Preacher's Fury

Book 18: Preacher/The First Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone, J.A. Johnstone

Genres: Westerns; Thrillers

Synopsis

Preacher brings justice to the lawless West in this gunslinging frontier adventure from the greatest western writer of the 21st century. A Woman for the Winter. Montana Territory and a band of Assiniboine Indians give Preacher shelter for the winter. A beautiful woman named Raven’s Wing makes the sheltering even better—once he gets things straight with a jealous brave who wants to lift Preacher’s scalp. A Fire in the Night. Across the border is another wanderer and another tribe. Preacher’s old enemy, Willie Deaver, plies a band of Indians with the deadliest combination possible: whisky, guns, and bullets—then directs them to try out their killing tools on the Assiniboine. The raid reaps a harvest of devastating death, bloodshed and helpless captives. Deaver is all the more delighted when he learns Preacher is among the fallen. And the Fury of a Mountain Man . . . But in the driving, drifting snow, with a handful of bloodied survivors by his side, Preacher is rising: a rifle in his hands, red-hot fury in his heart, and icy vengeance in his gun sight . . . Praise for the novels of William W. Johnstone “[A] rousing, two-fisted saga of the growing American frontier.”— Publishers Weekly on Eyes of Eagles “There’s plenty of gunplay and fast-paced action as this old-time hero proves again that a steady eye and quick reflexes are the keys to survival on the Western frontier.”— Curled Up with a Good Book on Dead Before Sundown

Release date: January 1, 2012

Publisher: Pinnacle Books

Print pages: 353

Sample

The trading post was called Blind Pete’s Place. The proprietor wasn’t blind, and his name wasn’t really Pete. He was a German named Horst Gruenwald.

But he preferred to be called Pete, and since he was more than six feet tall and almost two hundred and fifty pounds of pure muscle, folks didn’t argue with him.

His eyes were his only weakness, and the thick spectacles he wore allowed him to see well enough to crack a troublemaker’s head open with a ham-like fist if he needed to.

Preacher wasn’t the given name of the man riding down a pine-covered hill toward the trading post, either, but it was what he had been called for a number of years, ever since he had saved himself from torture and death at the hands of his Blackfoot captors by preaching constantly for days and nights on end, thereby making them think he was crazy. Most Indians wouldn’t kill a crazy person for fear that his spirit would return to haunt them, and the Blackfeet were no different.

Preacher was still young enough to be a vital, active man, but old enough that strands of silver had begun to appear in his thick black hair and beard. Years of exposure to the elements had tanned his visible skin to the color of old saddle leather. A hard life as a fur trapper in the Rocky Mountains had left him with a lean, muscular body under his buckskin shirt and trousers.

He balanced a long-barreled flintlock rifle across the saddle in front of him, and tucked behind his belt were a pair of loaded and charged pistols. Another brace of pistols rode in sheaths strapped to his saddle. In addition to the guns he carried a razor-sharp hunting knife.

Preacher was widely regarded as one of the most dangerous men in these mountains. He could kill a man in any number of ways, including with his bare hands.

Some of the tribes knew him as White Wolf, because he resembled a dangerous lobo, while others called him Ghost Killer because of his almost supernatural ability to slip into a camp, slit the throats of his enemies, and get back out again without anyone even knowing he was there until it was too late to help his victims.

At the moment, however, Preacher didn’t feel like killing anybody. He was tired and thirsty. He wanted a drink, maybe some hot food, and then he would find himself a place to camp near the trading post. Recently he had spent several months down in Santa Fe, recuperating from some injuries, so he’d had plenty of having a roof over his head for a while.

A big, shaggy, wolf-like cur padded alongside the rangy gray stallion Preacher rode. He called the dog Dog and the horse Horse. Simple was best, in Preacher’s book.

When Dog looked back over his shoulder and whined, Preacher said, “Go ahead, you varmint. I know you’re itchin’ to get there and say howdy to your sweethearts.”

