Preacher's Blood Hunt Page 5

  Man.

  Preacher let the hammers down on the pistols and came to his feet in a smooth, uncoiling motion. He picked up the belt to which his sheathed knife was attached and quickly tied it around his waist, then tucked the pistols and his tomahawk behind it. He picked up his rifle and his hat. He still wore his high-topped boot moccasins.

  Horse and the pack animal would stay there. Preacher said quietly, “Come on, Dog,” and headed toward the trading post in a ground-eating lope.

  He could have gotten there quicker riding the stallion, of course, but running was quieter and instinct told him that stealth might be important.

  Preacher was barely breathing hard as he approached the log building. Candles were burning inside; he could see the dancing yellow glow through the windows where the shutters were open. His keen eyes made out several large, dark shapes in front of the building that he recognized as horses tied up at the hitch rack.

  It was unusual for travelers to stop at the trading post after dark, but not completely unheard of. That pair of shots put a whole different face on things, though. It was barely possible that Papa Voertmann had gotten spooked for some reason and fired a couple warning shots when the riders came up, but Preacher didn’t really believe that.

  He believed it even less when the door opened and a man-shaped patch of darkness was visible for a second. The man stepped outside and pulled the door closed behind him, but didn’t go to the horses, which meant he was lurking on the porch.

  Standing watch, more than likely, Preacher thought.

  Somebody was up to no good inside.

  He could make out four horses, and that matched the number of men who had been there earlier. The possibility that Broken Nose and his friends had returned to the trading post to cause trouble for the Voertmanns came as no surprise. Preacher had been able to tell that they were sorry troublemakers just by looking at them.

  He used the trees and bushes along the stream as cover and blended into the shadows. He was able to slip into a Blackfoot camp, cut the throats of several of his enemies, and get back out again without anybody knowing he had been there until the bodies were discovered the next morning. That had led the Indians to dub him Ghost Killer.

  Sneaking up on one white man who’d probably been drinking . . . well, that was something Preacher could have done in his sleep.

  Minutes later, he crouched at the end of the porch as he looked along its length. The guard leaned against the rough log wall near the door, deep in the shadows underneath the thatched awning. Preacher’s night vision was so good it was almost supernatural, so he didn’t have any trouble seeing the man.

  Loud, angry voices came from inside the building, clearly audible through the open windows. A voice he recognized as that of Broken Nose harshly ordered, “Shut up all the foreign jabberin’! If you want to cuss me, do it in English.”

  “Ja, I will curse you.” Papa Voertmann’s voice sounded like he was in pain. “And I will kill you if you harm Mama. I will strip the skin from you inch by inch, so that you take a long time dying, you—” He lapsed into cursing in his native language again.

  Broken Nose laughed. “Don’t worry, old man. We ain’t gonna molest your wife. She’s too ancient and ugly and dried up for that. We’ll just cut her throat and kill her quick, but not until she’s watched us beat you to death. Hang on to him, both of you, while I see if I can put some blood in that white beard of his.”

  Papa Voertmann had to be wounded, Preacher thought. Otherwise even two men wouldn’t be able to hold him. If he was at full strength he would have cracked those two varmints’ heads together and busted their skulls, then broken the other man’s back to go with his busted nose.

  Preacher heard the thud of bone against flesh and Mama scream. He didn’t know which of the Voertmanns Broken Nose had just hit, but it didn’t matter. It had gone on long enough.

  He slid the tomahawk from behind his belt, pulled back his arm, and let fly. The weapon made a faint noise as it whirled through the air, then a soggy thud sounded as the sharp stone head embedded itself in the guard’s skull.

  The man grunted, folded up, and died without another sound. His friends inside the trading post would have no idea that he was dead.

  Preacher bounded lithely onto the porch. He leaned the long-barreled flintlock rifle against the wall and drew his pistols. A couple long-legged steps took him to the door. He stepped over the dead man and raised the latch. The door swung open, its leather hinges creaking faintly.

