Preacher's Kill Read online

  Even if he hadn’t been robbed or killed, chances were that in a few days he would have been battling a maddening itch in his trousers, so either way he was better off walking on and ignoring the whores.

  They hadn’t gone very far, though, when Preacher spotted movement in the shadows behind Merton. He and Hawk were hanging back a good distance because they didn’t want Merton to know they were following him and keeping an eye on him. Two men had moved into that gap like ghosts, and now they were the ones directly behind Merton.

  “Come on,” Preacher whispered to his son. They began moving in, gliding soundlessly through the gloom. Out in the mountains, the Blackfeet sometimes referred to Preacher as Ghost Killer because of his stealth and his deadliness. Hawk couldn’t match that level of silent lethality yet, but he was learning.

  Merton strode through a small patch of light. Full of confidence, he never even glanced behind him. If he had, he would have seen the two roughly dressed men following him. They were starting to close in when disaster fell on them from behind, striking without sound or warning.

  Preacher’s right forearm clamped like a bar of iron across the throat of one man. He grabbed that wrist with his left hand and dragged the would-be robber backward into the deeper shadows.

  A few feet away, Hawk had tackled his target in the same manner, but the man outweighed him, and Hawk had more trouble handling him than Preacher did with the other one. The man’s feet scrabbled against the hard-packed dirt of the street.

  That made enough noise to prompt Oliver Merton to pause and half turn to look behind him and frown. The gloom hid Preacher, Hawk, and the two thieves. After a moment, Merton shrugged and went on.

  The man Preacher had hold of flailed around some, but the mountain man must have caught him without much air in his lungs, because he passed out quickly. Preacher lowered the heavy, inert form to the ground and turned to see how Hawk was doing. Even in the thick darkness, Preacher’s eyes were keen enough to make out what was going on.

  Hawk’s opponent was able to twist around and get a hand on the young man’s throat. He used his weight to shove Hawk against the wall of a building. The two of them swayed there as they tried to choke the life out of each other.

  Preacher slipped the tomahawk from behind his belt, stepped up behind the man, and walloped him with the flat of the flint head. He could have split the man’s skull just as easily, and to tell the truth, for a second he had been about to do that.

  Then he remembered that he and Hawk didn’t know for an absolute certainty the two men intended to rob and probably kill Oliver Merton. The chances of that being true were mighty high, of course, and if either of these varmints had wound up dead he wouldn’t have lost any sleep over it, but under the circumstances it was enough to knock them out and keep them from attacking Merton.

  The clout on the head made the man’s knees buckle. His hand slipped off Hawk’s throat as he collapsed.

  “You all right?” Preacher whispered to his son.

  “Fine,” Hawk replied curtly. Preacher could tell that he was angry, probably because his pa had had to give him a hand. Hawk’s pride was a powerful thing.

  “We’d better catch up to Merton. He might’ve gotten into mischief while we were dealin’ with these two.”

  They cat-footed after the young man and caught sight of him again a few minutes later. Merton appeared to be unmolested. He strode along with the same self-assured gait as before.

  It didn’t take him long to reach St. Louis’s best hotel. Preacher wasn’t surprised that was where Merton was staying. Anything less than the best wouldn’t be good enough for him.

  That seemed to be true for beauty, as well. Preacher didn’t see how there could be many gals in town prettier than Chessie Dayton—if, indeed, there were any.

  Problem was, rich men had a habit of trifling with poor girls, getting what they wanted and then callously tossing their conquests aside. Preacher figured Chessie deserved better than that.

  He and Hawk stopped outside the hotel, still out of the light, as Merton went inside. Hawk said, “He has no idea that we helped him again.”

  “And he’d likely just resent it if he did,” Preacher said. “Well, I reckon we’ve done what we could. The young fella’s on his own from here on out. Let’s head back to Mike’s and get some sleep. Tomorrow we’ll collect what Pritchard owes us, pick up some supplies, and head out again. Ought to be back in the mountains in time to do some more trappin’ before autumn gets here.” As they started away from the hotel, Preacher went on, “What do you think of St. Louis so far?”

