Preacher's Assault

CHAPTER 27

Preacher dived forward and to the side, tackling Roland Bartlett and driving the boy off his feet. From the corner of his eye, he saw powdersmoke erupt from the windows of the building across the plaza. He and Roland hit the ground behind the well, and the rifle balls hummed past harmlessly to thud into the hard-packed dirt.

Two shots boomed from the wagon behind them. That would be Newcomb and Tobin, Preacher knew. He risked a glance over the low wall that ran around the well and saw one man toppling from a window, obviously fatally wounded. He couldn’t tell if the bullwhackers had gotten the other man.

Preacher turned his head toward the wagon and shouted, “Cliff!”

Fawcett stepped out from behind the vehicle for a second. His powerful arm went back and then flashed forward. The knife he had thrown spun glitteringly in the early morning sunlight.

The throw was accurate. The knife blade dug into the ground only a few feet from Preacher. He reached out and grabbed the handle.

More guns began to boom. Other men who worked for the whorehouse owner must have been nearby, as Preacher suspected, and Powell called them into action.

The bullwhackers poured out of the alley where they had been hiding and returned the fire. Preacher and Roland kept their heads down as rifle balls crisscrossed the plaza in a deadly storm of lead.

“Preacher, we have to get out of here!” Roland gasped. “Garity’s still got Casey!”

“I know. Did you see her?”

Roland nodded. “Just for a minute. She looked like she was all right.” He grimaced. “I’m sorry I couldn’t pull it off. A couple of men jumped me as soon as I went in there last night. It was like they were waiting for me!”

“They were,” Preacher said. “Garity must have heard we were in town and figured we’d try somethin’. He was probably spyin’ from upstairs and gave Powell’s men the high sign as soon as he recognized you. Was that you who fired the pistol?”

Roland nodded. “Yes, but I didn’t hit anything except the wall. One of the men had already grabbed me from behind.” He paused as the rifles continued to roar on both sides of the plaza. “You knew Garity and Powell were going to double-cross you, didn’t you?”

“Figured it was pretty damn likely,” the mountain man acknowledged with a nod.

“So you set things up to double-cross them right back.”

Preacher grinned. “Let’s just say I was ready for trouble.”

The shots died away then, and a moment later Cliff Fawcett called, “Hey, Preacher, I think we got ’em all!”

“What about Powell?”

“Sorry! He ducked back out of sight before anybody could draw a bead on him.”

“That means he’ll go back to the whorehouse and tell Garity what happened,” Roland said. He clutched Preacher’s arm. “They’re liable to kill Casey! We have to stop them!”

Preacher knew the young man was right. “You ready to risk it?” he asked.

“Anything!”

“Then come on.”

Holding the knife, Preacher stood up and ran toward the far side of the plaza. Roland was right behind him.

One of Powell’s men wasn’t dead after all, only wounded. He reared up and thrust a pistol at them. The weapon blasted, but the ball cut through the air between Preacher and Roland. A second later, several rifles roared as the bullwhackers returned the fire, and the would-be killer was thrown backward by the impact of several lead balls slamming into his body.

Preacher and Roland reached the alley where Powell had disappeared. Preacher knew that Lorenzo, Fawcett, and the rest of the men would follow them, but there was no time to wait for their allies. He and Roland had to reach the whorehouse just as fast as they could if they were going to be in time to save Casey. Garity might kill her, or he might decide to try to escape and take her with him.

Santa Fe was honeycombed with streets and alleys that twisted crazily and sometimes abruptly came to unexpected dead ends. Preacher had to rely on his uncanny sense of direction in order to guide him and Roland through the squalid maze. He wasn’t sure if every turn they made was the right one, but suddenly he recognized a landmark and knew Powell’s place was down the street they had just entered.

Preacher grabbed Roland’s arm and pulled him back around the corner. “What are you doing?” the young man demanded frantically. “We’ve got to find Casey!”

“If we go chargin’ up to the front of the place, they’ll be waitin’ for us and gun us down,” Preacher said. “We’ll circle and come in from behind.”

He was keenly aware they had only a knife between them as far as weapons were concerned. He hadn’t wanted to take the time to get anything else, but that also meant they would have to be careful. He led Roland on a circuitous route that took them to the alley running behind the whorehouse.

