Preacher's Showdown Page 2

  Fairfax nodded. “In that case, the wisest course of action would be to follow him and wait until our quarry has the cash in hand. Then we’ll relieve him of it.” An evil smile stretched across the man’s face. “And of his life, too, of course.”

  Two

  Preacher had told Jake the truth about something else, too—he wasn’t looking for a whore.

  But a whore had found him, and he wasn’t quite sure what to do about it.

  It wasn’t that Preacher was morally opposed to prostitution or anything like that. Indeed, if he could be said to have had a love of his life, it would be the girl called Jennie. She had become a soiled dove at an early age, and had remained in that profession for the remainder of her too-short life.

  But ever since Jennie’s death, for the most part Preacher had steered clear of women. He had met a few that he had grown fond of, but his fiddle-footed nature had assured that nothing came of those brief relationships.

  Now he had a buxom redhead named Abby perched on his lap, and she was being stubborn about getting off. She leaned closer and kissed on him and whispered sweet nothings in his ear. She wanted him to take her out to the crib behind Fargo’s place where she plied her trade.

  What she really wanted, of course, was some of the money she had seen Joel Larson giving him earlier in payment for those pelts.

  Preacher had put away about a fourth of a jug of whiskey and a couple of thick steaks during the time he’d waited at Fargo’s for Larson. He wasn’t drunk, but the who-hit-John had caused a pleasant glow to spring up inside him, like the warmth from a campfire on a chilly night. The steaks had filled his belly. All of it combined to make him a mite drowsy.

  Then Larson arrived and gave him a small leather pouch that was heavy with gold coins. They had shared a drink; then the fur company man had gone on his way. Preacher had already told Fargo he wanted to rent one of the rooms on the tavern’s second floor for the night. He’d also asked the tavern keeper to haul the big washtub up there and see that it was filled with hot water. Fargo had agreed, knowing that Preacher was scrupulously honest and was good for any debts he incurred during his stay in St. Louis.

  Preacher wasn’t in the habit of thinking much beyond the present, but if anybody had pinned him down on the question, he would have said that he was going to hang around the settlement for a few days, buy some supplies for his next trip to the mountains, and then gamble and drink away whatever funds he had remaining. He’d planned to get started on that with a hot soak in the washtub, but before he got around to going upstairs, Abby had come over and plopped herself down on his lap.

  To tell the truth, Preacher was thinking about asking her if she wanted to come upstairs with him and share that bath. It would be a tight fit for both of them in the washtub, but he thought they could manage, and having his arms full of wet, firm-fleshed woman sounded pretty damned good right now.

  “Hold on, hold on,” he said as he unwound Abby’s arms from his neck.

  She pouted. “I just want to show you some lovin’, Preacher. ”

  “And I reckon we might just get around to that. First, though, I told Fargo to haul that ol’ washtub o’ his upstairs and fill it with hot water. How’d you feel about gettin’ in there with me?”

  Abby giggled and said, “Why, that sounds like just about the dandiest thing I ever heard!” She pushed her large, plump breasts against him. “We can wash each other.”

  “All right, but you got to get off of me first.”

  She stood up and took his hand, eager to get on with the bath now that he had suggested it. “Come on!”

  Preacher stopped at the bar to ask the burly, bearded tavern keeper if the tub had been filled. Ford Fargo nodded and said, “Yep, that boy o’ mine just got through haulin’ the last two buckets o’ hot water up there. It’s ready for you, Preacher. I ain’t sure why you’d want to do such a thing, though. I hear that washin’ too reg’lar ain’t good for you.”

  “Well, since it’s been months, I reckon I’ll chance it,” Preacher replied with a grin. He allowed Abby to tug him toward the stairs as he heard Fargo’s knowing chuckle behind them.

  Preacher had long since gotten over any guilt he felt about Jennie, and by the time he had followed Abby up the stairs with her well-cushioned rump wiggling back and forth in front of his face, he had decided this was a pretty good idea after all. When they reached the room he was renting and went inside, he saw curls of steam rising from the water in the big wooden tub. Abby turned and came into his arms, lifting her face for him to kiss her. Preacher obliged.

