Preacher's Slaughter Read online

  The man was a professional glad-hander, Preacher reminded himself. It was his business to make people like him. But when he grinned he seemed a little more human instead of a soulless leech like so many to be found in Washington, so Preacher shook hands with him. Allingham had a good, firm grip, but again, that was part of his job.

  “Josiah Allingham,” the politician introduced himself. “Are you a minister?”

  Preacher suppressed the urge to spit disgustedly and shook his head.

  “Not hardly,” he said. He didn’t offer any explanation of how he had come by his name.

  It had been here in St. Louis, many years earlier, where he had seen a man standing in the street bellowing about sinners and God’s wrath. The fella’s passionate spiel never seemed to slow down as the words spewed from his mouth.

  Preacher, then known by his given name, Art, had thought of that man when he wound up a prisoner of a vengeful Blackfoot band that planned to burn him at the stake the next morning. He knew how Indians felt about crazy people, and it seemed like nobody was crazier than a fella who’d stand in the street for hours on end, preaching at the top of his lungs.

  So Art had given it a try, since he didn’t have anything to lose. He started talking, not really preaching but just saying anything and everything, although he was sure there were some prayers mixed in with the torrent of words.

  The next morning he was hoarse and exhausted but still talking, and sure enough, the Blackfeet had decided he wasn’t right in the head. It was bad medicine to kill a man who’d been touched by the spirits, so they let him go.

  The story had gotten around, as stories do in the mountains, and somebody had slapped the name Preacher on him. He was still carrying it around, all these years later.

  Russell could tell the senator about that if he wanted to. He certainly knew the story. But Preacher would just as soon not waste the time and energy on it.

  “Are you making the journey to the Yellowstone with us?” Allingham asked.

  Preacher saw the keen interest on Russell’s face as the senator asked that question. He wanted to know the answer, too.

  When Preacher didn’t answer right away, Allingham went on, “I hope you do. You look like a very capable frontiersman. Is this your dog?”

  The senator reached out toward the big cur. Preacher got ready to tell Dog to behave himself, instead of biting off Allingham’s hand, but for once Dog didn’t growl when a stranger started to touch him. Dog’s muscles were stiff and the hair on the back of his neck stood up a little, but he sat there and let Allingham scratch behind one of his ears for a second.

  Preacher never trusted a man who didn’t like dogs. On the other hand, he put a lot of faith in a dog’s opinion of a man, especially this one. If Dog didn’t like somebody, chances were the fella was a sorry son of a bitch. Since Dog seemed to be tolerating Allingham, that was a pretty good sign Preacher should, too.

  That was a hell of a thing to base what might be a life and death decision on, but Preacher had always been a man who played his hunches. He said, “Yeah, I reckon I’m comin’ along.”

  A look of relief washed over Simon Russell’s face.

  “I’m glad to hear you say that, Preacher,” he told the mountain man. “There’s nobody I’d rather have along on this trip.”

  Allingham smiled and said, “It sounds as if Mr. Russell has a pretty high opinion of you, Preacher.”

  “Yeah,” Preacher said with a faint scowl toward Russell. “Hope I live up to it.”

  Before they could say anything else, Count Stahlmaske stalked toward them. Even though his hands were empty at the moment, he looked like a man who ought to be carrying a bullwhip, Preacher thought.

  “Our trunks should be loaded on the boat by now, Russell,” the count said. “Instead they sit upon the dock.”

  Russell nodded and said, “You’re right, Count. I’ll see to it right away.” He glanced at Preacher. “Can you get your horses loaded all right?”

  “Sure,” Preacher said, adding dryly, “I reckon I can handle that, what with me bein’ a famous frontiersman and all.”

  Senator Allingham chuckled.

  Russell hurried off to supervise the loading of the passengers’ luggage and supplies. Count Stahlmaske remained behind, crossing his arms over his chest and watching Preacher with a cool stare as the mountain man led Horse and the pack animal across the plank walk to the barge. He swung open the gate and took the horses onto the big raft.

