Preacher's Blood Hunt Read online

  The gunfire continued as Preacher approached. He took to the trees as soon as he could. There was a good chance that once he sized up the fight, he would side with one bunch or the other, and when he took cards in this game, he wanted it to be a surprise.

  Eager to get in on the action, Dog bounded ahead, but Preacher called him back. Preacher trusted Dog’s instincts, but he wanted to see what was going on for himself before he turned the big cur loose.

  He hauled back on the reins and slowed Horse as he swung out of the saddle while the stallion was still moving. Preacher landed with his rifle in his hands and glided through the brush until he reached the creek’s edge.

  He dropped to one knee and peered through a screen of leaves. The creek was about twenty yards wide and ran a couple feet deep over a gravel and sand bed. A man lay in the water near the opposite bank. The current moved him a little, but his feet dragged in the bed and kept him from floating away.

  Preacher could tell that he was dead.

  He saw two more men who were alive. Both of them lay in the stream and hunkered up as close to the bank as they could. They were using the bank for protection, Preacher realized. The shots came from the trees on the other side of the creek. Dirt flew in the air just above the heads of the two men as rifle balls struck the ground.

  They had ducked behind the highest part of the bank, Preacher noted as he looked up and down the stream. If they tried to move, they would be exposed to the rifle fire. But they couldn’t stay where they were. Sooner or later, the men who had bushwhacked them would try to flank them.

  In fact, one of the killers was already making an attempt to do that. A man darted from the trees and ran at an angle toward a deadfall that lay with its base on the bank and its branches in the water. If he reached the cover of that log, he would have a better shot at the men hiding under the bank.

  Right away, Preacher had noticed the beaver trap in the water near the two men as well as the bag lying on the bank with several objects—dead beaver, no doubt—stuffed into it. Those three had been working a trap line when they were ambushed.

  Maybe they were poachers. Maybe the riflemen hiding in the trees were in the right. Preacher’s gut told him that wasn’t the case, but as he lifted his rifle to his shoulder there was just enough doubt in his mind to make him drop his aim a little and drill the man running toward the deadfall through the leg instead of killing him.

  The man cried out in pain, dropped his rifle, and spilled off his feet. He clapped his hands to his wounded leg, struggled to his feet, and hobbled forward to throw himself behind the log just in case somebody else wanted to take a shot at him. Preacher heard him moaning.

  He had drawn the attention of the other men in the trees when he shot the would-be flanker. More shots boomed, clouds of powder smoke spurted from the shadows under the trees, and rifle balls hummed and whickered through the brush around Preacher as he sprawled out on his belly.

  Somebody on the other side of the stream yelled, “It must be Gardner again!”

  Preacher had no idea who Gardner was, but obviously the bushwhackers didn’t like him.

  Dog belly-crawled up next to Preacher and growled. The mountain man looked over at the big cur. “All right. I reckon those varmints have proven they ain’t friends of ours. Hunt!”

  Dog backed off and vanished into the brush. A minute later, from the corner of his eye Preacher saw Dog bound across the creek about fifty yards upstream. He was gone in a flash, and even if the bushwhackers had noticed him, they wouldn’t have had time to draw a bead on him.

  Dog would be drawing a bead on them, though, thought Preacher with a grim smile.

  The men on the other side of the stream continued to blaze away at Preacher and also at the two men hunkered under the bank. Even at the warmest time of year mountain streams ran cold from snowmelt, so Preacher figured those two hombres were pretty chilled.

  Having reloaded his rifle while lying on the ground, he pulled back the hammer, nestled his whiskery cheek against the smooth, hand-carved stock, and watched over the barrel for a muzzle flash. When he saw one, he lined up the shot and pressed the trigger in a fraction of a second, then rolled swiftly to one side to avoid return fire from anyone aiming at his muzzle flash.

  The ambushers were so well-hidden that he couldn’t tell if he had scored with his shot, but after a moment he heard a high-pitched, agonized wail and figured he had found his target. Somebody over there was hurting, that was for sure.

