William W. Johnstone - Preachers Assault (First Mountain Man)

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Table of Contents

C HAPTER 1

Independence, Missouri, was a place most folks visited solely in order to leave. The route people had recently started to call the Oregon Trail began there, and already hundreds of wagons carrying immigrants had traversed it, heading to the Pacific Northwest where those settlers would make their new homes.

Independence was also where the Santa Fe Trail began, but the wagons that followed that path werent loaded down with immigrants. Instead, they were packed with trade goods bound for the markets of Santa Fe, in Mexican territory. A few settlers made that trip, too, but the Mexican government discouraged immigration in favor of commerce. When the wagons made their return journey to the States, they would be filled with Mexican gold and silver.

Like most people who went to Independence, the man called Preacher didnt intend to stay long. But as he stared down the barrel of a pistol, he wondered if he was going to be staying in Independence from now on, probably in an unmarked grave. Take it easy there, hoss, he drawled in his gravelly voice. I aint lookin for trouble.

I aint either, replied the man pointing the gun at him. Im lookin for money, and Ill take what you got.

Preacher couldnt help but chuckle. Well, you are smack-dab out of luck, friend, because I dont have a single coin in my pocket.

It was true. Earlier that evening, Preacher had spent the last of his money on supplies for him and his two companions, Lorenzo and Casey. Hed cached the goods in the stable where they had their horses, and he was on his way to the tavern where he knew he would find them.

Lorenzo had a small stake, and he planned to try running it into a bigger one if he could find a suitable poker game. Preacher had decided to cut through the alley to reach the tavern, and it was looking like a questionable decision. A man had stepped out of the shadows and accosted him at gunpoint, and Preachers keen ears had picked up a scuff of boot leather on hard-packed ground behind him, as well. There were two of the scoundrels.

But Preacher wasnt exactly alone. Standing tensely beside him was the big, shaggy, wolflike cur known only as Dog.

No money? the would-be robber in front of Preacher said. Youre a liar! You got to have some money!

Until then, Preacher might have been willing to turn out his pockets to prove he was penniless, since hed been in an unusually peaceable mood. He didnt cotton to being called a liar and his back stiffened in anger.

Youd best put away that pistol and step aside, mister, he said harshly. Else I wont be responsible for what happens.

The man laughed. Are you crazy? There are two of us and only one of you. If you dont have any money, gimme your guns and anything else you got thats worth anything.

Seems to me like the odds are against you, Preacher said.

You talkin about that mutt? You think hes the equal of one of us?

Hell, no, Preacher said. I think hes worth a dozen no-account scum like you. Probably more.

The robber grated a curse.

Preacher didnt wait any longer. He had already cut those damn fools a sight more slack than they deserved. He said sharply, Dog!

The big cur moved with blinding speed, a gray phantom in the shadows of the alley. He whirled and launched himself at the man behind Preacher, crashing into him just as the man pulled the trigger on his pistol. Dogs weight and strength drove the man backward off his feet, so the shot went well over Preachers head.

At the same time, Preacher went into action with the same sort of deadly speed. He lashed out with the flintlock rifle in his hands. The long barrel cracked across the wrist of the would-be robbers gun hand, breaking it and knocking the pistol aside as it roared. The two shots came so close together they sounded like one, and the twin muzzle flashes lit up the alley for a split-second, revealing the ugly, unshaven face twisted in pain.

The next instant, Preacher drove the rifle butt into the mans throat. The robber staggered backward, choking and gasping as he tried unsuccessfully to drag a breath through his ruined airways. Preacher could have stopped right there and let him die a slow, suffocating, agonizing death.

Instead, the mountain mans hand went to the sheath on his belt and drew the long, heavy-bladed hunting knife he carried. The knife flashed forward, burying more than a foot of cold steel in the robbers belly. Preacher ripped it back and forth, opening a hideous wound through which the mans steaming entrails spilled as he collapsed on the dirty floor of the alley. His last breath rattled in his throat as Preacher pulled the knife free and stepped back.

The snarling and screaming that had filled the alley behind him were coming to an end. The screams faded away in a gurgling sigh of death, and the big cur fell silent as Preacher said, Dog.

Preacher bent and wiped his knife clean of blood on the clothes of the man he had killed. As he slid the weapon back in its sheath, he reflected that he wouldnt lose any sleep over either of those deaths. Men such as those who lurked in alleys and robbed folks had almost certainly slashed any number of innocent throats. Preacher knew that was what theyd had in mind for him.

That mistake had cost them their lives.

Come on, Dog, he said softly. Lets get out of here. They probably got a constable in this town, and we aint got time to deal with that foolishness.

Both of them faded into the night with a skill born of long practice. Stealth had saved their lives on many occasions.

A short time later, having taken a longer way around, Preacher entered the tavern where he had told Lorenzo and Casey he would meet them. The smoky lantern light filling the room revealed a tall, lean man in fringed buckskins, a broad-brimmed felt hat, and high-topped boot moccasins. Preachers face was too craggy to be called handsome, but it possessed a great deal of raw power. A dark mustache drooped over his wide mouth. He was in his mid-thirties, old enough for the rumpled thatch of dark hair under his hat to have a number of gray strands threaded through it. His skin bore the permanent tan of a life lived out in the elements.

He nestled his rifle in his arms, and two flintlock pistols were tucked behind his belt in addition to the knife he carried. A powder horn and a shot pouch were draped over his shoulders, their rawhide thongs crossing on his chest and back. In a frontier full of dangerous men, Preacher was one of the most dangerous, and he looked it.

But the keen eyes under his bushy brows were also filled with intelligence and humor. He had seen and done a great deal since coming west as a young man, and it had taught him to appreciate every minute of his adventurous life.

He looked around the room, spotted Lorenzo at one of the tables playing cards and Casey standing at the bar. A number of hostile stares were being directed at them, and that told Preacher several things.

For one, the other card players didnt like losing. They especially didnt like losing to a black man, even one who had been freed from his former status as a slave.

The angry looks cast Caseys way came from the trollops who worked in the tavern. Even with the scar on her left cheek from a knife wound, Casey was the prettiest woman in there. The fact that several men clustered around her at the bar proved that. The serving wenches didnt like having the competition.

Caseys whoring days were over, though. She shared Preachers blankets sometimes, but it was out of friendship and good, healthy, animal lust. No money would ever change hands.

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