  This was an interesting way of transporting animals upriver, Preacher thought. Whenever horses traveled on a riverboat, they usually rode on the cargo deck. With this many, though, a barge like this seemed to be the only way of carrying them.

  He unsaddled Horse and carried his possibles bag and other gear back onto the dock. The count was still standing there. He asked, “What is your name?”

  Senator Allingham took it upon himself to perform the introductions.

  “This is Preacher, Count Stahlmaske. Preacher, meet the count.”

  Preacher said, “Count,” nodded cordially enough, and stuck out his hand.

  Stahlmaske reacted just the way Preacher expected him to. He looked at Preacher’s hand as if it were a slug that had just crawled out from under a rock and made no move to shake. Instead he turned his attention to Allingham.

  “I thought that we would have departed by now, Senator.”

  “We should be underway soon,” Allingham said.

  Stahlmaske gave him a curt nod and swung around to walk back to the rest of his party.

  “Don’t mind the count,” Allingham said quietly to Preacher. “That’s just his way. He’s European, you know.”

  “Which makes him act like he’s got a tree limb shoved up his rear end,” Preacher said with a nod. “He ain’t the first fella I’ve run into who acts like that.”

  “Well, I’m glad you understand. If there was bad blood among the passengers, it might make for a long trip to the mouth of the Yellowstone.”

  “Yeah,” Preacher said.

  He figured the senator’s comment was an understatement.

  Based on what he had seen so far, he figured this trip upriver was going to be both long and unpleasant. He could still get his horses off the barge and tell Simon Russell he had changed his mind, he reminded himself.

  But he had told Russell he would come along, and he considered that giving his word. Preacher wasn’t the sort of man who ever went back on his word.

  Even when honoring it might get him killed.

  CHAPTER 5

  Russell had gone up the gangplank onto the boat. He came back with several burly deckhands who made short work of carrying the trunks and bags onto the Sentinel. Preacher watched from the dock as the count’s uncle Gerhard directed the deckhands to deliver the items to various cabins. He seemed to be in charge of that part of the effort.

  Preacher stayed out of the way until everything had been loaded. The passengers had gone onboard as well and disappeared into the cabins. Russell came over to the rail and motioned for Preacher to come up the gangplank.

  Dog followed closely behind the mountain man, but not without casting some wary glances at the river. A plank walk like this wasn’t what he was used to.

  A short, stout man in a blue coat and black cap came down the stairs from the pilot house and joined Preacher and Russell, who said, “Preacher, I’d like for you to meet Captain Benjamin Warner.”

  Preacher shook hands with Warner, who had a ruddy face and a thick mustache.

  “Simon’s told me a lot about you, Preacher,” the riverboat captain said. “Plus, I reckon everybody in this part of the country has heard of you at one time or another.”

  “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” Preacher asked with a grin. “I ain’t never been able to tell for sure.”

  “All I know is that everything I’ve heard makes me glad you’re coming with us. The other captains have told me plenty about the problems they’ve run into upriver. In fact, some of them h
ave said that they won’t make the trip anymore. They’ve even quit the company over it.”

  Preacher glanced at Russell. That was something else his old friend hadn’t told him. From the sound of Warner’s comments, he might be the only captain the American Fur Company had left who was willing to take a boat up to the mouth of the Yellowstone.

  “I’d like to think that we’re prepared for trouble, though,” Warner went on. “I’ve got a couple of crates of rifles on board, and I’ve laid in a good supply of powder and shot, too, in case we have to put up a fight.”

  He pointed to a stack of small wooden kegs on the deck.

  “Better spread those kegs out and put ’em in different places,” Preacher warned. “Indians shoot a couple of fire arrows in amongst ’em, you’re liable to have a big blowup.”

  Warner frowned and said, “You know, I never thought of that. I’ll have it taken care of right away, Preacher. You see, right there you’ve already proven how smart it was for Simon to bring you with us.”

  “We’ll be counting on you for advice like that,” Russell said. “If you see anything else we’re doing—or not doing—let us know right away.”