  Broken Nose heard the sound and paused with his fist drawn back, much as he had that afternoon when Papa had stuck the shotgun in his belly. Some of the blows had already fallen. The man’s knuckles were smeared with blood, and Preacher saw crimson splattered through the snowy expanse of Papa’s beard.

  “Snyder, I told you to keep an eye out,” Broken Nose snapped as he turned his head to look over his shoulder at the door. “What are you—” He stopped short and his eyes widened in surprise and sudden fear as he saw the tall, grim-faced mountain man standing there, a cocked pistol in each hand.

  Preacher waited a second, just long enough for Broken Nose to realize what was about to happen and who was going to do it.

  Then he pulled the right-hand gun’s trigger.

  CHAPTER 9

  The pistol’s boom echoed against the low ceiling as smoke and flame gushed from the muzzle. One of the balls struck Broken Nose about an inch and a half above that prominent feature, in the center of his forehead. It shattered bone and bored on through into his brain. The other ball ripped into his throat, severed an artery, and caused blood to spurt in a bright red stream that arced out several feet in front of his body.

  Already dead, the man stood there for a second as wildly spasming nerves and muscles made him jitter grotesquely before he collapsed.

  Preacher pointed the left-hand pistol at the two men who held Papa Voertmann’s arms. Papa wore a nightshirt, an indication that he had already turned in when the intruders arrived. A large bloodstain soaked the front.

  Mama Voertmann, also in her nightclothes, sat on the floor a few feet away, propped up against a barrel. Her wrists and ankles were tied with strips of rawhide pulled so tight they cut cruelly into her flesh.

  The two men holding Papa stared in shock at Preacher, who told them, “You boys help him sit down. He’s hurt.”

  The man on Papa’s left swallowed hard and said to his companion, “His other gun’s empty now. He can’t shoot both of us.”

  “That’s true, I can’t,” Preacher agreed in a mocking drawl. “But I can sure kill one of you. When you fellas figure out which one it’s gonna be, you let me know, hear?”

  The man on the right raised his chin. “He can’t risk a shot, not with us bein’ so close to this big whale.”

  A laugh rumbled out of Papa Voertmann. “Do you know who this is? This is Preacher! The best shot on the frontier, or anywhere else! He can kill you in the blink of an eye. Go ahead, Preacher. Shoot one of them, and I will break the other in half !”

  “Just as soon not kill anybody else tonight if I don’t have to,” Preacher said. “There’s already enough blood on the floor to clean up.”

  That was true. A large puddle of the red stuff surrounded Broken Nose’s head as he lay motionless on the puncheons.

  Preacher went on. “I reckon there’ll be a mess on the front porch, too. Fella out there’s got his head stove in with a tomahawk, so there’s probably some brains mixed in with the blood. Sorry about the extra work, Papa.”

  A grin curved Voertmann’s lips where the crimson-spattered beard wreathed them, but Preacher could tell that the big man was weakening. Judging by the stain on Papa’s nightshirt, he had lost quite a bit of blood from his wound.

  “Perhaps we should let these two live and force them to clean it up, ja? ”

  The one on his left growled, “You go to hell, old man!” and leaped to the side. He clawed at the pistol behind his belt as he tried to reach the cover of a nearby bar
rel.

  Preacher turned slightly to track the man with his pistol, but it wasn’t that difficult a shot. The gun boomed and both balls slammed into the man’s torso and spun him off his feet. He crashed into the sturdy barrel and bounced off, then sprawled on his back on the floor as blood welled from the wounds.

  The last man tried to duck behind Papa and use the big Dutchman as a human shield while he dragged out his pistol. That proved to be a mistake. Papa threw himself backward and his weight drove the man against one of the shelves. They went down with a huge crash and clatter and landed in the welter of pots and pans that spilled off the shelves.

  Preacher stepped over to the trapper quickly, bent down, and wrenched the pistol out of the man’s hand. Papa rolled over, used his bulk to keep the man pinned to the floor, and locked hamlike hands around his throat. He didn’t waste time choking the man to death. He just heaved and snapped the luckless varmint’s neck. The man twitched a few times and then went still.

