Preacher's Strike

Book 31: Preacher/The First Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone, J.A. Johnstone

Genres: Westerns; Action & Adventure Romance; Thrillers

Synopsis

Preacher leads a search party for a missing woman—and finds himself caught in the crossfire of cutthroat kidnappers, savage Sioux warriors, and one cunning captive . . .

JOHNSTONE COUNTRY. SEEK AND YOU SHALL DIE.

Preacher is heading home to the mountains when he’s approached by a wealthy European with an unusual proposition. He wants the legendary mountain man to track down his missing cousin—a reckless young woman who fled to America with her lover—and he’s willing to pay a small fortune to find her. Preacher isn’t one to get mixed up in the affairs of fancy foreigners, but he reluctantly agrees. The search is on. Striking westward from St. Louis, Preacher quickly begins to suspect that this search party is doomed. And this trail will lead to some very dead ends . . .

First off, they discover that the missing woman’s American lover was killed by Teton Sioux years ago. Secondly, the murderous Knox gang heard about the rich European’s fortune and plan to kidnap him for a ransom. Thirdly, a fierce band of Sioux warriors launch an attack on Preacher and his men. Things are looking pretty grim. But the biggest shock of all comes when Preacher finally meets the missing woman herself—and sees what she did to survive . . .

Release date: December 24, 2024

Publisher: Pinnacle Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

“No, sir,” Preacher said a few minutes before the trouble started. “No, sir, I won’t do it. No way, no how.”

He picked up a mug of beer from the bar in Red Mike’s Tavern and downed half the suds in a healthy swallow.

He set the mug down and dragged the back of his other hand across his mouth, wiping away the foam clinging to his drooping salt-and-pepper mustache.

Then he continued, “Every time I get mixed up with Englishers or any other European folks, all hell breaks loose and I wind up fightin’ with swords or some such loco ruckus.”

The man who had come up to him at the bar said, “But, Mr. Preacher, if you would just hear me out—”

“No ‘mister,’ just Preacher. And I done told you, whatever the job is, I ain’t interested.”

“But it may well be a matter of life and death, sir, and the life of which I speak is that of a young woman. A young, innocent woman.”

Preacher frowned into his beer and told himself to stand firm.

“I ain’t sure I ever met an innocent woman,” he said. “They’re people, and people ain’t innocent. They all got secrets and faults. I got way more than my own share of flaws.”

“That’s true of all of us, I suppose,” the man beside him replied. “However, in this case, the young lady in question actually is deserving of our sympathy, as well as our assistance, if we can provide it. Assuming, of course, that it’s even possible to locate her.”

Preacher grunted. “If she’s west o’ the Mississippi, I can find her if anybody can.”

“That’s what the fellow at the hotel told me,” the man said with a hopeful smile. “‘Find Preacher,’ he said. ‘If anyone can locate your cousin, it’s Preacher.’ He’s the one who suggested that I inquire at, ah, Red Mike’s.” The man glanced around the tavern with its smoke-filled air, rough furnishings, and boisterous clientele. “Evidently, this is your, ah, home away from home when you’re in St. Louis.”

That was true enough, Preacher supposed. To most people, Red Mike’s was just a squalid riverfront dive, but anytime he found himself in St. Louis, this was where he came for a mug of beer and companionship. Mike himself, the big, rugged, redheaded Irishman who ran the place, was a longtime friend.

Mike drifted along the bar now and said, “This fella botherin’ you, Preacher?”

“Naw,” the mountain man said. “We’re just palaverin’ a mite, that’s all.”

Mike nodded. “Well, ye let me know if ye need me to toss him out on his ear.”

“Reckon I can handle that myself if it needs doin’.”

The stranger laughed and said, “I might take offense at such a discussion, gentlemen, if I didn’t know that you were being humorous.”

“Yeah, ye just go ahead and tell yerself that, mister,” Mike said with a dark, unfriendly gaze. “I know a darned Englishman when I hear one.”