There was a buggy parked there with a couple horses already hitched to it. As Preacher and Roland paused at the corner of a shed, Egan Powell emerged from the back door of the building and headed for the buggy, carrying a valise. Probably stuffed with money, Preacher thought. Powell was heading for the tall and uncut while the getting was good. The question was whether Garity and Casey would go with him.

The answer wasn’t long in coming. Garity appeared in the back door, dragging a struggling Casey with him. He was having trouble controlling her because he had only one good arm. As she let out an angry cry and almost broke away from him, Garity yelled, “You bitch!” and let go of her to slam a punch into her face, stunning her.

That was more than Roland could stand. Moving too fast for Preacher to grab him, he broke out from behind the shed, shouted, “Bastard!” and raced toward the building.

Powell was placing the valise in the back of the buggy when Roland emerged from cover. He jerked around, grated a curse, and pulled a pistol from under his coat. As he eared back the hammer, Preacher stepped into view and threw the knife.

The expert throw had the weapon revolving once before the blade buried itself deep in Powell’s chest. The man staggered back a step as he pulled the trigger. The shot went into the air over Roland’s head.

Garity saw Roland coming and thrust Casey’s limp body away from him. He pulled a knife from his belt and slashed at Roland with it. Even left-handed, he was swift and deadly with a knife. Roland tried to twist away, but the blade raked across his midsection, slicing his shirt open and drawing blood. He ducked the backhanded slash that Garity swung at him, but he couldn’t avoid the kick that Garity drove into his chest. It sent him sprawling into the alley.

Powell had dropped his empty pistol and fallen to his knees. He pawed futilely at the handle of the knife in his chest. Preacher ripped the blade free as he dashed past. Blood welled from one corner of Powell’s open mouth as he swayed there for a second longer, then toppled forward on his face.

“Garity!” Preacher yelled.

The outlaw swung to face him as Preacher leaped and swung the knife. Sparks flew in the air as steel clashed. The men collided, went down, broke apart and rolled away from each other. Garity reached his feet a second earlier than Preacher did and charged the mountain man, swiping his knife through the air with such ferocity that Preacher had to back up as he barely parried thrust after thrust.

Preacher heard Powell groan behind him. The man might be dying, but he wasn’t dead yet. Powell heaved himself up from the ground and tackled Preacher, wrapping his arms around the mountain’s man knees. With his legs jerked out from under him, Preacher went over backward.

Garity raised the knife high, ready to plunge the blade into Preacher’s chest. Before the blow could fall, Roland hit him from behind. They fell, and all four men tangled on the ground.

Powell got his hands around Preacher’s throat. Looking into the man’s glaring, murderous eyes from only inches away, Preacher saw Powell’s strength fading. Only a few more moments of life remained in the whorehouse owner, but that might be enough for him to choke the life out of the mountain man.

Preacher still had the knife in his hand, and he drove it upward into Powell’s throat, unleashing a flood of crimson. Powell let out a grotesque, bubbling cry and slumped sideways as his grip on Preacher’s throat slid away. Preacher shoved clear of the corpse and rolled to his feet again.

A few feet away, Garity was on top of Roland, trying to stab him. Roland jerked his head aside. The blade gashed the side of his neck.

“Garity!” Casey cried.

Preacher watched as Garity looked up. He saw the outlaw’s eyes widen as Garity peered at Casey, who stood a couple feet away with a pistol gripped tightly in both hands, aimed directly at his face. Before Garity could do more than open his mouth to yell a protest that went unvoiced, Casey pulled the trigger.

The pistol boomed. Smoke gushed from the barrel and engulfed Garity’s head. The outlaw flew backward and landed with his back against the buggy’s wheel. His head slumped forward. As the smoke cleared, Preacher saw that the pistol ball had smashed Garity’s skull and blown out the back of his head. It was a grisly mess.

Lorenzo had come running up along with Fawcett and the other bullwhackers during Preacher’s struggle with Powell. He had been so busy fighting for his life that he hadn’t noticed their arrival. “She took my pistol,” the old-timer said. “I figured she had it comin’.”

