Preacher's Assault

CHAPTER 25

Preacher knew it might take a few days for Juanita’s quest for information about Casey and Garity to pay off. He spent that time taking it easy, recovering from everything he had been through. Every minute that passed while he didn’t know where Casey was gnawed at his nerves.

He forced himself to relax. Juanita fed him well, as she had promised, and each day he felt a little stronger. She deemed him still too weak for any exercise in the bedroom, and although he might have argued that point, he didn’t make an issue of it. If they got the chance, they would make up for lost time later, he figured.

Roland paid several visits to the cantina. When they located Casey and mounted a rescue attempt, he wanted to be part of it. Preacher was inclined to go along with that. Roland had grown up some during the journey from Missouri. That plan he had hatched to get Preacher and Casey away from Garity hadn’t been too bad. It hadn’t actually worked, of course, but nobody’s plans worked all the time, not even Preacher’s.

“How’d you fare with sellin’ that freight?” Preacher asked the young man as they sat at a secluded table in a corner of the cantina with Lorenzo and Juanita.

“I’m working on it,” Roland replied. He had been letting his beard grow, and with the dark tan his skin had acquired during the journey over the Santa Fe Trail, he was starting to look a little like one of the Nuevo Mexicanos. “The deal has turned out to be more complicated than I expected, but I’m confident I’ll come to a suitable arrangement soon.” He took a sip from the cup of tequila he held. “Anyway, I’m in no hurry to leave Santa Fe. I won’t be going anywhere until we have Casey back safe and sound.”

Preacher had a hunch Casey was still alive—the girl had proven herself to be a survivor, after all—but they had no guarantees that was true. Taking care of Garity might come down to avenging Casey’s death rather than rescuing her, Preacher knew. Roland ought to be prepared for that possibility.

Before he could say anything, the old man who played the guitar in the cantina during the evenings came into the place and looked around. Spotting them at the table, he headed across the room toward them with an excited look on his white-bearded face. His sombrero was thumbed back on his mostly bald head, and his guitar was slung by its strap on his back.

He tugged the broad-brimmed, steeple-crowned straw hat off and held it in front of him respectfully as he stopped beside the table and said, “Señora.”

“What is it, Pepé?” Juanita asked.

“I have news of the man and the woman you seek,” the old man said.

Preacher, Roland, and Lorenzo all leaned forward in anticipation. They had been waiting for that moment, and they hoped it turned out to be true.

“Go ahead, Pepé,” Juanita told him. “What have you discovered?”

“I have been talking to my nephew Pablo. He came into town yesterday with a mule train from Mexico City. Well, you know Pablo . . . The first thing he had to do when he arrived was to find a pretty señorita with whom to spend some time. The boy is my sister’s niño, and I love him, but like all young men, he thinks of little else but romance.”

Preacher felt a surge of impatience. He wanted to tell the old man to hurry up and get to what they wanted to know, but he reined in the impulse. Trying to hurry Pepé might result in slowing him down even more.

“Yes, go ahead,” Juanita gently prodded. She knew how to handle him.

“He mentioned that he went to the house of ill repute owned by Egan Powell.”

Juanita’s eyes widened, and Preacher asked, “Who’s Egan Powell?”

“A very bad man,” Juanita replied. “An American, as you can tell by the name. He came here several years ago and became a Mexican citizen, saying that he never wanted to go back to the United States. You can probably guess why.”

“He was a wanted man there,” Preacher drawled. “The law probably made it too hot for him.”

Juanita nodded. “That is the rumor, although no one knows for certain. What I do know is that Powell has killed several men since he has been in Santa Fe, each of them with his bare hands.”

Lorenzo asked, “They let fellas get away with murder in this town?”

“Those killings were not murder. In each case, the man got drunk and caused trouble in Powell’s business. They were all armed with guns or knives. Powell took their weapons away and beat them to death.”

“Sounds like a pretty bad hombre, all right,” Preacher said. “Just the sort of gent who’d be friends with a lowdown skunk like Garity.”

Pepé’s head bobbed up and down. “Sí, señor. Pablo said he saw a man, an American, at Powell’s with his arm in a, how you say it, a sling, like this young gentleman here wore when he first came to Santa Fe.”

