons. “Tell you what I’m gonna do. I’ll let you take your horses and ride out of here. The pelts you’ve taken and all your supplies stay with us. That includes your guns.”

  “You can’t be serious,” the fat trapper said. “We can’t survive out here with no supplies and no guns.”

  “You’ll make it,” Druke said. “You might have to grub for food. But if you don’t run into any redskins who want to lift your hair, you can get back to St. Louis alive.” His voice hardened. “And if you do, you’ll know never to come back to these mountains again. My name is Jebediah Druke, and King’s Crown belongs to me!”

  The sourpuss got to his feet and glared. “You’re nothing but a common thief, Druke! Well, you don’t frighten us, you hear? We have as much legal right to be here in this valley as you do.”

  The trapper who’d been doing the cooking paled. “John, don’t. You can’t—”

  “I know the law,” the sourpuss interrupted stubbornly. “I know our rights, by God!”

  “So you know the law, do you?” Druke said. “Out here, there’s only one law, mister . . . and you’re lookin’ right down the barrel of it!”

  He pulled the trigger.

  CHAPTER 4

  Will Gardner was already asleep when the light touch on his shoulder roused him. He woke up instantly, having picked up that frontiersman’s trick in the year he’d been out west. He sat up, reached for the rifle lying on the ground next to his bedroll. “What is it?”

  The shadowy figure next to him gestured and said in a whisper, “Men on the move.”

  “How many?”

  “Six, seven.”

  “Druke and his bunch,” Will breathed. “They’re the only ones who wouldn’t be settled down for the night already.”

  His companion didn’t say anything, but Will took the silence for agreement.

  “You were out scouting around again, weren’t you?”

  A silent shrug.

  “Did you see them or just hear them?”

  “I saw. Got back here as fast as I could.”

  Will came to his feet. He was tall and lean, with shaggy brown hair that fell down the back of his neck. He plucked a coonskin cap from the ground and settled it on his head, stuck a brace of loaded pistols behind his belt, and picked up the rifle. His buckskin-clad companion had a flintlock, too, along with a bow and a quiver of arrows slung over a shoulder.

  “Druke’s up to no good again.” A grin flashed across Will’s face in the starlight. “Let’s go see if we can annoy him.”

  The two of them had had a fire to cook their supper, but they had put it out before darkness fell, making sure even the embers were no longer glowing so there wouldn’t be anything to give away the location of their camp. They had clashed with the brutal Jebediah Druke in the past and knew the man
would like to kill them.

  They left their horses where they were, securely hidden in a thick grove of trees, and moved through the night on foot, their moccasin-shod feet making little or no sound as they trotted quickly through the shadows.

  Three trappers had been in the valley called King’s Crown for only a few weeks, Will recalled. Druke wouldn’t have bothered them right away. It was Druke’s habit to wait awhile, to let men he considered interlopers in his “kingdom” collect some pelts first, then move in, take the furs, and drive off the newcomers. Will had seen it happen several times in the past year.

  From time to time, trappers simply disappeared. He was convinced that Druke’s bunch had killed them and left the bodies for the wolves. He wouldn’t put murder past Jebediah Druke, not for a second.

  Will’s companion held out a hand to stop him.

  Will breathed in. “We’re close?”

  A silent nod.

  “All right. Let’s work our way in.”

  They went to hands and knees and crawled forward, being careful not to make any sound. Will smelled woodsmoke. Several nights in the past couple weeks, he’d thought that he’d spotted the glow of a campfire in the distance. That was just asking for trouble in King’s Crown. Although to be fair, he had a hunch that the three trappers hadn’t known about Jebediah Druke.

  Angry voices could be heard through the dark. At least one of the trappers was in the mood to put up a fight. That wasn’t good.

  Will suspected that the men who had disappeared had challenged Druke’s notion that he ruled the valley with an iron fist. Druke would likely kill anybody who dared to do that.

  Reaching a rocky outcropping that rose so it overlooked the creek, Will and his companion went to their bellies and crawled up the slope. From the vantage point at the top, they looked down on the trapper’s camp about twenty yards below. The firelight revealed a tense scene. Will could almost smell the impending violence in the air.

  Jebediah Druke’s massive figure was easy to pick out. Half a dozen of his followers were with him. At least twice that many men were in his gang. For a quick moment, Will wondered where the rest were.