“Oh, but I’m not from England, despite my accent,” the man said. “I’m from—”

Before he could continue, one of the tavern’s other patrons bumped heavily against his shoulder, staggering him and forcing him to catch himself against the bar.

“I say!” the stranger exclaimed. “Please, watch where you’re going, sir.”

The man who had collided with him swung around sharply and said, “What the hell! Are you talkin’ to me, you damn popinjay?”

It was true that the stranger was well-dressed, making the comparison to a bird’s gaudy plumage an apt one. He wore a tight-legged brown tweed suit over a tweed vest, a white shirt, and a silk cravat. The tweed cap he wore came to a sharp point in front and sported a green feather in the band. Such dandies were seldom seen in Red Mike’s.

On the other hand, the man who had run into him was exactly the sort of customer usually found in the tavern. He was a riverman, dressed in canvas trousers, a homespun shirt, heavy work shoes, and a felt hat with a broad, floppy brim. The muscles of his arms, chest, and shoulders stretched the shirt’s fabric. His face was scarred and craggy with plenty of souvenirs from bare-knuckle brawls in the past.

Two men of the same type stood behind him, grinning as if they knew what was about to happen.

Preacher had a pretty good idea his own self.

The foreign stranger said, “I’d merely request that you pay a bit more attention to where you’re going, my friend. You almost knocked me down. If I’d had a drink in my hand, I most certainly would have spilled it.”

The riverman poked a long, blunt finger against the stranger’s chest with enough force to make him take a step back. “You’re the one who damn well needs to watch where he’s goin’. This is a place where men come to drink.”

“I assure you, sir, I am indeed a man.”

The riverman let out a contemptuous snort.

“Couldn’t prove it by me,” he said. “Dressed so fancy and lookin’ so purty, I think you’re really a gal.”

The stranger’s jaw tightened. “I’ll thank you not to impugn my masculinity, sir.”

The riverman poked him in the chest again and said, “I’ll impugn whatever the hell I want to.” He glanced at his friends and added, “What the hell does ‘impugn’ mean?”

Neither of them appeared to have a clue.

Preacher had been watching this byplay with only mild interest as he sipped the rest of his beer. He might have stepped in before now, because he didn’t much cotton to rivermen. Too many of them were bullies, and this fella seemed to fit that mold.

But he didn’t owe the foreigner anything and hadn’t invited the fella to talk to him. The gent was on his own.

Although Preacher did sort of have to admire the way he was standing up to a varmint who was half a head taller and probably sixty pounds heavier. No fear showed in the stranger’s pale blue eyes.

Red Mike took a hand, leaning on the bar and saying to the riverman, “I don’t want no trouble in here, Kennedy.”

“Then you hadn’t ought to let pesky little gadflies like this come in here,” Kennedy shot back. “And don’t go tellin’ me you don’t want trouble. There’s a brawl in this tavern two or three times a week.”

“Maybe so, but that don’t mean I have to like it!”

The stranger turned back to Preacher and said, “Perhaps we could adjourn to one of the tables and I could explain more about the proposition I’d like for you to consider.”

“Done told you already, I ain’t takin’ the job,” Preacher said.

With a scowl twisting his face, Kennedy clamped a hand on the stranger’s shoulder and said, “Don’t turn your back on me when I’m talkin’ to you, you little—”

Clearly, he was about to add some obscenities that would have turned the air in the tavern blue, but he didn’t get the chance to spew that venom.

The stranger turned swiftly, said, “Take your hands off me, sir!” and punched him in the nose.

Kennedy’s head rocked back slightly. His eyes widened. He looked more surprised than hurt, even though a little blood leaked from his left nostril.

He recovered quickly from the shock of being struck and said, “Why, you—”

He didn’t finish that curse, either, because he was too busy swinging a big, knobby-knuckled fist at the stranger.

The man ducked the blow with apparent ease. Kennedy wasn’t very fast. As the stranger came back up, he peppered two more punches, a left and a right, to the riverman’s nose.