Tongue lolling happily, Dog bounded on down the hill ahead of Preacher and Horse. Blind Pete had a couple of wolfhound bitches, and Dog was eager to get reacquainted with them.

Preacher didn’t feel the same need for female companionship right now. Having a woman around was like having a roof over his head. He’d had plenty of that while he was in Santa Fe. A pretty señorita named Juanita had nursed him back to health, and she’d had it in her mind that Preacher would spend the winter with her.

When the wild geese began to fly, though, he knew it was time to head north. The mountains called to him.

“You been to this place before?”

Preacher looked over at the small, elderly black man who rode beside him. He nodded to Lorenzo and said, “Yeah, a heap of times.”

“Folks around here got anything against colored fellas?”

Preacher grunted disdainfully.

“You could be colored green or blue and it wouldn’t make a lick of difference. Out here in the mountains we judge folks by what they do, not what they look like.”

“Well, that’s the way it oughta be, I reckon. But that ain’t always how it is.”

“I wouldn’t worry,” Preacher said.

“I’ll take your word for it.”

Preacher had met Lorenzo back in St. Louis, where he had gone to settle a score with an old enemy. They had been traveling together ever since. Lorenzo had never been West before, and he was enjoying the journey.

The two riders reached the bottom of the hill and started across a stretch of open ground toward the trading post, which was built near a fast-flowing creek. It was a sturdy, sprawling log building with a stockade fence around it that also enclosed a barn and corral. Watchtowers rose at each corner of the fence. The place was laid out with defense against attack in mind.

Preacher recalled that there had been a few skirmishes between Pete and the Indians in the early days after the German had established the trading post, but for the most part the tribes left him alone now. As a young man, Horst Gruenwald had been a Hessian mercenary and served as a cannoneer in the Revolutionary War, fighting in the employ of the British.

When it became obvious to Horst that he was on the side destined to lose, he had taken off for the tall and uncut and declared himself an American. Years later, when he decided to go West and see the frontier, he had somehow gotten hold of a three-pounder and hauled it out here with him.

After a few war parties had been shredded by canister rounds from that cannon, the rest of the Indians in the area had gotten the idea that it might be wise to avoid Blind Pete’s.

Things were peaceful enough these days that the gate in the fence stood wide open. Dog was already inside the stockade. Preacher and Lorenzo followed, trailing the pack horses behind them. Preacher lifted a hand in a lazy wave to a man lounging in one of the guard towers.

Preacher and Lorenzo intended to move farther north, and they needed to replenish their supplies while they had the chance. That was why they were stopping here at Blind Pete’s Place.

A number of horses milled around in the corral. Preacher studied them, thinking that he might recognize a mount he knew. None of the animals seemed familiar to him, though.

But that didn’t mean much. He had been away from the mountains for a while, and in that time, trappers he knew could have changed horses. Some friends of his might be inside the trading post, even if he didn’t see their horses in the corral.

Some of his enemies might be in there, too. Preacher was just as interested in that possibility.

But he never went in anywhere without being careful about it. Blind Pete’s would be no different.

Preacher didn’t intend to spend the night here, so he and Lorenzo rode to the hitch rack in front of the main building instead of the corral and dismounted. The mountain man looped Horse’s reins around the rack and tied the pack animals there as well.

He had just stepped up onto the porch when he heard a deep, powerful voice he recognized coming through the open door.

“Now thou hast but one bare hour to live, and then thou must be damned perpetually! Stand still, you ever-moving spheres of Heaven, that time may cease, and midnight never come.”

Lorenzo frowned in confusion and asked, “What’s that fella goin’ on about?”

“Not much tellin’,” Preacher said with a grin. “He’s always got somethin’ to say, though.”

“You know him?”

“Yep. Fancies hisself a orator.”

Lorenzo shook his head. Preacher didn’t say anything else. It would all become clear to his companion soon. The two of them stepped into the trading post.

