Preacher's Fire

Chapter 12

The place was a saloon. There could be no mistake about that. Not with the long, hardwood bar that ran all the way down the left-hand wall and then turned to run along the back wall, as well. Round tables covered most of the floor space to the right, although there was an open area toward the rear where people could dance if they wanted to. Some of the tables were topped with green felt for poker playing. There was a roulette wheel as well, although no one was playing at the moment. The air was hazy with smoke from cigars and pipes and filled with talk and laughter from the customers. Chandeliers made from wagon wheels hung from the ceiling. The candles in those chandeliers cast a yellow glow over the big room. The soft light gave the place a certain air of elegance. Even the laughter was subdued, not raucous as it always was in the crude taverns to which Preacher was accustomed.

The bar was crowded, and drinkers occupied most of the tables. A couple of poker games were going on. Preacher found an open place at the bar and bellied up to the hardwood, which had been polished to a high gleam.

A bartender as bald as a billiard ball came over to him. Preacher ordered a beer.

“Let’s see your money first, pilgrim,” the bartender replied.

Preacher slid a coin onto the bar. The bartender picked it up, studied it for a second, and then nodded.

“All right, farm boy. I’ll be back.”

Preacher waited while the bartender filled a pewter mug with beer from a keg. When the man brought it back to him, he nodded and said, “Much obliged.”

“New in town?”

Preacher took a sip of the beer, which was good, and nodded. “That’s right.”

“Then you probably don’t know that Dupree’s caters to a higher class of customer than you. You can finish your drink, then you’d better be moving along.”

Preacher felt a surge of anger but didn’t show it. He didn’t like people who put on airs, even bartenders. But unlike at Jessie’s Place, where he had deliberately taken offense, he played this hand differently.

“Sorry, mister,” he said. “Didn’t mean to butt in where my kind ain’t welcome.”

The bartender got a look of magnanimous superiorty on his florid face and said, “That’s all right. You didn’t know any better. Anyway, your money spends as well as anybody else’s, I reckon.”

“Like his over there?” Preacher asked, inclining his head toward the table where Shad Beaumont sat with the blonde. They were sharing a bottle of brandy. No buckets of beer for them.

The bartender laughed. “No, Mr. Beaumont’s money is better than anybody else’s around here. Or rather, I reckon you could say that it’s no good in Dupree’s.”

“You mean he don’t have to pay for anything just ’cause he’s some fancy swell?”

“I mean drink up and get out of here,” the bartender said, his face and voice hardening. “What Mr. Beaumont pays for or don’t pay for is none of your damn business.”

“No, sir, it’s sure not,” Preacher said quickly. He lifted the cup to his lips and drank some more of the beer.

That was more than enough confirmation. He was certain now of Beaumont’s identity and had gotten a good enough look at him in here that he knew he would recognize Beaumont the next time he saw the man. He would be able to describe Beaumont and his carriage to Uncle Dan, too, which was important to the plan.

“Is it always this crowded in here?” he asked the bartender, trying to sound idly curious.

“Dupree’s is the best place in town,” the man replied, pride in his voice.

“Does that fella Beaumont come in here every night?”

“Mister Beaumont is a regular customer, yes. And again—”

“I know, I know,” Preacher said. “None of my business.”

“That’s right. You gonna finish that beer?”

Preacher drained the last of the liquid from the cup and set the empty back on the bar. “Much obliged,” he said again.

“From now on, do your drinking in the taverns down along the waterfront, with the river men and the rest of the farm boys who’ve come west looking for adventure.”

“Yes, sir, I’ll sure do that.”

Preacher practically had to force the words out, when what he really wanted to do with ram that smug smile down the bartender’s throat with a knobby-knuckled fist.

But that would be jumping the gun. Maybe he’d have a chance to teach the fella a lesson later.

He’d be coming back to Dupree’s.

When he was ready.

That thought was going through his head as he turned to walk out of the saloon. His gaze roved briefly over the room and then stopped suddenly when he spotted a familiar face at one of the poker tables. The gambler called Cleve was dealing a hand. Preacher wasn’t particularly surprised to see him. The man obviously had a taste for the finer things in life. He patronized the best whorehouse in St. Louis, so there was no reason he wouldn’t do his gambling and drinking in the best saloon, too.

Cleve glanced up, and for a second his eyes locked with Preacher’s. Then Preacher continued walking out.

He hoped this wasn’t going to be an added complication. He had enough on his plate just figuring out what he was going to do about Shad Beaumont.

Horse was tied at the hitch rail. Preacher untied the reins and swung up into the saddle. He rode out of St. Louis, on his way to meet Uncle Dan.

The old-timer was camped about a mile west of the city. He and Preacher had agreed on the general area where they would meet, so Preacher just rode along in the darkness until he heard an owl hoot. The sound came from the deep shadows within a grove of trees. He reined in and returned the call. A moment later, Uncle Dan stepped out from under the trees and waved Preacher on into camp.

As Preacher dismounted, Uncle Dan asked, “Anybody follow you out here?”

Preacher chuckled.

“Well, it could’a happened, I reckon,” Uncle Dan went on. “You ain’t got eyes in the back o’ your head.”

“No, but I’ve got ears, and so does Horse. I trust him even more than I do my own self. Nobody followed us.”