Pepé pointed to Roland, who had discarded his sling the day before as his wounded shoulder continued to heal.

“The arm had splints on it,” Pepé added.

“There can’t be more than one American in Santa Fe with a broken arm right now,” Roland said excitedly.

“You can’t be sure of that,” Preacher pointed out, “but I admit, it ain’t likely. What else did your nephew say, Pepé? Did he notice a blond American girl there?”

Pepé shook his head. “No, señor. But he was not looking for one. He only recalled the man with the sling when I asked him about such an hombre just now. He might not have remembered even then had not Señor Powell gotten angry with the man and told him to stay upstairs.”

Roland looked over at Preacher and asked, “Why would Powell want Garity to stay upstairs?”

“He’s keepin’ him out of sight for some reason,” Preacher guessed. “He don’t want anybody to know that Garity’s there.”

“Why would he care about that?” Juanita asked.

Preacher shrugged. “Maybe Garity told him about the run-ins he had with me, and Powell don’t want me findin’ him there. I hadn’t heard of Powell, but that don’t mean he ain’t heard of me.” The mountain man smiled. “I know that’s a mite immodest, but I got a little reputation in some circles.”

“A reputation as a dangerous man,” Juanita said. “Un hombre muy malo.” She nodded. “Yes, Powell might know of you. Even if Garity told him the bear killed you, Powell would not want to take the chance that you would come looking for him.”

“Which is exactly what I’ve done,” Preacher pointed out.

“I wish Pablo had seen Casey, too,” Roland said with a worried look on his face. “I’d like to know for sure that she’s still alive. What if she’s not there?”

“Then Garity can tell us where she is,” Preacher said. “We’ll make damn sure he don’t die until he does.”

Lorenzo said, “If this fella Powell is as bad as the señora says he is, we can’t just go bustin’ in and expect to kill Garity and take Casey outta there. Powell’s liable to have some men workin’ there that are almost as bad as he is.”

Juanita nodded. “I was just about to say that. There are always three or four men around who are experts with knives and guns, keeping order in the place when Powell isn’t there or is busy with something else.”

“I have eight bullwhackers who will go in there with us if I ask them to,” Roland said. “I think we’ll be more than a match for Powell and his bully boys.”

Preacher shook his head. “Those fellas are tough as hell, but in close quarters like that, they wouldn’t be any match for Powell and his men, not to mention Garity. He may have a busted arm, but I reckon he’s still as dangerous as a rattlesnake. He proved that the way he snatched Casey away.”

“Then what can we do?” Roland asked. “Now that we know where she is—where she probably is—we can’t just do nothing!”

“Somebody needs to go in there and scout around a mite. Make sure Casey’s really there. I can’t do it, because somebody’d be likely to recognize me.”

“And I can’t do it,” Lorenzo said. “I’d draw too much attention, bein’ black and all.”

“Not to mention you’re way too old have any use for a whore,” Preacher said.

“What the hell you talkin’ about?” Lorenzo demanded. “Why, I’ll have you know I can still—”

Preacher held up a hand to stop him and looked at Roland. “Reckon that leaves it up to you. You’ll have to be mighty careful. If Garity sees you, he’ll recognize you, sure as shootin’. You up to the job?”

“Of course I am,” Roland said without hesitation. “If it means getting Casey back, I am. What do I do?”

They all leaned forward as Preacher said, “You’ll go to Powell’s place tonight. I reckon Juanita can get some Mex duds for you.”

She nodded to indicate that she could.

“Keep the brim of your sombrero pulled down,” Preacher went on. “Dressed like that, and with that beard, there’s a chance Garity might not recognize you right off, even if he does see you. When you tell ’em you want a gal, they’ll likely ask if you’ve got anything special in mind. Tell ’em you’re lookin’ for a gal with yeller hair, especially if she’s an American.”

Roland’s features hardened into a grim mask. Preacher knew what he was thinking. In the time that Casey had been at the whorehouse in Santa Fe, there had probably been quite a few men who had asked for her. But if Roland had been willing to accept what he knew about her past in St. Louis, he ought to be willing to accept that, too, Preacher thought. It sure as hell wasn’t Casey’s fault.