  Preacher shimmied behind a thick bush and reloaded again. He noticed that the two men under attack glanced back in his direction from time to time, as if they wondered who had pitched in to lend them a hand. Introductions could come later, Preacher thought. With any luck, maybe those men could give him a lead to William Pendexter.

  A terrified scream suddenly erupted from the trees, followed by savage growls and snarls. Dog had gone to work, Preacher thought with a grin. A pistol boomed, but the screaming went on for several seconds before it died away in a grotesque gurgle.

  One of the bushwhackers had just gotten his throat torn out.

  Several startled yells came from that direction. A man stepped out from behind a tree trunk. A heartbeat later, the man collapsed as a ball from Preacher’s rifle smashed into his chest.

  “Come on!” somebody shouted. “Let’s get the hell out of here!”

  That was all it took to set off a frenzied retreat. Preacher heard brush crackle as men stampeded through the undergrowth. More growling and snapping punctuated the racket as Dog hurried the ambushers on their way. Preacher let out a shrill whistle to call the big cur back, otherwise he might chase them to kingdom come.

  The two men hidden under the bank looked like they were about to stand up. Preacher called, “Hey!” and motioned for them to stay down. One or more of the bushwhackers might try to double back. That was a pretty unlikely possibility, but he couldn’t rule it out.

  He hadn’t forgotten about the wounded man who had crawled behind the deadfall, either. The man had dropped his rifle when Preacher shot him, but he might have a pistol or two on him. No shots had come from that direction during the fight, so Preacher hoped that meant the man had either passed out or else wanted no more part in the conflict.

  He waited until he heard hoofbeats pounding away from the area before he came to his feet in a crouch. He ran along the bank until he could see behind the fallen log. The man lay there clutching his wounded leg. He was conscious, but didn’t seem to be any threat at the moment.

  Preacher kept the man covered anyway as he waded across the stream. Dog trotted up. The big cur’s muzzle was smeared with blood. Preacher pointed at the wounded man and ordered, “Watch.” Dog planted himself stiff-legged a few feet away and snarled. He looked utterly ferocious. The captive lay motionless, with wide, terrified eyes.

  Confident that nobody would try any tricks with Dog watching over them, Preacher turned his back and went toward the two men they had rescued. One was a little below medium height and stocky, with a round, friendly face. The other was taller, slimmer, and a lot more dour. Both, however, looked very relieved as they stood up with creek water streaming off their buckskins.

  “Th-thanks, m-mister,” the smaller one said as his teeth chattered from the chill of being submerged in the water for so long. “You sure s-saved our b-bacon.”

  “You fellas can climb out of there now,” Preacher told them. “Build a big fire, get out of those wet clothes, and dry off. I’ll take a look around and make sure that bunch is gone.” Preacher inclined his head toward the body lying in the creek. He could see the wound in the man’s forehead and knew there was no way the unlucky fella could have survived. “Friend of yours?”

  “Carl Pennington,” the sour-faced man said. “Yes, he was a friend and a partner.”

  “I hope he didn’t suffer too much,” the other man said.

  “Reckon he never knew what hit him,” Preacher said.

  He trotted off into the woods and cast back
and forth for a good fifteen minutes without seeing anyone. Convinced that the bushwhackers were well and truly gone, he returned to the creek bank.

  The two men had built a blazing fire, as Preacher had suggested, and stripped down to their long underwear. Those garments were soaked, too.

  Preacher said, “Take ’em off. You need to get dry down to the skin, or else you’re liable to catch the grippe. You sure don’t want that.”

  The men complied. Their skin was fish-belly white and they looked a little ridiculous, but Preacher didn’t say anything because he knew he looked the same way except for the dark, permanent tan on his hands, face, and neck.

  The two men had also lifted their friend’s corpse from the creek and stretched it out on the bank. A blanket from their gear covered the man’s face and upper body.

  Since things were under control, Preacher walked over to the wounded man, who looked up at him and said in a weak voice, “Mister, you got to get this wolf away from me.”

  Dog growled.

