Preacher's Showdown Page 4

  All he had to do was find the boy.

  * * *

  Everyone in St. Louis who was of the less-than-honest persuasion knew Shad Beaumont, or at least knew of him. Schuyler Mims and Colin Fairfax didn’t have any trouble finding the man, who was rumored to have a finger in every criminal pie in the region. They just asked around in the dives and whorehouses until a grossly overweight madam with hennaed hair pointed upward with a fat thumb and said, “Yeah, Shad’s upstairs with two o’ my girls right now.”

  “Two?” Schuyler repeated with his eyes widening.

  The madam gave a bawdy laugh. “Yeah. Shad’s got what you’d call well-developed appetites.”

  “Downright greedy, that’s what I’d call it,” Schuyler muttered.

  “I wouldn’t call it that to his face,” the madam advised. “Not if you want to keep on breathin’, my friend.” She rubbed her hands together. “Now, could I interest you boys in some female companionship? Best-lookin’ girls in town, and they’re all clean as a whistle, too.”

  Schuyler and Fairfax both doubted the validity of those claims, and besides, they didn’t have enough money to pay for even one soiled dove to smile at them, let alone to pay two for anything else. So Fairfax said, “Thanks, but we’ll just wait for Shad.”

  “Not in here, you won’t,” the madam said with a frown. “This is a classy place. Can’t have bums loiterin’ around.”

  The brothel was one step up from a pigsty as far as Fairfax was concerned. With a sigh, he remembered some of the parlor houses he had visited back in Philadelphia, when he was a young man with money and connections.

  Those days were long gone, of course. He said to his partner, “Come along. The street is still public.”

  “Just don’t clutter up my doorway,” the madam snapped. “I got customers who want to get in and out.”

  “Indeed,” Fairfax muttered as he motioned for Schuyler to follow him and left the building.

  They took up a position across the street and hoped that Beaumont wouldn’t be inside the whorehouse all day. A man had to tend to his business sometime, even a criminal. Schuyler and Fairfax were both tired. They had slept in an alley behind one of the fur warehouses, since they couldn’t afford anything better, and the night hadn’t passed restfully for either of them.

  “You watch for Beaumont,” Schuyler suggested. “I’m gonna keep an eye out for Preacher.”

  “He doesn’t know where to find us.”

  “Yeah, but he could come amblin’ along the street and recognize us by pure dumb luck. We don’t know how good a look he got at us.”

  “It couldn’t have been much of one,” Fairfax said. “The room was full of powder smoke, and that redheaded girl was between him and us.”

  “Yeah.” Schuyler sighed. “I sure am sorry about what happened to that gal.”

  “It was an accident. We can’t be held responsible for an accident.”

  “Yeah, but she’d still be alive if we hadn’t tried to kill and rob Preacher.”

  Fairfax shook his head. “You can’t be sure about that. Her next customer might have slit her throat, or beaten her to death. Whores get killed all the time. There’s no point in wasting any sympathy on them.”

  “Yeah, I reckon you’re right,” Schuyler said, but he didn’t sound like he was totally convinced of that.

  An hour dragged by before a big man with a close-cropped brown beard came out of the brothel across the street. He wore a dark suit and a fancy vest and a beaver hat, and the summer sun glinted on the stickpin in his cravat. He really looked too good for such a place, but adaptability was one of the reasons for Shad Beaumont’s success—he could make himself at home almost anywhere, from a cheap whore’s crib to the drawing room of the finest mansion in town.

  The other reason was that he was totally ruthless and would kill anybody who crossed him, and folks knew that.

  Fairfax nudged Schuyler, and Schuyler nudged him back. “All right, all right,” Fairfax muttered, and he started across the street with Schuyler trailing a pace behind him.

  Before they could intercept Beaumont, a couple of burly men in rough work clothes moved swiftly to get in front of them. Fairfax had noticed them in the street earlier, and had even considered the possibility that they were waiting to talk to Beaumont, too, but now he realized they were Beaumont’s bodyguards.

  Fairfax stopped short and held up both hands, palms out. “Please, gentlemen,” he said. “We mean your employer no harm. We just wish to speak with him on a business matter.”