“If she’s there, what do I do?” Roland asked.

“Take her upstairs,” Preacher said. “Look for a back way out. I’d like to get Casey clear before we deal with Garity.”

As long as Casey was safe, Preacher didn’t care all that much what happened to him. He had long since accepted the fact that he would never die in bed with a bunch of grandkids and great grandkids around him. Like that grizzly bear, when he reached the end of his trail it would be a violent one, but that was all right. Preacher was just fine with that as long as he got to put a pistol ball or a knife into Garity first, or even choke the life out of the son of a bitch with his own hands. He couldn’t think of a better way to go than while killing a skunk like that.

“We’ll be waitin’ at different spots around the buildin’,” Preacher went on. “Once you and Casey are safe, I’ll go in and deal with Garity.”

“By yourself?” Lorenzo shook his head. “You wouldn’t stand a chance, Preacher. Powell and his men will protect him.”

“Well . . .” Preacher grinned slyly. “We might ought to have a little distraction to keep Powell and his bunch occupied while I’m seein’ to Garity. Like, say, if some of them bullwhackers were to go in there and start a brawl.”

Roland nodded eagerly. “I’m sure they’d be willing to do that.”

“It’s liable to be dangerous,” Preacher warned. “Some of ’em might get hurt, even killed.”

“They’ll know that. They won’t care, if it means settling the score with Garity. I wasn’t the only man who lost someone out there on the trail. They lost some good friends as well.”

“All right, then, it’s settled. Be back here a little after dark, Roland, and bring any of the bullwhackers who want to give us a hand with you.” Preacher looked around at the others. “With any luck, this’ll be over tonight.”

In a felt sombrero with a fancy band, a charro jacket with embroidered decorations on it, a frilly shirt, and tight pants, Roland looked like a well-to-do young Mexican. He wouldn’t pass a close inspection, more than likely, but Preacher thought he ought to be able to keep up the deception long enough in a dim, smoky brothel to get upstairs.

“What if they try to give me some other girl besides Casey?” Roland asked nervously as he and Preacher stood in an alley across the street from the two-story frame building that housed Egan Powell’s place of business. Heavy curtains were drawn across all the windows, and yellow light showed dimly through the narrow cracks around the drapes.

“If they admit they got a girl like that there, chances are it’s her. Tell ’em you’ll wait for her if she’s busy with another customer. Nurse a drink at the bar for a while.”

Roland nodded in the shadows. “All right.”

“Remember, I’ll be right here,” Preacher told him. “If you need me in a hurry, stick your head out a window and holler. I’ll come a-runnin.”

“Are you sure you’re all right, Preacher? You went through so much on the way here.”

Preacher grinned. “I bounce back pretty quick-like. Don’t worry about me.”

“Fine. Preacher—”

Preacher had had more than enough of Roland thanking him for everything he’d done. He said, “Lorenzo’s around back of the place, and those bullwhackers are down yonder in the next block waitin’ for my signal. Let us know as soon as you get out of there with Casey.”

“I will.” Roland took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. “I guess I’m ready.”

“I think so,” Preacher said.

The young man shot him an appreciative glance, then stepped out of the alley. Strolling like he didn’t have a care in the world, he walked across the street and opened the door to go into the whorehouse. For a second he was silhouetted against the light inside, and then he was gone.

Over the years Preacher had learned how to wait patiently. Many times, that ability had saved his life. But just because he could stand or sit motionless for hours at a time didn’t mean he liked doing it. His mind always roamed. The older he got, the more his memories intruded on his thinking. He remembered his family—vaguely—and he remembered the friends he had made during the long, adventurous years since he had left home. For all the vastness of the frontier, in some ways it was a small place. Almost anywhere he went west of the Mississippi, sooner or later he was likely to run into someone who knew him. It was why he had decided against going into Powell’s. Even if Powell didn’t recognize him, somebody else might, and holler out something like, “Why, Preacher, you old son of a bitch, what are you doin’ here?” That would have ruined—

The sudden sound of a shot from across the street made Preacher’s head jerk up in alarm.