  “It is big and crowded and it stinks,” Hawk said. “And people want to fight all the time. Why would anyone want to live like this?”

  Preacher thought about the magnificent high country he called home and said, “I’ve asked myself that same question, more than once.”

  * * *

  No one accosted them on their way back to Red Mike’s. The denizens of this neighborhood were as wary as animals, and none of them wanted to tangle with two fellas as obviously capable of protecting themselves as Preacher and Hawk.

  They were almost back to the tavern when Preacher spotted a flash of fair hair up ahead. He put a hand on Hawk’s shoulder to stop him, leaned close, and breathed, “Is that Miss Chessie up the street yonder?”

  “I believe it is,” Hawk replied, equally quietly. “Who is that with her?”

  Two figures were visible in the shadows, walking toward Red Mike’s. At least, they were visible to the sharp eyes of Preacher and Hawk. One was Chessie, easy to identify because of her long, pale hair.

  The other person had to be a man, judging by the height and the way Chessie walked arm in arm with him.

  “That ain’t Merton,” Preacher told Hawk. “I reckon he might’ve doubled back from the hotel and found her, although it ain’t likely. But that fella’s too tall to be him.”

  “She has another . . . what is the word? Suitor?”

  “Yeah,” Preacher said. “But who it is ain’t any of our business. We don’t need to be spyin’ on ’em.”

  “Who she walks with is her affair,” Hawk agreed . . . but Preacher thought he didn’t sound all that happy, or even sincere, about it. Hawk had been smitten with Chessie as soon as he laid eyes on her.

  Preacher remembered what it felt like to be young and experience the same thing. There had been a girl named Jennie who had meant the world to him. What was between them had been doomed from the start, as it turned out, but that didn’t mean it was any less real.

  The two of them stopped to give Chessie and her beau some privacy as they continued on toward the tavern. Preacher figured Mike was letting the girl stay in one of the rooms upstairs, although he hadn’t said as much. The two indistinct figures came to a halt at the corner of the building. They drew close to each other, merged into one for a long moment. Preacher knew there was some sparking going on up yonder. So did Hawk, judging by the breath that hissed sharply through his teeth.

  Then the two shapes parted, and the taller one started walking back up the street toward the spot where Preacher and Hawk stood. With another flash of fair hair, Chessie opened the door and went into the tavern.

  Preacher put his hand on Hawk’s shoulder again and urged him back deeper into the shadows between buildings so they could let Chessie’s suitor pass without noticing them. The man’s long-legged stride carried him along quickly. His steps were confident.

  He moved past them. Preacher caught a glimpse of the man’s face, and his muscles suddenly tensed. It was a lean, rather wolfish countenance, with a thick mustache, oiled and curled up on the ends, dominating those features. Despite that major difference, the man still looked enough like he had several years earlier for Preacher to recognize him instantly.

  Hoyt Ryker.

  Preacher’s jaw tightened. He had no interest in Chessie other than appreciating the fact that she was a pretty girl. But she had seemed sweet and a mite on the innocent side, and he didn’t t
hink she ought to be spending her time with a brutal scoundrel like Ryker. The mustache might have changed Ryker’s appearance a little, but Preacher didn’t believe for a second that the man’s nature had changed.

  The fact that those two varmints who had ambushed them west of the settlement were part of Ryker’s bunch was proof enough of that, as far as Preacher was concerned. The man was no good.

  Hawk must have noticed the distinctive facial hair and realized the same thing Preacher had. He gripped the mountain man’s arm and whispered, “Ryker.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Preacher said.

  “Should we go after him?”

  Preacher frowned, then shook his head in the darkness. “He ain’t done nothin’ to us.”

  “He is a bad man. An old enemy of yours. You said so yourself. He should not be with Miss Chessie.”

  “I reckon that’s her decision to make,” Preacher said, even though it pained him to do so. “Could be she don’t know what sort of fella he really is, though, and she’s got a right to.”

  “You are going to tell her?”