  Preacher tucked his pistols away and pulled his hunting knife from its sheath. Carefully, he worked the point under the rawhide strips around Mama Voertmann’s wrists and ankles and sawed through the bonds. She cursed up a storm in her native tongue as blood flowed back into her extremities.

  Preacher then knelt beside Papa Voertmann. “How bad are you hurt, Papa?”

  “I don’t know.” Papa’s shoulders slumped wearily. “The one with the broken nose shot me.”

  “I figured as much. Let’s get you to your bed.”

  Mama Voertmann appeared at her husband’s side. She packed a surprising amount of strength in her wiry little body, so she was able to help Preacher lift Papa to his feet and steer him toward the canvas-curtained door that led into their living quarters. The mountain man still had to do most of the work, but he was grateful for Mama’s help.

  Papa settled onto the corn-shuck mattress on the massive four-poster bed he had built himself. He groaned. “I will get blood on your sheets, Mama.”

  “Don’t trouble yourself about that, old man,” she told him. She lifted his nightshirt. “We must see how badly you are hurt.”

  “Mama . . . have you no decency?”

  “Oh, shush. The wound doesn’t look too deep. Preacher, go in the tavern and fetch back a jug.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  They spent the next fifteen minutes cleaning and bandaging the hole where a pistol ball had ripped through Papa’s side. Preacher could tell by the angle that the ball hadn’t penetrated deeply enough to do any significant damage. The worst thing had been the blood that Papa had lost, and he would recover from that. Mama would see to it that the wound didn’t fester.

  When Preacher was convinced that the woman had things under control, he went back out into the trading post’s main room and commenced to dragging out the corpses. He considered throwing them into the hog pen but decided against it. He wouldn’t want to accidentally poison the hogs.

  He had planned on getting an early start the next morning, but he supposed he could tarry at the trading post long enough to dig a shallow mass grave.

  William Pendexter had been missing for a year already. The likelihood of a few more hours making a difference was pretty small.

  Before Preacher buried the four men the next morning, he went through their possibles in an attempt to find out who they were. A couple had letters from back east among their belongings. Preacher gave them to Mama Voertmann, who promised that she would have Papa write to the families and let them know that their relatives had been killed out on the frontier. It wouldn’t be necessary to go into detail about those deaths. Papa could afford to be generous and spare the families’ feelings since he ended up with the dead men’s horses and belongings to sell.

  As for the other two, if they had any kinfolk, they would just have to wonder what had happened to the men when they never came back.

  After the burying was done, Preacher and Mama stood on the trading post’s porch. The woman sighed. “It is hard to believe that such terrible men have loved ones who cared for them. But I suppose everyone has a family at one time, ja? ”

  “I reckon. Don’t lose any sleep over them bein’ dead, Mama. It was their own choice to turn around and come back. They could’ve just kept ridin’. And don’t forget they planned to kill you and Papa.”

  “Oh, I will lose no sleep, I assure you, Preacher. I would have gladly killed them myself, had I the opportunity.” Her stern face softened slightly, the first time Preacher had ever seen that happen when she spoke to anybody other than Papa. “You saved our lives. We can never repay you. You are like a son to us now.”

  Preacher wasn’t sure he could stand the sight of Mama Voertmann getting sentimental. “I count that as an honor, Mama. But now I got to be ridin’ on. Say so long to Papa for me, would you?”

  Voertmann was still in bed as he recuperated from his injury. Preacher had looked in on him earlier and seen that while Papa looked stronger, it would be a while before he was up and around again. Preacher would have offered to stay and help run the trading post until Papa was on his feet again, but he had that job to do for Barnabas Pendexter.

  “I will tell him,” Mama promised. “You will stop here if you come back this way?”

  “Sure. I always do when I’m in these parts.”

  “You never stay in one place for long, though, do you?”