  “He ain’t a wolf. He’s a dog.”

  “Whatever he is, I think he . . . he’s going to eat me.”

  “Not unless I tell him to.” Preacher frowned in thought. The man looked to be a Spaniard—someone he didn’t run into every day so far north of Mexico. “What’s your name?”

  The prisoner hesitated, and for a moment Preacher thought he wasn’t going to answer. Then he said sullenly, “Vargas.”

  “Well, Señor Vargas, you better tell me what’s goin’ on here, otherwise I’m liable to let Dog gnaw on you for a spell. I reckon I could probably stop him before he killed you, but I wouldn’t want to take the chance if I was you.”

  “I . . . I can’t tell you anything,” Vargas stammered. “I don’t dare!”

  “Well, then, I reckon you have to ask yourself who you’re more scared of right now. Jebediah Druke”—Preacher grinned and drawled—“or me and Dog?”

  CHAPTER 13

  Vargas looked surprised that Preacher knew Druke’s name. That might have been what convinced him to talk, but he wasn’t going to be completely cooperative. “First you have to call off that beast.”

  Preacher had already spotted the pistol behind Vargas’s belt. He reached down and pulled it free, then said, “Back up, Dog. Sit. Guard.”

  The big cur did as he was told. He backed away, sat down, and watched Vargas with a hungry gleam in his eyes.

  “You’re safe now, as long as you don’t make any sudden moves,” Preacher told the Spaniard.

  Vargas took one hand off his wounded leg, grabbed hold of the log, and pulled himself into a sitting position propped against it. “I am going to bleed to death,” he complained.

  “Maybe. Looks to me like you’ve got a ways to go, though. I can hurry the process along by shootin’ you in the other leg if you want.”

  “Who are you?” Vargas asked through gritted teeth as he shifted his injured limb slightly.

  “They call me Preacher.”

  Vargas took a sharply indrawn breath. Obviously, he had heard of him. “What are you doing here in King’s Crown?”

  “I thought I was supposed to be askin’ the questions. Suppose you tell me what you’re doin’ in King’s Crown.”

  With a sullen frown on his face, Vargas answered, “I work for Jebediah Druke, as you seem to know already.”

  “I wasn’t sure, but I appreciate you confirmin’ it.” Preacher jerked a thumb toward the two men drying out by the fire. “What’s Druke’s grudge against those fellas?”

  “They’re trapping here without his permission. He told them they would have to leave, but they defied his orders.”

  “So you shot one of ’em down in cold blood?” Preacher’s voice was sharp and angry as he asked the question.

  Vargas grimaced and looked away. “We were just following orders. Señor Druke is the one who decides what happens in this valley.”

  “What gives him that right? Druke don’t own this land. Nobody does.”

  “The right of possession,” Vargas answered as his mouth twisted in a faint sneer. “The right that belongs to any man who is stronger than another man.”

  “Seems like this country fought a couple wars against the Englanders to prove that don’t always hold true.”

  Preacher had, in fact, fought in one of those wars as a stripling youth, at the Battle of New Orleans. The War of 1812 was over at the time, but no one on either side knew it while the cannons were booming and the bullets were flying.

  “Where’s Druke now?” Preacher went on. “Was he with the bunch that lit a shuck out of here?”

  “I don’t have to talk to you.” A stubborn look appeared on Vargas’s face again.

  “Dog . . .” Preacher said.

  The big cur leaned forward and bared his fangs.

  “Druke wasn’t here,” Vargas said quickly. “Those two can tell you he was wounded in our last encounter with them. We were attacked from ambush.”

  “Sort of like today, eh, only the other way around. Who jumped you?”

  “Will Gardner and his redskin friend.”

  That explained who the mysterious Gardner was, Preacher supposed, if not in any great detail.

  “Where’s Druke now?”

  Vargas shook his head. “I’m not going to tell you that. You can kill me if you want, but I’m not going to say anything else.”

  Preacher nodded. “I reckon I can find somebody else to tell me how to find that so-called Fort Druke.” He shook his head as surprise appeared again in Vargas’s dark eyes. “Damned silly name, if you ask me.”