  After a moment, Abby pulled back. She was a little out of breath as she said, “Let’s get these duds off and get in that tub.”

  Sounded like a good plan to Preacher.

  * * *

  Schuyler Mims and Colin Fairfax had followed the mountain man to Fargo’s tavern. They hadn’t been close enough that afternoon to overhear the conversation between the mountain man and Joel Larson, so they hadn’t known where he was going and had to trail him. After he went into the tavern, they loitered across the street and waited for Larson to arrive with the money they were sure he would be bringing to pay for the pelts.

  Dusk was settling down over the riverfront town when Schuyler nudged Fairfax with an elbow and asked, “Ain’t that the kid who was talking to that mountain man earlier?”

  Fairfax squinted at the boy who had ambled along the street and come to a stop in front of the tavern. “Yes, I believe it is.”

  “Why don’t you talk to him, maybe see what he knows about that fella?”

  Fairfax frowned. “You think it might help?”

  “Can’t hurt,” Schuyler said with a shrug of his bony shoulders.

  “All right. Stay here.”

  Fairfax strolled out into the street, seemingly just idling along. He came to a stop next to the boy and looked down at him as if he’d just noticed that the youngster was there.

  “Hello, lad.”

  “Hey, mister.”

  “Say, didn’t I see you earlier, talking to a friend of mine down by the river?”

  The boy grinned. “You mean Mr. Preacher? He’s a friend of yours, mister?”

  “Yes. Yes, that’s right,” Fairfax said, while trying not to show the surprise he felt. He had heard of Preacher. People told stories about his exploits in the mountains, going all the way back to the time he had been captured by the Blackfeet as a young man and saved his life by preaching a marathon sermon that had convinced his captors he was touched in the head. Indians wouldn’t harm someone they considered disturbed, believing them to have a special connection with the spirit world, so they had released him, and ever since then he had been known as Preacher. Fairfax had no idea what the man’s real name was.

  But he knew that Preacher was considered one of the most dangerous men west of the Mississippi . . . or east of it, for that matter.

  “That’s where he said he was goin’,” the boy went on, indicating the tavern. “I heard him tell Mr. Larson. So I reckon he’s in there, if you’re lookin’ for him.”

  “Perhaps I’ll get together with him later,” Fairfax said. “We’re old friends, but we haven’t seen each other for a long time, so I’d like to surprise him. If you see him, don’t mention that you spoke to me, all right?”

  “Sure, mister. I don’t reckon I’ll be seein’ him, though. My pa will be mad enough at me for slippin’ out after supper like this. He’d tan my hide good if he ever caught me sneakin’ into a tavern. He says that good, God-fearin’ folks don’t never venture into such places.”

  “How does one know which places to avoid if one never visits them?” Fairfax murmured.

  “Huh?”

  “Never mind, lad.” He took one of the precious few coins he and Mims had to their names and pressed it into the boy’s hand. “Here, take this and run along.”

  The boy bit the coin to make sure it was real, then beamed. “This has been a good day,” he said, and then he hurried away through the gath
ering shadows.

  Fairfax went back across the street to rejoin his partner. “I found out our quarry’s name,” he told Schuyler.

  “What is it?”

  “Preacher.”

  Schuyler’s eyes widened. “Oh, Lordy. We better forget about it, Colin. Even them red savages don’t mess with Preacher most of the time. He’s all wolf and a yard wide.”

  “He’s just a man like any other,” Fairfax snapped. “And he shot me, damn his eyes. I’ve a score to settle.”

  Schuyler grunted. “Yeah, and once Larson brings his money for them plews, he’ll have a considerable amount of cash on him, I’m thinkin’. I ain’t sure it’s worth gettin’ killed over, though. There’s other ways to make money.”

  Fairfax glared and shook his head. “Preacher’s never seen us before. We can walk right in there, and he won’t have the slightest notion that we’ve a grudge against him. It’s just a matter of waiting for the proper time to strike. Any man can be defeated if he’s taken by surprise by an enemy who’s ruthless enough.”