Casey slowly lowered the pistol. A strand of gray smoke still curled from its barrel. “Come back from that, you son of a bitch,” she whispered at Garity.

Then she dropped the gun and would have collapsed if Roland, bleeding from several wounds, hadn’t been there to pull her into his arms and support her.

“It’s over,” he told her as she started to sob. “It’s really over this time.”

Preacher looked at Lorenzo and nodded. “You done good givin’ her your gun that way. If anybody had the right to blow that varmint’s brains out, it was her.”

“That’s what I figured,” Lorenzo agreed. “You all right, Preacher?”

“Yeah. A mite tired, that’s all.” In fact, when he tried to take a step, he staggered and almost fell. Fawcett gripped his arm to steady him.

“We need to get you back to Juanita’s place,” Lorenzo said. “I got a hunch that after a few weeks of the señora takin’ care of you, you’ll be just fine.”

“I expect you’re right about that,” Preacher said with a grin.

Roland and Casey came to see him at the cantina a week later. They had been staying at one of the hotels in town. They had some healing up of their own to do, so Preacher didn’t worry when he didn’t see them for a while.

He was feeling a lot better himself. Plenty of sleep and good food—along with nobody trying to kill him—worked wonders for his health. He was sitting at the table in the corner with Juanita and Lorenzo when the two young people came in and started across the room toward them.

Preacher raised a hand in greeting. “You two look like you’re doin’ a mite better than the last time I saw you,” he commented.

Roland still had a bandage on the gash on his neck, and Preacher could tell from the way he moved that his torso was probably bandaged where Garity had slashed him. But he had a big grin on his face.

Casey was smiling, too. As the two of them sat down at the table, she said, “We came to issue an invitation.”

“Oh?” Preacher said with a twinkle in his eyes. “Somethin’ special about to happen?”

“We’re getting married,” Roland burst out as if he could no longer contain himself.

“Well, congratulations,” Lorenzo said. “Can’t say as I’m surprised, though.”

“I was surprised when Roland asked me,” Casey said. “I didn’t figure any man would ever want me after everything that—”

Roland stopped her by laying a hand on hers and squeezing.

Preacher drawled, “It’s a wise man who knows that today and tomorrow are a hell of a lot more important than yesterday. Somebody said that once, but I don’t remember who.”

“Let’s just call it the wisdom of Preacher,” Juanita suggested.

“Let’s not,” he said dryly. He changed the subject by asking Casey, “So, I reckon this means you’ll be headin’ to St. Louis with Roland when he starts back with the wagons?”

“I’m not going back to St. Louis,” Roland replied before Casey could say anything.

Preacher raised his shaggy eyebrows. “You ain’t? What’re you gonna do with those wagons and ox teams?”

“I’ve already done it. I sold them to one of the other freight outfits. Cliff and the other bullwhackers will be going with them.”

“So what do you plan on doin’ with yourself if you ain’t in the freight business no more?”

“I was negotiating with a man who owns a store here in Santa Fe, trying to sell him the goods we brought out here,” Roland explained. “But when he mentioned that he wanted to sell out, I just bought the store from him instead. It’ll be well-stocked with all the goods we had in the wagons.”

“And I’ll help him run it,” Casey said.

Preacher smiled and nodded slowly. For Casey, remaining here in Santa Fe would be a lot better than going back to St. Louis. The odds of anyone recognizing her or knowing anything about her past were a lot smaller.

“Sounds like things have worked out just fine for you.”

“Thanks to you, Preacher,” Roland said. “I’m not sure I’d ever want to go back over the Santa Fe Trail without you.”

“And we ain’t goin’ that way when we leave here,” Lorenzo said. “Preacher’s done promised to show me the mountains.”

“But you can’t leave before the wedding,” Casey protested.

Juanita reached over and took Preacher’s hand. “He’s not going anywhere,” she said firmly. “He still has a lot of recuperating to do, and I intend to see that he does it.”

Preacher chuckled. “You don’t hear me arguin’, do you?”

But he knew the time would come when the call of the wild and lonesome country would be too strong for him to resist. When that day arrived, he would have to bid a fond farewell to Juanita and answer that summons, even though she would be sad to see him go.

The trail of Preacher’s life was a long and winding one, and he hadn’t reached the end of it just yet.