Blood actually spurted this time.

Kennedy howled, whether from anger or pain or both, Preacher couldn’t tell.

The riverman lunged at the stranger, evidently intending to grab him in a bear hug and crush him until his ribs cracked. The stranger twisted out of the way, snatched Kennedy’s hat off his head, and whipped it across his face a couple of times.

Being swatted like that wouldn’t hurt Kennedy, but it disoriented him. He groped for the stranger but missed. The man danced to the side and gave Kennedy an openhanded slap on the left ear.

“Ow! Blast it, that hurt!”

The stranger slid back out of reach.

“We can shake hands and call the conflict at an end, if you’d prefer,” he said.

Unfortunately for him, that move brought him within reach of one of Kennedy’s friends, who grabbed him from behind and crowed, “I got him! I got him, Lafe!”

“Hang on to him, Remi!” Kennedy cried. “We’ll teach the varmint a lesson!”

Preacher looked into his mug in disgust. Not only was it empty but now he was going to have to do something that went against the grain for him.

He was going to get involved in somebody else’s trouble.

But he couldn’t abide an unfair fight. Never had, never would.

“Hey!” he said as he turned.

Kennedy had been about to crowd up against the stranger and thrash him, but he paused to look angrily at Preacher.

“What?”

The mountain man crashed the empty mug against Kennedy’s forehead, where his lank dark hair had receded a considerable distance.

The heavy glass vessel didn’t shatter, but the blow had enough force to drive Kennedy to his knees. The third man yelled a curse and charged Preacher, who tossed the empty mug to Mike behind the bar. The tavern keeper recovered from his surprise enough to catch it, although he fumbled it slightly.

Preacher leaned aside from the fist his attacker threw at him. His right hooked into the man’s belly, stopping him short and making him bend forward.

That put him in perfect position for the left cross that Preacher threw. The man’s head snapped to the side from the force of the blow. His knees buckled and he went down, landing in a heap on the sawdust-littered puncheons.

While Preacher was dealing with those two, the stranger had managed to work one arm loose from the grip of the man holding him. His hand darted across his body to the man’s other hand and grasped the middle finger. A sharp twist and jerk snapped the bone with a distinctive crack like a stick breaking. The man howled in pain and let go completely.

The stranger whirled around, lowered his head, and butted his opponent in the face.

At the same time, he lifted a knee into the man’s groin.

Those two swift, efficient, and downright vicious strikes were enough to knock all the fight out of the man, who doubled over, groaned, and collapsed to huddle on the floor in a tight ball.

Preacher saw that and was surprised the fancy-dressed foreigner could fight like that. He must have more experience than he looked like he ought to.

Preacher stepped toward him and was about to say something when the stranger looked at him and reached under his tweed coat with a move almost too fast for the eye to follow. He plucked something from a vest pocket. Preacher barely had time to recognize it as a gun before the weapon came up and flame and powder smoke gouted from the barrel.

The gun was a pepperbox, but Preacher was only vaguely aware of that, what with the muzzle flash and the sound of it going off almost right in his face.

He knew instantly that he wasn’t hit. Either the stranger wasn’t a very good shot, to miss at such close range, or else he hadn’t been shooting at the mountain man after all.

The latter turned out to be the case. Preacher heard a groan and a clatter and looked over his shoulder to see the riverman called Kennedy sagging against the bar.

The bloodstain on the right shoulder of Kennedy’s shirt told Preacher that was where the pistol ball had struck him. A barstool lay on the floor on its side near Kennedy’s feet. That was plenty to tell Preacher what had happened.

Kennedy had gotten up, grabbed the barstool, and been about to smash it over Preacher’s head when the stranger shot him.

A blow like that would have busted Preacher’s head clean open. Might’ve even killed him.

The mountain man knew that. He looked at the stranger again, jerked his head in a nod, and said, “I’m obliged to you, mister. I thought you was tryin’ to kill me, but it looks like you may have saved my life.”