  “Well . . . maybe.”

  “I’ll go after him by myself if I have to.”

  “Now, don’t take on like that,” Schuyler said. “We been partners for a good while, Colin. I ain’t a’gonna desert you now.” The taller man nodded. “We’ll take him. Let’s go on in and see what he’s doin’.”

  They started across the street, but stopped as they saw Joel Larson approaching. Drawing back into the shadows, they waited while the fur merchant entered the tavern. Larson wasn’t inside for long, and when he left again, Fairfax said, “He must have paid Preacher off for those pelts. That’s what we’ve been waiting for.”

  Schuyler nodded, but he still looked nervous about what they were planning to do. He knew better than to suggest again that they give up on squaring the score with Preacher. Fairfax wouldn’t stand for that, and he usually did the thinking for both of them.

  Preacher was sitting at a table in the corner with a fleshy, redheaded young woman in his lap when the partners came into the tavern. Schuyler and Fairfax went to the bar and spent the last of their money on a couple of drinks they could nurse along for a while.

  A short time later, Preacher and the whore went upstairs, pausing at the bar to speak to the proprietor for a moment. From the overheard conversation, the two men learned that Preacher was about to take a bath. That was good, because it meant that he would be naked. That wasn’t exactly the same thing as unarmed, but at least he would have to take off his weapons and put them aside before he climbed into the washtub. When you were dealing with a man like Preacher, any edge was better than none, no matter how slight it might be.

  Schuyler put his head close to Fairfax’s and said in a low voice, “We can’t just go traipsin’ upstairs. Fargo rents them rooms out, and if we start up there, he’ll holler after us and try to make us pay.”

  “I recall seeing some stairs in the rear,” Fairfax said. “We’ll make our entrance that way.” He tossed back the little bit of liquor that remained in his cup.

  Schuyler followed suit, and then the two men turned and left the tavern. No one paid them any mind.

  They hurried around the building. Full night had fallen by now, and they had to find the back stairs in the dark. Schuyler tripped over something and nearly fell, and Fairfax cursed under his breath and told him to be careful. Then they came to the stairs and began a slow, careful ascent.

  They reached the door at the top of the stairs and slipped inside. They found themselves in a narrow corridor with doors on both sides. The hallway was lit by a single candle stuck on a shelf at the far end, where the landing for the main staircase was. Thick shadows cloaked this end of the corridor.

  Fairfax motioned for Schuyler to take the lead. Schuyler hesitated, then grimaced and started walking carefully along the hall, staying close to the wall. He paused at each door he came to and pressed his ear to the panel. Finally, at the third door on the right, he motioned for Fairfax to follow him.

  “I can hear ’em splashin’ around in there,” Schuyler whispered in his partner’s ear. “Sounds like they’re havin’ a fine old time.”

  Fairfax reached under his coat and drew out a short-barreled pistol. “It’s about to get finer . . . for us,” he said as he drew back the weapon’s hammer.

  * * *

  Preacher took the two pistols from behind his belt and placed them on a chair near the tub, along with the heavy-bladed hunting knife in its fringed sheath and the tomahawk he also carried. His long rifle was leaned against the wall in a corner. Then he stripped off his greasy, dirty buckskins and tossed them in a different corner of the room.

  By that time, Abby had peeled her homespun dress up and over her head, along with the thin shift she wore underneath it. That left her naked as a jaybird. She was cuter than a jaybird, Preacher thought. He stepped into the tub, wincing a little as his foot touched the hot water. He climbed the rest of the way in and sank down, motioning for Abby to join him.

  Considering that she was a pretty solidly built young woman, her movements were a mite dainty as she got into the tub and lowered herself onto Preacher’s lap. They embraced and kissed again, shifting around to make themselves more comfortable in the close confines of the tub. Some of the water sloshed over the sides.

  Preacher luxuriated in the heat, letting it soak away all the aches and pains he had stored up in his lanky body during the long months spent in the wilderness. Abby did a lot of kissing and playing around, but he was almost too tired to really get into the spirit of the thing. He was thinking about telling her that they ought to consider postponing the rest of their get-together until the next night, when he heard a floorboard creak in the hallway outside the door.