  Vargas just glared at him.

  “Tell you what I’m gonna do,” Preacher went on. “I’ll patch up that hole in your leg and let you go, on a couple conditions.”

  Vargas frowned, clearly suspicious of the offer. “What conditions?”

  Preacher held up a finger. “One, you go back to Druke and give him a message for me. Tell him that things are gonna change around here. He ain’t the big skookum he-wolf in these parts no more.”

  “If I tell him that, he’ll come after you and kill you.”

  “He can try,” Preacher said. “Here’s the second condition. You answer a question for me that don’t have anything to do with Druke.”

  “What sort of question?”

  “I’m lookin’ for a young fella name of William Pendexter. Good-lookin’ hombre in his twenties with brown hair and a half-moon-shaped birthmark on the back of his neck.”

  Vargas stared at Preacher in obvious stupefaction. The mountain man could tell that the name and the description meant nothing to him.

  “You don’t remember runnin’ somebody like that out of King’s Crown . . . or killin’ him?”

  Vargas said, “I accept both of your conditions. I know nothing of this man Pendexter.”

  “All right. Let’s have a look at that leg.” Preacher leaned his rifle against the log, well out of Vargas’s reach, and hunkered on his heels next to the wounded man. Vargas took his hand away from the bloody injury. Preacher leaned forward to rip the man’s trousers back so he could see the extent of the damage.

  Some instinct made him glance up just as a canny gleam appeared in Vargas’s eyes. It was enough warning so that the man’s sudden move didn’t take him completely by surprise. Vargas’s other hand darted out from behind his back, clutching a dagger hidden under his buckskin shirt. The blade glinted in the sun as it slashed at Preacher’s throat.

  Preacher’s left hand flashed up faster than the eye could follow and caught hold of Vargas’s wrist. A sudden twist and a hard shove, and Preacher drove the dagger deep into Vargas’s chest. The outlaw gasped and his head dropped. He stared down in shock at the weapon’s handle. His own fingers were still wrapped around it.

  “Tryin’ to kill me sort of trumps them other conditions,” Preacher said.

  Vargas gasped a couple more times and then his head slumped forward as a thread of blood drooled from the corner of his mouth. His final breath rattled in hi
s throat.

  Preacher stood and picked up his rifle “Come on, Dog.”

  Leaving the dead man where he was, they went to join the two men by the fire, neither of whom appeared to have noticed what had happened, the action had been so quick and subtle.

  The trappers weren’t shivering anymore. They had propped up sticks near the fire and hung their clothes on them so the garments would dry quicker.

  The sour-faced man nodded toward the deadfall. “What about Druke’s man? You were talking to him for a long time.”

  “I was tryin’ to make a deal with him,” Preacher said. “I wanted him to go back to Druke and tell him things are gonna be different here in King’s Crown. His day is done.”

  “Are you crazy?” the smaller trapper said. “That would just make Druke even more determined to come after you and kill you.”

  “You’re probably right about that,” Preacher admitted. “And I’ve got another chore to take care of here before I tangle with Druke. Either of you fellas know a youngster named William Pendexter?”

  The two men looked at each other, frowned in thought, and then shook their heads.

  “Never heard of him,” said the smaller man. “But my name is Enos Mitchell, and my partner here is John Burton. We already told you poor Carl’s name.”

  “They call me Preacher.”

  Burton had been keeping a nervous eye on Dog. “Is that wolf tame?”

  “He’s a dog, not a wolf. And I wouldn’t say he’s exactly tame. But he won’t hurt you unless I tell him to, or unless you try to hurt me.”

  “After you saved our lives, that won’t be happening,” Mitchell said. “What about Druke’s man? What are you going to do with him?”

  “Bury him, I suppose. He got cocky and tried to plant a dagger in my throat when he thought I wasn’t lookin’.”

  Both men looked shocked.

  Burton said, “Wait a minute. You killed him right over there, no more than twenty yards away from us, and we didn’t even notice?”