“I didn’t figure they would. You find Beaumont?”

“I did. Got any hot coffee left?”

“I been keepin’ it warm for you. Sit down.”

Preacher sat on a log while Uncle Dan picked up the coffeepot from a small fire that had sunk down to little more than glowing embers. The old-timer had piled rocks around the fire so that not even that faint glow could be seen unless a person was within a few feet of it. He poured coffee in a cup and handed it to Preacher.

“I don’t know where Beaumont lives yet,” the mountain man said after he’d taken a sip of the strong black brew, “but I know where I can find him. He’ll be at a saloon called Dupree’s, or if we can’t catch up with him there, we can try at a fancy whorehouse called Jessie’s Place.”

Uncle Dan laughed. “A saloon or a whorehouse. What a choice for a feller to have to make.”

“From what I was able to find out, he’s at Dupree’s almost every night. Here’s what he looks like.”

Preacher described Beaumont, the blonde who’d accompanied him, and the fancy carriage that had brought them to Dupree’s. For good measure, he told Uncle Dan everything he knew about Jessie’s, too. It wouldn’t hurt anything for the old-timer to know everything that he knew . . . just in case.

When Preacher was finished, Uncle Dan scratched at his beard and said, “You know . . . you could just climb up on the roof o’ the buildin’ across the street from that saloon with a rifle and shoot the son of a bitch.”

“I know,” Preacher said. “Don’t think I haven’t considered it. But then I thought about all the innocent folks who’ve died because of Beaumont, like your nephew, and somehow . . . it just didn’t seem like shootin’ him down like a dog was good enough.”

“Been some not-so-innocent folks died because of him, too, like that Mallory woman.”

Preacher nodded as his fingers tightened on the tin cup holding his coffee. Uncle Dan was right about one thing: Laura Mallory hadn’t been innocent. But she hadn’t deserved to die, either, and she wouldn’t have if not for Shad Beaumont.

“Yeah,” he mused, “I guess what we’re doin’ is for all the folks whose blood is on Beaumont’s hands.”

“Good enough for me. Say, you didn’t happen to bring a jug back from town, did you?”

“Afraid not.”

Uncle Dan sighed. “Well, I reckon we’ll have to do without, then. Got a couple of biscuits and a little bacon left, if you’re interested.”

“Now you’re talkin’,” Preacher said.

He spent the night at the camp and rode back into St. Louis early the next morning, well before sunup so that he could slip into town without anyone seeing him. It would be better, he thought, if no one knew he had left the settlement the night before.

With nothing to do until evening, Preacher found a small livery stable and used the last of his money to rent a stall for Horse. Then he asked the proprietor if he could muck out the place in return for something to eat and the right to sleep in the loft that night. He was pleased when the man agreed. That arrangement accomplished two goals. It kept him off the street for most of the day—as much as he had changed his appearance, he didn’t think anybody in St. Louis would recognize him, but why take extra chances?—and if anyone asked about “Jim Donnelly,” it established that he was broke and willing to do just about anything, no matter how nasty a job it was.

Preacher didn’t know how long he might have to stay here. The next step in his plan might work out that very night, or it might take several more days to come to fruition.

At midday, the liveryman shared a meager lunch with him, then Preacher went back to his work. By nightfall, he had the place about as spotless as a livery barn could ever get.

“You done a good job, son,” the proprietor told him. “O’ course, that’s what I’d expect from a feller right off the farm. You’re bound to be good at shovelin’ dung.”

Preacher nodded his thanks. He had the liveryman fooled, along with everyone else he had encountered in St. Louis. They all took him for some sort of bumpkin, just as he intended.

“You’re welcome to have supper with me,” the liveryman went on.

“I’m much obliged,” Preacher said, “but that was thirsty work. I thought I’d go have a drink somewhere.”

The liveryman sighed. “Young folks . . . Well, don’t get drunk and forget where you left your horse.”

“Not likely,” Preacher said, and meant it.

He used the water trough to clean up a little, then headed for Dupree’s. Beaumont’s carriage wasn’t parked out front. Preacher stood in the mouth of an alley across the street and watched, hoping that Beaumont would show up later.

An hour passed as night settled down over St. Louis, and Preacher began to think that the plan might have to be postponed until the next night or possibly even moved to Jessie’s Place. But then Shad Beaumont’s carriage came rolling along the street. Preacher stepped out from the alley and began walking toward the entrance to Dupree’s.

The driver brought the carriage to a halt in the same place where he’d stopped it the night before. With the same alacrity, he hopped down from the seat and opened the door. Beaumont climbed out of the vehicle, and this time he didn’t turn back to help a companion disembark. Evidently he was alone tonight. That was good, Preacher thought. It made things easier that way.

Beaumont stepped up onto the boardwalk as the driver closed the carriage door behind him. At the same time, Preacher circled in front of the team and came up onto the boardwalk, too, about twenty feet to Beaumont’s left. Beaumont didn’t even glance in his direction. The man sauntered toward the doors of Dupree’s, his beaver hat cocked at a rakish angle on his head, his long, elegant cape swirling around his knees.

Suddenly, Preacher lunged at him, shouting, “Look out!” He covered the distance between them in a heartbeat, and as he slammed into Beaumont and knocked him off his feet, a gun boomed somewhere nearby, the muzzle flash lighting up the night.