  “I just might.” One of the last things Preacher wanted to do was to get mixed up in some gal’s love life, but he’d felt an instinctive liking for Chessie. She was young enough and probably inexperienced enough that she might be fooled by some big, handsome galoot like Hoyt Ryker and convince herself that she was in love with him.

  She deserved better than that. Better than Oliver Merton, too.

  Maybe she deserved somebody like Hawk?

  Preacher grimaced and shoved that thought out of his head. Hawk was a fine young man, but he was half-Absaroka. That didn’t mean a damned thing to Preacher—he didn’t have a prejudiced bone in his body and judged everybody on the way they acted, that was all—but he was practical enough to know that not everybody in the world felt the same way. Hawk would always face trouble because of his mixed blood, whether he tried to live in the white world or the red. Any woman who became seriously involved with him would be a target for that trouble as well. He wasn’t sure Chessie was strong enough to handle that.

  Anyway, they had just met her this evening. It was much too soon to even be thinking about such things.

  “I can follow Ryker and find out where he is staying,” Hawk suggested. “If the rest of those men are still with him and they discover we killed two of their companions, they might prove dangerous.”

  Preacher shook his head. “We’ll deal with that when and if the time comes,” he said. “Let’s go on in, claim one of Mike’s upstairs rooms, and get some shut-eye.”

  Hawk didn’t respond at first, but he fell in step beside Preacher as the mountain man started for the tavern. Then he said, “Those men attack us, and when we reach St. Louis we find they have been traveling with a man who hates you. Then we go to the tavern owned by your friend and discover the young woman who works there is involved with the same old enemy. What does this tell you, Preacher?”

  “I don’t know, but you sound like you’ve got it figured out. Why don’t you tell me what it means?”

  “It appears that the spirits are working to bring your path and that of Hoyt Ryker together again,” Hawk said. “What will happen when those paths cross?”

  Preacher didn’t have an answer for his son, but he had a hunch that if he and Ryker butted heads again . . .

  Blood would be spilled this time. Maybe a lot of it.

  CHAPTER 7

  The tavern was still busy. The broken table and the other signs of the struggle had been cleaned up, and men had gone back to their drinking as if the battle earlier in the evening had never happened.

  Preacher didn’t see Chessie when he and Hawk went inside, so he figured she had already gone upstairs. Mike confirmed that when they stopped at the bar.

  “Poor girl was shaken up by what happened,” he said as he mopped the bar with a rag. “I told her to get some rest. We can manage down here without her for the rest of the night.”

  Preacher and Hawk exchanged a glance but neither said anything. Preacher knew what his son was thinking, because the same thought was in his head. Chessie hadn’t seemed all that upset when she was letting Hoyt Ryker kiss her.

  But that was none of his business, Preacher reminded himself. He slid one of his few remaining coins across the bar to pay for a night’s lodging.

  “This ain’t a hotel, you know,” Mike said, but he made the silver piece disappear anyway. “But go ahead. ’Tis better than sleeping in a stable, I suppose.”

  “Barely,” Preacher replied with a grin.

  The rest of the night passed quietly. The straw tick mattress on the bunk in the little upstairs room wasn’t too infested with vermin. Preacher slept well, as he always did, and was rested when he went downstairs the next morning. The tavern was empty except for Mike, who stood behind the bar drinking a cup of coffee. He gestured to the pot sitting on the stove in the corner. Preacher took that as an invitation to help himself.

  He did so and carried his cup over to the bar. Mike asked, “Hawk still asleep?”

  “Yeah. Boy was up a little later than usual last night. Most times in the mountains or out on the trail, we’d turn in once it got dark. Here in a settlement, though, folks just keep goin’ until they’re wore out.”

  Mike grinned. “Which is good for fellas who own taverns, like me.”

  Preacher looked around and said, “Reckon that Chessie gal is still asleep, too.”

  “I suppose. I haven’t seen her.”

  “You takin’ an interest in her, Mike? Sort of like an uncle?”