The main room was a big, low-ceilinged chamber. To the right were a bar and several tables, to the left shelves and crates and barrels full of merchandise with a counter at the far end of the room. The floor was made of rough puncheons hewn from split logs. Planks sitting on barrels formed the bar, and the tables and benches were as rough as the floor, which meant a fella had to be careful when he sat in order to avoid getting splinters in his behind.

One of the benches had been pulled into an open area of floor. The man who had been spouting words as Preacher and Lorenzo entered stood on the bench with one arm lifted over his head in a dramatic stance.

He was only about three and a half feet tall, but his brawny shoulders and full beard testified that he was a man full-growed, or as full-growed as he was going to get, anyway. His eyes widened at the sight of the tall, lean figure in the doorway, and he exclaimed, “Preacher!”

“Good to see you again, Audie,” Preacher said with a nod.

Nimbly, the little man hopped down from the bench and hurried toward the newcomers. He held out a hand and shook gravely with Preacher.

With his other hand, he jerked a thumb toward a blanket-wrapped shape sitting in a corner.

“I’m afraid my recitation from Dr. Faustus has put Nighthawk to sleep. The unenlightened fellow never has had much appreciation for the works of Marlowe. He’s more partial to the Immortal Bard, although of course there are some scholars who make the claim that Marlowe actually penned those words attributed to the actor from Stratford-on-Avon. But I’m positive that he’ll be quite pleased to see you when he awakens. Nighthawk, I mean, not Bill Shake-a-lance.”

Preacher grinned over at Lorenzo, who stood there openmouthed in awe.

“Yeah, he does like to go on a mite,” Preacher said. “Audie, meet Lorenzo. Him and me been travelin’ together for a spell.”

Audie grabbed the stunned Lorenzo’s hand and pumped it heartily.

“The honor is mine, sir. Any boon companion of Preacher’s is a boon companion of mine.”

“Uh, sure,” Lorenzo said. “Pleased to meet you, too.”

“The Crow over yonder in the blanket is Nighthawk,” Preacher went on. “He don’t say much, so he sorta balances Audie out when it comes to talkin’.”

“We’re a fine pair indeed,” Audie agreed. “You’re not wintering in St. Louis this year, Preacher?”

The mountain man grimaced and shook his head.

“I’ve had enough of that damned St. Looie to last me for a long time,” he said. “I might just spend the rest of my life in these here mountains.”

“There are much worse places to be, that’s indisputable. Nighthawk and I have been giving some thought to spending the winter with Chief Bent Leg and his band of Assiniboine. Perhaps you and Lorenzo would care to join us.”

“That ain’t a bad idea.” Preacher turned to Lorenzo and went on, “Ol’ Bent Leg’s a pretty good fella, and his people are friendly to the whites.”

“You maybe got so used to bein’ around me, Preacher, that you don’t notice no more, but I ain’t exactly white,” Lorenzo pointed out.

“To the Assiniboine you are, or might as well be. That’s one thing about the tribes … To their way of thinkin’, there’s them, and then there’s everybody else. The names of the tribes usually translate to ‘The People’ or ‘The Real People’ or ‘The True People.’ Some of ’em are more tolerant of us lower classes than others. Like Nighthawk’s people, the Crow, generally get along with most other folks except for the Blackfeet. Those two bunches don’t cotton to each other at all.”

“Umm,” Nighthawk said from the corner without looking up.

Audie started toward one of the tables and motioned for Preacher and Lorenzo to follow him.

“I think we could all use a libation—” he began.

That was when a man at one of the other tables stood up and said in a loud, angry voice, “Hey, Little Bit, you can’t just stop in the middle of a poem like that. You need to finish up your recitin’, damn your midget hide.”

Preacher stiffened and said, “Aw, hell,” under his breath.

“What’s wrong?” Lorenzo asked.

“I don’t know who that fella is, but now he’s gone and done it.”

“Done what?”

Preacher recalled something he had heard Audie quote once. He said, “He done cried havoc, and let slip the dogs o’ war.”