  Preacher’s thick, dark eyebrows drew down in a frown. The sound didn’t have to mean anything. Just somebody else who had rented one of Fargo’s rooms passing by in the corridor, that was all.

  But the creak had been right outside the door, almost like somebody was standing there and had shifted his weight a little, and Preacher couldn’t think of any reason why somebody should be doing such a thing.

  Unless, of course, they were up to no good.

  Now that he thought about it, he realized that he’d had a tiny feeling of unease ever since he had arrived in St. Louis. He had put it down to the fact that he was in a settlement again, with people all around, rather than out by himself on the high, lonesome plains or in the rugged, isolated mountains. He had figured that nobody was really watching him.

  But maybe he’d been wrong about that. Maybe that uneasy feeling had been a warning that trouble was lurking in those crowds.

  Preacher sat up a little straighter in the tub and took his hands off Abby’s heavy breasts. He reached for the butts of the pistols on the nearby chair instead, and she frowned and asked, “What’s wrong, honey?”

  Before Preacher could answer, the door to the corridor slammed open and two men rushed into the room, each of them brandishing a gun.

  Three

  Preacher filled his hands about as fast as it was possible for any man to do so, leaning to the side out of the washtub as he did so.

  But at that same moment, Abby cried out in surprise and started to stand up, even though Preacher yelled for her to stay down.

  The warning came too late. Both of the intruders fired, and as their pistols roared and powder smoke spouted from the muzzles, the heavy lead balls slammed into the young redhead’s back.

  Abby was thrown forward by the horrible impact. She crashed against Preacher, who was trying to stand up now that he was armed. The combination of the collision and the wet tub made his feet slip out from under him. He fell backward, out of the tub.

  Images and impressions were jumbled together in his brain. He saw the blood spurting from the holes in Abby’s chest where the pistol balls had gone all the way through her body and torn their way out. He saw the look of pain and shock filling her wide green eyes. He saw the two killers, one short, one tall, but
that was all that had registered during the quick glimpse he had gotten of them. And he saw the ceiling of the room as he smashed down on his back on the floor.

  Instinct saved his life then, causing his muscles to spring into action even though he was too stunned to think about what he was doing at that moment. He rolled to the side as another gun roared. At least one of the assassins had a second pistol. The ball chewed splinters from the floorboards near his head. He felt several of the little wood slivers sting his face. He came to a stop on his belly, the pistols in his hands tilted up but still unfired.

  There was nothing to shoot at, Preacher realized. The two intruders were gone. They must have realized that to stand around and try to reload was to invite certain death at his hands. He heard swift footsteps in the corridor and knew they were fleeing.

  As he leaped to his feet, he saw Abby draped over the side of the washtub. She had fallen to her knees and then pitched forward, so that the upper half of her body dangled outside the tub and the tangled strands of her long, wet red hair hung down and brushed the floor. Preacher had seen the extent of the terrible wounds she had suffered and knew she was dead. Nobody survived having a couple of fist-sized holes blown through their chest.

  Ignoring the fact that he was still naked, he lunged toward the door and slid out into the hallway. Movement from the stairs caught his eye. He saw a beaver hat disappearing down the staircase and almost snapped a shot at it, but he held off on the trigger. He didn’t want to waste powder and shot on a hat unless he could be sure of ventilating the head under it, too.

  He hadn’t known Abby for more than a couple of hours, but he was filled with rage at her useless death. He supposed the two bastards who’d interrupted his bath had been gunning for him and the girl had been killed by accident . . . but at the same time, he wasn’t sure why anybody wanted to blow holes in him either. He hadn’t had any run-ins with anybody since arriving in St. Louis earlier in the day.

  Of course, there had been that attempt to bushwhack him while he was still on the river, he recalled. Maybe somebody held a grudge against him because of that. Or maybe some old enemy had spotted him. He had a few of them, although most of his enemies had a habit of winding up dead.