  Preacher nodded. Russell should have noticed that about the powder kegs, he thought. It wasn’t like the man was a greenhorn. He had survived on the frontier for quite a while.

  But Russell had gone a little soft from living here in St. Louis, Preacher decided. Also, he was having to deal with a politician and a bunch of foreigners, and that was enough to make any man a mite addlepated.

  Russell turned to Warner and went on, “Do we have steam up yet, Captain?”

  “Soon,” Warner replied. “Give me another ten minutes or so. Are the passengers getting impatient?”

  “The count is always impatient.” Russell frowned worriedly, as if realizing he might have spoken out of turn. “Just forget I said that, all right?”

  “Nobody’ll hear me repeating it,” Warner promised. He turned to Preacher and added, “Any time you want to visit the pilot house, you’ll be welcome. Hell of a view from up there.”

  “Might just take you up on that,” Preacher said.

  As Warner went back to his post in the pilot house, Russell said, “He’s a fine captain. We’re lucky to have him commanding this boat for us.”

  “If there’s anything lucky about this trip,” Preacher said.

  Russell shrugged and said, “Reckon we’ll have to wait and see about that.” He went off to check on some other details of the preparations, leaving Preacher and Dog on the cargo deck.

  The Sentinel had three decks. The lowest was the cargo deck, which had a lot of open space that would be stacked high with dried pelts when the boat started back downriver after this trading trip. The boiler and engine rooms were also on this deck.

  The next level up was the passenger deck, with a walkway going around a central structure divided into eight cabins, four on each side, along with a kitchen and a dining room that doubled as a salon.

  Most of the larger riverboats that plied the Mississippi had another level above that called the texas deck, where more cabins and a more opulent dining room and salon were located, often with a gambling room. That wasn’t the case here on the Sentinel. The pilot house, with its big windows on all four sides, sat directly on top of the passenger deck.

  Preacher and Dog went up the stairs to the second level and along the polished walkway to the curved railing at the front of the vessel. The mountain man rested a hand on the brass rail and looked north along the mighty river.

  A short distance above the city, the Missouri River flowed in from the west. Preacher couldn’t see it from here but he knew it was there, having been down it many times in a canoe.

  “Is that . . . a wolf?” a female voice asked from behind him.

  Preacher looked over his shoulder. Senator Allingham’s daughter stood there. She still wore the jacket from her traveling outfit, but she’d taken off the hat and her blond hair shone brightly in the morning sun.

  “Might be part wolf,” Preacher said as he turned to face the young woman, “but he’s mostly dog.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Dog.”

  “No, I mean—Oh. You’re saying that Dog is his name.”

  “Seemed like the simplest thing to call him,” Preacher said with a smile.

  “Yes, I can see that. And no one can claim that it doesn’t suit him.”

  She smiled back at him. She seemed to have an open, forthright manner. Preacher supposed she got that from her father.

  “I’m Sarah Allingham,” she went on. “My father is Senator Allingham.”

  Preacher lifted a hand and tugged briefly on his hat brim.

  “Yes, ma’am, I know. I’m called Preacher.”

  “Is that like Dog, Mr. Preacher? A name describing what you are?”

  “No mister, just Preacher,” he said. “And I’m no Bible-thumper and sin-shouter, if that’s what you’re askin’. Fur trappin’ is my line . . . and tendin’ to varmints what need tendin’ to.”

  “I see.” Her eyes held a certain boldness as she looked over him from head to foot. “Well, I’m certainly glad that you’re going with us. It’ll be nice to have a rugged gentleman such as yourself to spend time with.”

  Good Lord, Preacher thought. This gal was playing up to him, bold as brass, even though he was old enough to be her father. With all the other problems this journey might hold, he sure as hell didn’t need that.

  “I’m no gentleman,” he said, allowing a slightly sharper tone to creep into his voice. “Nobody’s ever accused me of it, anyway.”

  If anything, Sarah Allingham’s smile grew brighter and more alluring.

  “That’s fine with me,” she said. “Chivalry is overrated. I’d much rather be around a man who’s accustomed to . . . taking whatever he wants.”