Audie stopped short and stood very still as he looked at the man who had spoken to him. The man was tall and rawboned, with a lantern-jawed face and long, dark brown hair that fell lank and greasy down the back of his neck. He wore a broad-brimmed black hat, a linsey-woolsey shirt, a patched and faded frock coat, and whipcord trousers tucked into tall black boots. The butt of a pistol jutted out from where it was tucked behind his belt on the left side.

Five other men were at the table where the man had been sitting. Some were in buckskins, some in town clothes that had seen better days. But they were all armed and all looked tough and ornery.

Audie finally said, “Were you speaking to me, sir?”

“You’re the only damn sawed-off runt in this place, ain’t you?” the man said. “Shoot, don’t take offense, Little Bit. I liked your poem. I wanta hear the rest of it.”

“I’m glad you have an appreciation for the finer things in life, sir. Unfortunately, that doesn’t negate the fact that you’re an ass.”

The man frowned in surprise and anger and said, “What’d you call me?”

Preacher glanced into the corner at Nighthawk. The Crow hadn’t moved and still appeared to be half-asleep, but Preacher saw how Nighthawk’s eyes were slitted in close observation of what was going on. If trouble broke out, Nighthawk was ready to move.

And trouble seemed inevitable, because Audie said, “I called you an ass, but I’m sorry for that.”

The man grunted in satisfaction and said, “Oh, you are, are you?”

“That’s right. I inadvertently insulted all the honest, hard-working asses in the world by comparing them to a sorry pile of dung such as yourself.”

The man’s eyes widened in rage, but before he could do anything, Audie sprang forward and drove a punch into his belly, burying his small but rock-hard fist almost to the wrist.

Audie was short in stature, but his arms and shoulders were better developed than those of many normal-sized men. The blow he landed was so powerful that it caused the man to double over, and that brought his hair within Audie’s reach.

Audie grabbed the dangling strands with both hands and jerked down. At the same time, he brought his knee up. Knee met chin with a loud crack. The man fell to his knees, half-stunned.

That put him at the perfect height for the hay-maker that Audie uncorked on him. The man pitched to the side, out cold.

The whole thing had taken only a few heartbeats. It all happened so fast, in fact, that the unconscious man’s companions were left sitting at the table trying to figure out what had happened.

But as soon as they had, a couple of seconds later, benches were shoved back, the men sprang to their feet, and one of them yelled, “Get that little varmint!”

Preacher glanced at Lorenzo.

“You game to take a hand in this?”

“You know I am!” Lorenzo said.

They stepped up, flanking Audie, as the five men rushed to the attack. At the other end of the room, Blind Pete yelled from behind the trading post counter, “You break anything, you bought it, ja!”

The five ruffians had forgotten about Nighthawk. The big warrior came swooping out of the corner like his namesake, throwing aside the blanket in which he’d been wrapped so that it fluttered behind him like wings. He caught two of the men by the neck and banged their heads together. They collapsed limply, out of the battle before it had truly begun.

That meant Preacher, Lorenzo, and Audie were no longer outnumbered. They took on their opponents evenly now. Lorenzo was spry for his age, and Audie had already demonstrated that he could hold his own in a fight. They waded into two of the men, punching and gouging.

Preacher blocked a punch from the other man, who was shorter than the mountain man but seemingly as broad and sturdy as a redwood’s trunk. Preacher hammered a fist to the man’s belly, but it was like hitting a wall.

He couldn’t completely avoid the blow the man hooked at his head. It grazed his jaw with enough force to jerk Preacher’s head around. He caught himself and shot a jab into the man’s face. The blow landed cleanly but barely made his head rock back.

No, not redwood, Preacher thought. The son of a gun was made of granite.

The man’s fist thudded into Preacher’s chest and knocked him back a step. While Preacher was a little off balance, the man tackled him, coming in low and catching him around the waist. Preacher suddenly found himself going backward with his feet off the floor.