“You wouldn’t have been in danger had you not come to my assistance. It was the least I could do when I saw that fellow on the verge of striking you down treacherously from behind.” The stranger slipped the pepperbox back in his vest pocket. “As a gentleman, I consider it a matter of honor, and, of course, I would never dream of trying to capitalize on any such obligation to convince you to at least listen to my proposal.”

Preacher sighed. “If all that jabberin’ means you still want to talk to me but don’t figure it’s right to ask, don’t worry about it. Mike, draw us a couple of beers, will you?”

“Sure,” the big Irishman said. “Just let me tend to a little housekeepin’ first.”

He pointed to some regular patrons and told them to drag Kennedy and his friends out of the tavern and leave them in the street.

“Kennedy’s shot,” one of the men protested. “He needs a doctor.”

“Ye can fetch one for him if ye want,” Mike said. He was drawing the beers for Preacher and the stranger now. “But I’m not payin’ for it. Mayhap ye could see if he has enough coin for a sawbones in his pockets.”

Or maybe they would just rob Kennedy and his friends and leave them in the alley beside the tavern, Preacher thought. Such things happened all the time in the rough frontier town of St. Louis. It was none of his business.

He dropped a coin on the bar to pay for the beers, picked them up, and carried them to an empty table in a corner. The stranger followed him.

When they were seated, Preacher pushed one of the beers across to the stranger.

“This don’t exactly make us even,” he said, “but I reckon it’s a start.”

“It’s more than enough,” the man said. He picked up the mug and went on, “My name is Geoffrey Fitzwarren. Here’s to newfound friends.”

Preacher thought calling himself and Fitzwarren friends might be stretching things a mite, but he grunted and nodded and clinked his mug against the other man’s. They drank, and as he lowered his mug, he said, “It’s good to meet you, Geoff. That don’t mean I’ve changed my mind about takin’ the job you want me to do.”

“To find my cousin Charlotte, you mean.”

Preacher’s lips tightened under his mustache. The missing girl had a name now. Knowing what it was didn’t make it any easier for him to be stubborn.

He changed the subject by saying, “Did I hear you right? You claim you ain’t from England?”

“That’s correct, yes. As far as it does.”

“What does that mean?”

“Have you ever heard of Alpenstone?” Fitzwarren asked.

Preacher frowned and shook his head. “Is that some kind of a rock?”

The question brought a chuckle from Fitzwarren. “I speak, dear boy, of the Grand Duchy of Alpenstone, my beloved homeland. It’s a small but beautiful sovereign state in the mountains where France, Switzerland, and the German Confederation come together.”

Preacher suppressed the urge to warn Fitzwarren never to call him “dear boy” again.

“Never heard of it,” he said.

“Few people have, especially in this country.”

The mountain man frowned and leaned forward. “You look and sound like you came here straight from London. How’d you wind up in this Alpenstone place?”

“Well, you see, the Grand Duchy was part of the Habsburg Empire, and my family is connected to the Habsburgs through old King George, don’t you know. There came a point some years ago when the next in line of succession as the Grand Duke of Alpenstone was a Fitzwarren, and that’s how it all came to pass, you know.”

Preacher turned that information over in his mind and tried to make it form a coherent picture. After a moment, he said, “You folks are from England, but you live in this little Alpenstone place and sort of run things?”

“Exactly.”

“That makes you the king?”

Fitzwarren laughed again. “Hardly! I’m related to the royal family, but it’s a sort of distant relation, you know. I’m a minor functionary at court, the sort who’s sent on missions no one else particularly wants, such as locating my cousin Charlotte.”

“She’s royalty, too?”

Fitzwarren shrugged and said, “If you want to be precise about it, yes, that’s true. She’s thirteenth in the line of succession, but a great deal would have to happen before she would ever be declared Grand Duchess.”

“How far down the line are you?” Preacher asked, curious.

“Much, much farther, I assure you.”