  Beaumont didn’t seem to be paying any attention to them as he strode past, but at Fairfax’s mention of business, he paused and glanced over. Making a motion for his men to wait, he asked, “What sort of business?”

  Fairfax inclined his head toward Schuyler. “My partner and I would like to work for you. It’s said that you’re the sharpest man in St. Louis.”

  Beaumont chuckled and said, “If that’s true, I didn’t get that way by hiring just any broken-down bums who come stumbling along wanting a job, now did I?”

  Fairfax’s pale face flushed with anger. “We’re not bums,” he insisted, “and I wish people would stop referring to us that way. We’re good men, smart and able to follow orders.”

  “And we can take care of ourselves,” Schuyler added.

  Beaumont lifted an eyebrow. “Is that so? We’ll just see about that.” He made a curt gesture again to his bodyguards. “Boys, hand these two their needin’s.” An ugly grin appeared on his face. “If they live through that, then we’ll see about finding jobs for them.”

  * * *

  Preacher headed for the fur warehouses. Jake had said that his father worked at one of them, and Preacher figured he would ask around until he found the boy’s pa. Then the fella could tell him where Jake was.

  It took a while for him to find the right place, but at the fourth warehouse, after asking the first man he saw if he had a son named Jake or knew anybody who did, Preacher heard what he wanted to hear. The fella pointed out one of the other workers who was bundling up dried pelts so they could be loaded on a riverboat and shipped back east. “I think Jonathan over there has a boy named Jake.”

  “Much obliged,” Preacher said with a nod. He walked over to the man called Jonathan, who was a dark-haired, dour-faced gent with the heavy muscles that working in a warehouse gave a man. He scowled at Preacher as the mountain man came up to him.

  “You need somethin’, mister?” Jonathan asked in a brusque tone.

  “I’m lookin’ for a little fella name of Jake, about ten years old, I’d say. Got brown hair and sort of a round face. He’s mighty inquisitive and likes to talk.”

  Jonathan’s scowl deepened. “That sounds like my boy, all right. What do you want with him? What’s he done wrong? If he’s stolen from you or done something else sinful, I’ll thrash him within an inch of his life.”

  “No, nothin’ like that,” Preacher said. “I just want to ask him a couple of questions. He seemed like a right nice little varmint, if you don’t mind the chatterin’.”

  “He’s like all children . . . full of sin. You have to steer them onto the right path as forcefully as you can. Do you have any children, sir?”

  “Not that I know of,” Preacher said.

  Jonathan didn’t care for that answer. “Don’t make light of the Lord’s commandments, sir.”

  “Didn’t know I was,” Preacher said, starting to grow impatient. He was surprised at how many holier-than-thou folks he was running into on this trip to St. Louis. But self-righteousness was something else civilization was good for, along with stinking up the air. “Look, I just want to talk to your boy. If you’ll tell me where to find him, I’ll go on and won’t bother you no more.”

  “I don’t know where the little scoundrel is, but if I was a wagering man, I’d say that he’s getting into trouble, wherever he is.”

  “But you ain’t a wagerin’ man, are you?”

  “Of course not. It’s—”

>   “Sinful,” Preacher finished for him.

  Jonathan’s face darkened with outright anger now. “Are you making fun of me?”

  “I’m just tired o’ gettin’ a sermon instead o’ answers. And even though it ain’t none o’ my business, I ain’t too fond of the way you been talkin’ about the boy. He seemed like a pretty good kid.”

  “He’s my son. I’ll talk about him and deal with him any way I see fit.”

  “Yeah, and one o’ these days he’s liable to run off, too.”

  “He wouldn’t dare. He knows he would pay dearly for such an unholy act of defiance.”

  Preacher was sick of talking to this gent. With a disgusted shake of his head, he turned away. He would just have to find Jake some other way, he supposed.

  A powerful hand clamped down on his shoulder. “Wait just a minute,” Jonathan said. “If you think I’m going to tolerate such a show of disrespect from a reprobate who’s probably as big a heathen as those filthy redskins you no doubt consort with—”

  Preacher turned around fast, knocking Jonathan’s hand off his shoulder. The warehouse worker was just as tall as he was and heavier, but Preacher packed an incredible amount of strength in his lean frame.