  Preacher wondered if he ought to sic Dog on her and have the big cur chase her back to her cabin. He didn’t consider the idea seriously, but it did occur to him.

  He didn’t have to go that far, however, because at that moment the young woman’s mother emerged from one of the cabins, looked around, spotted her daughter standing at the railing with the mountain man, and came toward them at a brisk clip that told Preacher she meant business.

  Sarah saw her mother coming, too, and a look of mingled anger and fear flashed across her pretty face. She stepped toward the older woman and began, “Mother—”

  “Stop bothering this gentleman and go back to your cabin,” Mrs. Allingham said in a no-nonsense tone that matched her stride.

  “I wasn’t bothering him,” Sarah protested. “Was I, Preacher?”

  “Don’t be disrespectful,” Mrs. Allingham snapped.

  “I’m not. That’s his name.”

  Preacher nodded, touched his hat brim again, and said, “Ma’am.”

  The older woman regarded him with narrowed eyes and said, “You’re the man my husband mentioned. The one who’s going to make sure we stay safe on this ridiculous trip.”

  “I’m hopin’ we won’t run into any trouble, so you won’t need my help.”

  “I’m convinced we’re all going to be scalped by savages,” Mrs. Allingham said.

  “Mother!” Sarah said.

  “It’s true. I’ll never forgive myself for letting Josiah talk me into this, especially if anything happens to you, dear.”

  “I’m sure we’ll all be fine,” Sarah said. “We have capable men in charge, plus Count Stahlmaske is with us, too. Father said he was a highly decorated soldier in his country.”

  “Yes, I suppose.” Mrs. Allingham sighed. “Now, please, dear, go back to your cabin. Standing out here like this, all the riverfront trash can wander by and leer at you.”

  She cast a disapproving glance at Preacher, as if she might consider him to be riverfront trash, too.

  Sarah looked like she wanted to argue more, but then a resigned expression appeared on her face.

  “Of course, Mother,” she
said in a dull voice. “I’ll see you later, Preacher.”

  She went to her cabin and disappeared inside, shutting the door rather firmly behind her.

  “Do forgive my daughter, Mr. Preacher. I know she can be annoying.”

  “She didn’t bother me a bit, ma’am. I reckon she’s just excited about seein’ part of the country she’s never seen before. And you don’t have to call me mister. Like I told Miss Sarah, just plain Preacher is what I go by.”

  “Very well. I’m afraid it’s not the country she’s excited about seeing, though.” The woman’s lips thinned slightly. “My daughter is at an impressionable age. She tends to think with her heart instead of her head, especially where men are concerned. For that reason, I’ll ask you to remember that you’re twice her age, sir.”

  “Believe me, ma’am, I ain’t likely to forget it,” Preacher said. “All I’m interested in is gettin’ you folks safely to the mouth of the Yellowstone.”

  “Besides,” Mrs. Allingham went on, “Sarah’s just a girl. She lacks the experience that a more . . . worldly . . . woman can provide.”

  Her blue eyes gazed boldly into his for a second, then she turned and walked away.

  Good Lord, Preacher thought, wondering again if it was too late to back out of this mess.

  It was. A shrill whistle blew, and the deckhands began casting off the heavy lines holding the riverboat to the dock.

  The voyage of the Sentinel was about to begin.

  CHAPTER 6

  Preacher felt the deck vibrate under his feet as the engines engaged. An uncharacteristic whine came from Dog as he stood beside the mountain man gazing out at the water. Preacher reached down and scratched behind the big cur’s ears.

  “Don’t worry, old-timer,” he said. “It’ll be all right.”

  He wished he believed that. Steam engines were unnatural contraptions, though, and they were harbingers of a noisy, stinking civilization that seemed intent on spreading all across the country and ruining the wilderness that was left. One of these days, a fella would have to go a long way to find a place where he couldn’t hear an engine running.

  Fortunately for Preacher, he figured the sort of life he led insured that he would dead long before that day ever came.