Preacher rasped his fingertips over his beard-stubbled jaw as he thought some more and then said, “I reckon it wouldn’t hurt anything for me to hear more about whatever it is you got in mind.”

A smile broke out across Geoffrey Fitzwarren’s face.

“That’s excellent,” he said. “Just excellent. You see, several years ago, dear cousin Charlotte left Alpenstone. Ran away, I should say. Stole off during the night without a word to any of her family and disappeared. It was reported that she was seen in Paris, but after that, she dropped out of sight.”

“Why would she run off like that?” Preacher thought about pictures of places in Europe he had seen in books. “Didn’t she like livin’ in a castle?”

Fitzwarren hesitated before answering. He wore an embarrassed expression as he said, “She didn’t leave Alpenstone alone. There was a man involved.”

Preacher leaned back in his chair and took another swallow of beer.

“She ran off with some fella,” he said, nodding in understanding.

“That’s right. An American who was visiting the Grand Duchy. His name was Barrett Treadway.”

Preacher perked up again. That name was vaguely familiar to him, but he couldn’t have said why. He tried to remember where he’d heard it before but had no luck.

“Charlotte was only seventeen when she disappeared,” Fitzwarren continued. “Just the right age for her heart and mind to be consumed with romantic notions. I’m sure she believed that she was in love with this man Treadway and that he loved her and they would be happy together forever.”

“Maybe that’s what happened,” Preacher suggested.

Fitzwarren made a face. “Please. We’re both old enough to know that, save for very rare instances, love such as that simply doesn’t exist. A relationship that’s beneficial for both parties is hardly the same thing as birdsongs and rose petals.”

Preacher let that go and asked, “How come you think your cousin’s somewhere out here on the frontier? I ain’t never been to Paris, but I know it’s a hell of a long way from St. Louis.”

“When I was charged with locating poor Charlotte, I started by picking up the trail in Paris. I was able to follow it to England. To Liverpool, to be precise.”

Preacher nodded. He knew about following a trail, even though most of the other stuff Fitzwarren was spouting meant about as much to him as the other side of the moon.

“In Liverpool, I discovered that Charlotte and Treadway had booked passage on a ship bound for Boston. I did the same, and upon arrival in Boston, further inquiries led me to Philadelphia.”

“You ain’t sparin’ no expense, are you?”

“The family very much wants Charlotte to return home. We wish to put her little misadventure behind her and reunite her with her loved ones in Alpenstone.”

Preacher wasn’t the sort to tiptoe around anything. He asked, “Do you know if she and this Treadway varmint ever got hitched?”

Fitzwarren winced again. “I’m afraid that bit of information remains unknown.”

“Then there’s a good chance she’s been livin’ what high-toned folks would call a scandalous life for the past few years.”

“Perhaps. But nevertheless, my mission remains the same. I traced Barrett Treadway to St. Louis.”

“Hold on a second. You followed Treadway here, but not your cousin?”

Fitzwarren’s voice was heavy with solemn gloom as he replied, “Somewhere between Philadelphia and here, my poor cousin Charlotte disappeared again. From what I’ve been able to ascertain, when Treadway showed up here, she was no longer traveling with him.”

For a moment, Preacher didn’t say anything. Then: “That ain’t good.”

“No. Indeed, it is not. But no matter where Charlotte is or what has happened to her, it’s up to me to discover the truth. And that’s where you come in. If anyone has the answers I need, it’s Barrett Treadway. I’m told that he purchased supplies and outfitted himself for a fur trapping expedition into the mountains.”

“He went off to become a mountain man!” Preacher slapped a hand on the table. “I knew that name was sorta familiar for some reason. Reckon I must’ve heard talk somewhere about a trapper called Treadway.”

“You’re not acquainted with him?” Fitzwarren asked with a faint note of hope in his voice.

Preacher shook his head. “Nope. Never laid eyes on the man. I never heard much about him, but I want to say that what I did hear makes me think he might’ve headed out to the Beartooth Mountains.”