  “Mister, I’m gonna give you one more chance not to act like such a miserable human bein’,” he grated. “You may talk fancy and think that you and the Lord are on such good terms, but to me you’re nothin’ but a bag o’ hot air.”

  “You can’t talk to me like that, you sinner!” Jonathan shouted.

  And with that he swung a big, malletlike fist straight at Preacher’s head.

  Five

  Jonathan was strong; anybody could tell that by looking at him. But he was also slow, and Preacher had no trouble weaving to the side so that the punch aimed at his head went past his ear without doing any harm.

  Missing like that threw Jonathan off balance. He stumbled forward a step, and ran right into the short but powerful blow that Preacher snapped out with his right hand. Preacher’s knobby-knuckled fist smashed into the middle of Jonathan’s face. Blood spurted as cartilage crunched inside the man’s nose. He howled in pain and flailed at Preacher.

  Any of the wild, looping swings might have taken Preacher’s head off if they connected, but the mountain man darted back a step, avoiding all of them. Then he moved to the side and went forward again, chopping another short blow at Jonathan’s head. It connected just above the man’s right ear and staggered him even more.

  Jonathan must have realized that Preacher was too fast for him. He couldn’t hope to stand there and trade punches with the mountain man, because Preacher was going to hit a lot more times than he got hit.

  So with a roar of rage, Jonathan spread his arms and launched himself at Preacher, wrapping the mountain man in a bear hug that Preacher couldn’t quite avoid.

  Preacher felt himself going over backward, carried off his feet by Jonathan’s unexpected tackle. They landed on the warehouse floor with Jonathan on top. His crushing weight drove the air right out of Preacher’s lungs. A haze descended over his vision as he gasped for breath, and skyrockets that must have resembled the ones that flew over Fort McHenry during the War of 1812 exploded behind his eyes. Nobody was going to write a song about the red glare of these, though.

  Over the roaring of blood in his ears, Preacher vaguely heard the shouts of the other workers in the warehouse. He couldn’t tell if they were cheering Jonathan on or rooting for Preacher to get the best of him. Knowing that he was going to pass out if he didn’t get some air pretty soon, Preacher groped upward and got his hand on Jonathan’s face. He ground the heel of his palm against Jonathan’s already busted nose.

  Jonathan bellowed in pain and jerked back. That gave Preacher the chance to arch his back and heave the man off. Jonathan rolled across the floor, trailing strings of blood from his nose. Preacher went the other way.

  He fetched up against somebody’s feet and legs. Strong hands reached down and clamped hard around his arms. Before he could even start to fight back, he was hauled to his feet and set upright.

  “Go get that Bible-thumpin’ son of a bitch,” a gravelly voice said in his ear. Hands slapped him on the back, encouraging him and propelling him toward Jonathan at the same time.

  So Jonathan didn’t have many friends here. Somehow, that didn’t come as a great surprise to Preacher.

  Jonathan had climbed to his feet as well, and now lumbered toward Preacher. The bottom half of his face was covered with blood from his pulped nose, which was grotesquely askew. His eyes looked like those of a maddened bull. But instead of charging ahead wildly, he took his time now, lifting his fists in a boxing stance as he approached Preacher.

  “I am the strong arm of the Lord,” he said in a thick voice. “I will smite thee, heathen. I will visit God’s mighty wrath upon thine head.”

  “Mister, you’re crazier’n a bedbug,” Preacher said.

  He blocked Jonathan’s first punch, then another and another. Jonathan was more dangerous now that he wasn’t fighting out of control, but he was still slow. Patiently, Preacher waited for a good opening, and when it came, he threw a hard right that landed solidly on Jonathan’s jaw. That rocked the man back and set him up for a looping left that slewed his head to the side when it landed.

  Preacher’s fists were a blur as he stepped in and hooked a flurry of rights and lefts to Jonathan’s midsection. Jonathan was gasping for air when Preacher finally stepped back. His heavy arms drooped with weariness.

  Preacher shot in a stinging left jab, and then followed it with a hard right cross that caught Jonathan on the chin. Jonathan’s head went the other way this time and his eyes rolled up in their sockets. His knees unhinged. He went straight down onto his knees, then pitched forward on his face, out cold.

  The other men in the warehouse cheered.