  “Not if I can help it,” Preacher replied with a grin.

  He had fetched Horse and the pack animal back to the trading post the night before, and they were both ready to go. Preacher swung up into the saddle, and Dog bounded off along the river, eager to be on the trail again.

  “Preacher . . .” Mama Voertmann’s voice trailed off.

  “What is it?”

  “You are still going to King’s Crown in search of that young man?”

  “I said I’d do it, so I’ve got it to do.”

  “Those men”—she gestured at the mound of freshly turned dirt about fifty yards away—“were bad. But they were nothing compared to Jebediah Druke. You hear me, Preacher? You be careful in that valley.”

  “I will, Mama.”

  As he turned the stallion toward the mountains, he thought that anybody who could strike fear into the heart of Mama Voertmann had to be more monster than man.

  CHAPTER 10

  The three novice trappers, Mitchell, Pennington, and Burton, moved their camp on the night of their encounter with Jebediah Druke, as Will Gardner had suggested. For the next couple days, Will stayed with them and helped them run their trap lines, although Gray Otter was seldom seen.

  “Don’t you have your own traps to tend to?” Mitchell asked Will as the four men walked along a stream, rifles over their shoulders. It was a glorious day in the high country.

  “Gray Otter will take care of them,” Will explained. “We don’t do as much trapping as some, just enough to get by. You see, we’re not trying to get rich.”

  Burton grunted. “Then why in God’s name would you come to this Godforsaken wilderness in the first place? The possibility of getting rich is the only reason I can think of for enduring such hardship.”

  “It’s a hardship to spend your days in some of the most beautiful country on earth?” Will responded with a smile. “Take a look around, Mr. Burton. Majestic, snow-capped peaks, tall pine trees, wildflowers blooming in the meadows, sunlight sparkling on the river, the clearest air you’ll ever breathe . . . what could be more lovely than these surroundings?”

  “You sound like an educated man, Will,” Pennington said. “Surely you miss civilization.”

  Will shook his head. “Why should I? I have everything I need, right here in King’s Crown.”

  Burton shook his head, obviously unable to comprehend how anyone could feel that way. Will didn’t mind. He was used to traveling his own path and having people not understand why he would do so.

  “What do you think we should do about Druke?” Mitchell asked. “He and his men are bound to show up again one of these d
ays. If he’s determined to take over the entire valley, he can’t let people get away with standing up to him.”

  “We didn’t stand up to him,” Burton pointed out. “This young man and his Indian friend did.”

  “But we’re still alive and we’ve still got our pelts,” Pennington said. “That’s got to annoy Druke.”

  “More important, he’ll worry that it makes him look weak in the eyes of his men, and in the eyes of the other trappers still here in King’s Crown,” Will said. “To be honest, the smartest thing for you gentlemen to do is get out while you still can. Take the pelts you have and head back east.”

  “That’s not enough for us to break even on the trip,” Burton protested. “If we go back now, we’ll be failures.”

  “You’ll be alive,” Will said. “I think that will mean more to your families than anything else.”

  Burton shook his head stubbornly. “You don’t know my wife. We’re not abandoning what we set out to do. Isn’t that right, men?” He looked at Pennington and Mitchell.

  Pennington’s doubtful expression said that maybe he thought Will’s idea of leaving King’s Crown was a good one.

  But Mitchell said, “I reckon we can stay around a while longer and see how things go.”

  Pennington didn’t argue with that sentiment.

  “If that’s the way you feel, it’s your decision to make,” Will said. “In that case, I can give you some advice. Somebody needs to be standing guard all the time. I mean around the clock. If you’re working on your trap line, then two men handle the traps while the third watches for any trouble. The same thing goes for sleeping. One man should always be awake and alert. Don’t have a fire at night—”

  “I think we learned that lesson,” Mitchell put in.

  “And don’t camp out in the open,” Will went on. “Find some rocks or trees that will give you cover if you have to fort up. Any place you consider as a possible campsite, ask yourself how well it can be defended.”