“You’re acquainted with these mountains?”

“I know most places west of the Mississipp’, north o’ the Rio Grande, and south of the Canadian line. Yeah, I been to the Beartooths. Been a while, but I reckon I could find my way around all right if I needed to.” Preacher’s voice didn’t contain any false modesty as he added matter-of-factly, “Once I’ve traveled over a trail, I generally don’t forget it.”

“And that’s exactly why I want to hire you. You’re my best chance of finding Barrett Treadway, and Treadway is my best chance of discovering what happened to Charlotte.”

Preacher drew in a breath. “You know there’s a chance she ain’t alive no more.”

“I know that,” Fitzwarren said, “and yet as long as breath remains in my body, as long as the faintest chance exists that I can locate her and return her to the bosom of her family, I will never give up, Preacher. Never.”

The mountain man looked across the table at this strange visitor from a foreign land. Preacher had dealt with European nobility on several occasions in the past, and as he had told Fitzwarren, those arrangements had never worked out well for him. He had always found himself up to his neck in trouble and had barely survived some of those dustups.

But Fitzwarren looked and sounded so blasted sincere, so concerned about his cousin’s fate, that Preacher felt a pang of sympathy for the man.

“Well, hell,” he muttered. “I was plannin’ on headin’ in that direction anyway . . .”

“Does that mean you’ll do it?” Fitzwarren asked quickly, hope leaping into his voice again. “You’ll help me find Treadway, and, I pray, my cousin as well?”

“I can’t guarantee nothin’,” Preacher said, “but I reckon I can give it a shot.” He paused, then added, “You folks from Alpenstone don’t do a bunch of sword-fightin’, do you?”

“As it happens, I’m an excellent fencer, old boy!”

Preacher rolled his eyes and tried not to sigh.

Preacher hadn’t been back in St. Louis very long when Geoffrey Fitzwarren approached him in Red Mike’s. He had mentioned Canada to Fitzwarren but hadn’t explained that he had only recently returned from a perilous journey to those northern climes.

That trip had been long and dangerous. Preacher had been accompanied by his good friend Bjorn Gunnarson, the half-Crow, half-Norwegian warrior known to his mother’s people as Tall Dog, as well as his mountain man friends Audie and Nighthawk. With them beside him, he had had valiant allies in the frequent battles the group had encountered.

When the adventure was done and things had been put right in the settlement of Skarkavik, where the friends and relatives of Tall Dog’s father tried to live as much like their Viking ancestors as they could, Tall Dog had chosen to remain there for a time among his father’s people. He, too, wanted to live as a Viking and explore that part of his heritage.

Preacher couldn’t blame him for that. But he couldn’t stay in Canada, either. He was an American, blast it, and his home was in the high country, the Rocky Mountains where he had spent most of his life after leaving his family’s farm as a very young man to go and see the world, at least that part of it west of the Mississippi River.

He and Audie and Nighthawk had headed south again. His friends had branched off along the way, eager to explore a secluded valley they had heard about where the trapping was supposed to be excellent, while Preacher had proceeded on alone to St. Louis.

His plan was to take it easy for a spell, then outfit himself and head west again with his longtime trail partners, the rangy gray stallion called Horse and the big, shaggy, wolflike cur known only as Dog.

Maybe to a certain extent he was just unsociable at heart. He needed those periods of solitude in his life to give his brain and his spirit a chance to rest and cool off from being around people.

Why in blazes had he agreed to take some blasted foreigner out to the Beartooth Mountains?

He asked himself that question the next morning as he climbed the steps to the porch of the Hotel Lamont, where Geoffrey Fitzwarren was staying. He didn’t have an answer, except that maybe Fitzwarren’s story about his lost cousin had moved him somehow.

Preacher would have denied it up one way and down the other, but he knew he had a bit of a romantic streak in his own nature. It was a narrow one, mind, and he kept it corralled most of the time, but every now and . . .