The two men crashed into a pile of crates and knocked them over. They sprawled on the floor as Pete yelled, “Hey, be careful, damn it!”

Preacher was on the bottom. Sensing that his opponent was about to try to drive a knee into his groin, he twisted his body and took the vicious blow on his thigh instead. He hammered his right fist into the man’s left ear.

That didn’t seem to do much damage, either. Preacher jerked his head aside as a blocky fist came at his face. The punch missed completely, so the man wound up hitting the floor instead. For the first time, he grunted in pain.

Preacher grabbed the front of the man’s buckskin shirt and hauled hard on it, throwing the man to the side. Preacher rolled after him and hit the man in the belly again three times fast, his arm drawing back and striking like a piston in its cylinder. He was finally doing some damage to the varmint, Preacher thought.

The next second, the man drew up a foot, planted it in Preacher’s belly, and levered the mountain man up and over him. Preacher let out a yell as he found himself flying through the air.

The flight didn’t last long. He landed on top of a barrel. The impact drove the air from his lungs and left him gasping for breath.

His stocky opponent was already up. He grabbed the back of Preacher’s shirt and slung him into some shelves, drawing another angry shout from Blind Pete. The German’s policy was to stay out of any brawls that broke out in his place, but he might take a hand in this fight since it was threatening his merchandise.

Preacher caught himself against the shelves before he fell again. The man he was battling might not look all that impressive physically, but he was tough as whang leather and obviously an experienced, brutal brawler.

A little too confident, though. He seemed to think Preacher was just about done, so he rushed in to finish off the mountain man.

Preacher met him with a hard, straight right that landed square on his nose and pulped it. Blood spurted over Preacher’s knobby knuckles. The man reeled back as a crimson stream flowed from his ruined nose.

Preacher kicked him in the belly and then planted another savage blow on the varmint’s beezer. This fella wasn’t the only one who could fight hard and mean. Preacher let him have a left and then a right, lambasting him and driving him backward. The mountain man didn’t ease off now that he had seized the advantage, either. He followed, slugging hard and swift with both fists.

The man crumpled. He might be made of granite, but he had finally been worn down by Preacher’s iron fists.

As the man lay there bleeding on the floor, the breath rasping and wheezing through his swollen and misshapen nose, Preacher swung around. He had been too busy to keep up with how Lorenzo and Audie were doing against their opponents. He hoped his friends were all right.

They were more than all right, Preacher saw. They had emerged from the battle triumphant. Audie, in fact, was standing with one foot on the chest of an unconscious man, dusting his hands off against each other in obvious satisfaction.

A few feet away, Lorenzo leaned against a table and grinned. His hat had been knocked off and he had a few scrapes on his face, but he seemed to be fine otherwise.

“What a fine display of pugilistic excellence!” Audie said.

“Is he sayin’ we whupped ’em good?” Lorenzo asked.

Nighthawk stood nearby with arms folded. He nodded and said gravely, “Ummm.”

Preacher had lost his hat during the fight. He looked around, saw it lying on the floor, and picked it up. The broad-brimmed, brown felt headgear was pretty shapeless to start with, but it was even more crumpled now because it looked like it had been stepped on a few times. Preacher punched it back to the way it was supposed to be and settled it on his head.

Pete stalked out from behind the counter and came along the aisle toward them. He stopped, planted his fists on his hips, and said, “Somebody will have to pay for these damages, ja?”

Preacher swept a hand toward the unconscious men.

“They started it. I reckon you can check their pockets.”

Pete jerked his shelf-like jaw at the man Preacher had knocked out and asked, “Do you know who that is?”

“Nope, and I don’t care.”

“His name is Willie Deaver. That one is Caleb Manning.” Pete pointed at the long-haired man Audie had knocked out to start the ruckus. “I do not know the names of the other men, but they are the same sort as Deaver and Manning. Bad men. You would be wise to leave before they wake up, Preacher.”

The mountain man bristled.

“I ain’t. . .