  Preacher was barely winded. He knew his hands would be a mite bruised and sore by the next morning, but he could tell he hadn’t damaged them by banging them against Jonathan’s hard head. As he looked down at the unconscious man, he muttered, “I got some Scripture for you, mister . . . God helps those who help themselves.”

  Suddenly sensing that he was being watched, Preacher turned and saw Jake standing just inside the door of the warehouse, silhouetted against the light from outside. The youngster’s eyes were wide with shock and amazement as he stared at Preacher and at the unconscious form of his father.

  Preacher took a step toward him and started to lift a hand. “Jake . . .”

  The boy whirled around and dashed away.

  “Damn it!” Preacher grated as he started after him. He didn’t know how much of the fight the boy had seen, but it was pretty obvious Jake had seen Preacher knock his father out cold. No wonder the kid was scared of him.

  The streets of St. Louis were busy this morning, as they nearly always were. By the time Preacher got out of the warehouse, Jake had lost himself in the crowd along the waterfront. Several riverboats were tied up at the docks, and passengers were loading and unloading. Workmen carried cargo off the boats and loaded other cargo. Jake could be anywhere, Preacher realized as he came to a stop. It would be just blind luck if he found the boy now.

  Preacher bit back a curse. He didn’t know whether or not Jake could have helped him find the two men who had killed Abby, but at least questioning him would have been worth a try. Now that opportunity had vanished along with Jake.

  Might as well go on to the buryin’, Preacher thought. He couldn’t do any more good here.

  * * *

  One of Shad Beaumont’s bodyguards was a big man with a bald, bullet-shaped head and an ugly grin made even uglier by the gaps where several teeth had rotted out—or been knocked out. The other man was equally large and sported a thatch of rust-colored hair and a handlebar mustache of the same shade. Both smiled in anticipation as they closed in on Schuyler Mims and Colin Fairfax. It was like they hadn’t beaten anybody to death for a while and were looking forward to it.

&nbs
p; But as Baldy swung a sledgehammer punch at Schuyler and Handlebar grabbed for Fairfax, the intended victims darted back with surprising speed. Schuyler had more strength packed into his lanky body than was apparent. He smacked home a punch into the bald man’s face that landed with the sound of a meat cleaver striking a thick steak. Blood spurted from Baldy’s crushed lips. He gave an incoherent roar of pain.

  Meanwhile, Handlebar was still trying to get his hands on Fairfax, who danced away from each lunge with speed and agility. As Handlebar rushed forward again, Fairfax leaped to the side and stuck out a leg. Handlebar tripped over it and fell to the street with a startled yell, crashing down onto the hard-packed dirt with stunning force. He lay there gasping for air. The impact had knocked the breath out of him.

  Angered by being hit, Baldy rushed at Schuyler, swinging his fists in wild, flailing blows. Schuyler ducked some of them and blocked others. The couple of punches that got through rocked him back on his heels, but he didn’t lose his balance and stayed upright to slug it out with Baldy. Beaumont’s bodyguard outweighed Schuyler by at least fifty pounds, but Schuyler offset that potential advantage by being a lot faster. He bobbed and weaved, peppering Baldy with swift blows that struck like a snake.

  Meanwhile, Fairfax rushed forward while Handlebar was still gasping for breath and got hold of the man’s arm, twisting it behind his back in a wrestling move. Fairfax didn’t hesitate. Even though he wasn’t a very impressive physical specimen to look at, he, too, was stronger than he appeared to be. And the dangerous, knockabout life he had led since being forced to flee from Philadelphia had made him ruthless when he had to be. He heaved as hard as he could on the bodyguard’s arm, and heard the sharp snap as the bones in the man’s shoulder came apart. Handlebar screamed.

  That shriek of agony distracted his bald-headed companion, who looked over to see what was happening at just the wrong time. Schuyler’s fists were blurs as he hammered them into Baldy’s already injured face. Schuyler crushed Baldy’s nose, and he thought he felt the man’s left cheekbone shatter, too. Moaning, Baldy staggered back a step and then slumped to his knees. Schuyler’s right foot shot out in a kick. The heel of his boot caught Baldy on the jaw, breaking it, too, and sending the big bodyguard flying backward to sprawl senseless in the street next to Handlebar, who was clutching his dislocated shoulder with his other hand and writhing in pain as he whimpered.