  A frown creased the Irishman’s forehead under his tousled thatch of rusty hair. “What the hell do you mean by that, Preacher? You make it sound like you’re askin’ if I intend to take advantage of her!”

  Preacher shook his head and said, “Nope. Just sayin’ exactly what I mean, as usual. If you’ve got the girl’s best interests at heart, there’s somethin’ you ought to know.”

  “Well, go ahead and tell me,” Mike said, still glaring.

  “When Hawk and I got back here last night after seein’ to it that Merton made it to his hotel all right, we spotted Chessie outside. She was with a man, and she didn’t seem upset. Fact is, the two of ’em were sparkin’.” Preacher realized he was gossiping like an old woman. He didn’t like the feeling. “We caught a glimpse of the fella as he left. It was Hoyt Ryker.”

  Mike stood up straight and stared at the mountain man. “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah. He had that fancy mustache like we talked about, but I got a good enough look at his face to remember him from the last time we butted heads a few years ago, too. It was Ryker, all right. He ain’t left town after all. I reckon he must’ve met Chessie one of the times he was in here recently.”

  “She’s young enough she might fall for whatever he told her,” Mike muttered. “Damn it! Somebody needs to talk to her and warn her about the varmint, but that ain’t the kind of thing I’m good at.”

  “Well, since you’ve sort of appointed yourself her guardian, I reckon it’s your responsibility.”

  “Yeah, but you’re the one who actually saw ’em together!” Mike shook his head and sighed. “All right. I’ll have a talk with her. I ain’t promising it’ll go all that well, though.”

  “Give it a try,” Preacher said. “As for me and Hawk, we’ll be headin’ back to the mountains, where all we got to worry about is grizzly bears, catamounts, and Blackfeet!”

  * * *

  Vernon Pritchard had the payment for the pelts ready when Preacher and Hawk arrived at the American Fur Company later that morning. He set the leather pouch full of gold pieces on the desk in front of him and said, “There you go, Preacher. You can count it if you like.”

  “You never cheated me yet, Vernon, and I ain’t expectin’ you to start now,” Preacher said as he scooped up the pouch. “Anyway, it’ll get counted when Hawk and me head over to Fitzgerald’s and stock up on supplies for our trip back to the mountains. We’ll be spendin’ most of the
se here coins, I expect.”

  “Fitzgerald’s goods don’t come cheap,” Pritchard agreed. “They’re of fine quality, though.”

  Preacher stowed the money away inside his shirt. “Pleasure doin’ business with you,” he told Pritchard. Hawk just grunted and gave the man a nod, then turned to follow Preacher out of the office.

  Preacher said so long to Henry, the stooped clerk, and then led Hawk to the huge, sprawling general mercantile store a short distance away. The business occupied an entire block, with entrances and high loading docks on all four sides. Inside it was crammed with goods. Whether a trapper was an experienced frontiersman or a greenhorn, everything he might need for a trip to the Rocky Mountains could be found at Fitzgerald’s. The store’s customers also included many of the citizens of St. Louis, as well as those who lived on the growing number of farms in the surrounding area.

  Those farms were a sign of civilization’s inevitable encroachment, and Preacher sort of hated to see them sprouting up like weeds. They reminded him too much of his boyhood home. He had been eager to escape from there and head for more untamed lands. Now the sort of life he had left behind appeared to be catching up to him.

  He took some small comfort in the fact that he spent most of his time hundreds of miles west of here in the mountains. Civilization would never make it that far, he told himself, at least not in his lifetime.

  Despite the relatively early hour, the store was already busy, with wagons parked at the loading docks and horses tied up at the hitch racks. As Preacher and Hawk approached, the mountain man saw clerks wearing canvas aprons loading sacks and crates of supplies onto a pair of wagons. A tall man in woolen trousers and a buckskin shirt appeared to be supervising the loading. He also wore a felt hat with a high, rounded crown and an eagle feather stuck in the band. Something about that hat struck Preacher as familiar, and when the man turned so that Preacher could see his profile, he understood why. He had caught a glimpse of the hat the night before as its owner walked by after sparking with Chessie Dayton.