Chapter 1
Santa Fe, 1852
As he sat at a table in a cantina, Jamie Ian MacCallister stretched his legs out in front of him and crossed them at the ankles. As tall as he was, as long-legged as he was, that meant he took up a considerable amount of space.
And the cantina was crowded, so . . . it was only a matter of time.
Not that causing trouble was Jamie’s intention. He was just getting comfortable.
The big, shaggy-bearded man in the equally shaggy buffalo coat tripped over Jamie’s feet and nearly fell. He stumbled forward a couple of steps as his three friends laughed at him.
“I didn’t think you were that drunk, Lomax,” one of them hooted.
“You need a cane to help you walk, old man?” another man gibed.
Lomax stopped, swung around, and glared at them. “It wasn’t my fault! I tripped over that varmint’s big clodhoppers!”
He leveled a finger at Jamie, who ignored him and lifted a cup of coffee to his mouth to take a sip. It was flavored with chocolate and cinnamon, making it different from the black coffee Jamie usually drank, but it was quite good and he savored the taste.
“Hey! Blockhead! I’m talkin’ to you!”
Jamie glanced up and recognized the man, even though they’d never actually met. “I hear you, Lomax.”
“What the hell do you think you’re doin’, stickin’ your feet out like that so folks trip over ’em?”
“You could watch where you’re going,” Jamie suggested.
“And you could get your damn feet outta the way!” roared Lomax.
Jamie sighed and set the cup back on the table at which he sat. He straightened in the chair and pulled his legs back. “Satisfied?”
Lomax smirked. “I reckon you could say that you’re sorry, too.”
Jamie shook his head. “I pride myself on being an honest man.”
The muleskinner’s smirk turned into a scowl. “What the hell do you mean by that?”
“I mean I’m not particularly sorry.” Jamie said again, “You could watch where you’re going.”
Lomax’s face was already flushed under the thick growth of beard. It turned even redder as he stared at Jamie. He was so outraged that he couldn’t find his voice for a moment. When he did, he demanded, “Do you know who you’re talkin’ to?”
“Matter of fact, I do,” Jamie drawled. “Your name’s Roscoe Lomax. You’re a muleskinner. You ramrod some of the wagon trains that carry goods along the Santa Fe Trail. Got yourself a reputation as a brawler, as well as one of the filthiest of a foul-mouthed breed.”
Lomax confirmed that by spewing a string of profane, highly creative obscenities. He followed that by saying, “If you know that much about me, mister, you know that I chew up and spit out anybody who gives me trouble. Now get on your feet, you . . .” Some colorful epithets followed.
Jamie regarded the man with a mild expression, but when Lomax concluded by saying, “Stand up, damn you!”, Jamie complied. He put his hands flat on the table and slowly rose to his feet.
Lomax was a big man, but it seemed like Jamie just kept rising and rising. He towered over everybody else in the cantina, and he was so muscular, so broad-shouldered in his buckskin shirt, that he seemed to loom like a mountain. His broad-brimmed, high-crowned, dark brown hat rested on thick, graying brown hair. The mustache that drooped over his wide mouth was the same shade. A rather large nose and deep-set, piercing eyes dominated his craggy face. He was in his forties, but he was weathered like a mountain, too. A sheathed Bowie knife was on his left hip, a holstered Walker Colt on his right.
One of the muleskinner’s friends swallowed hard and said, “Oh, hell, Lomax, I recognize that fella now. That’s Jamie MacCallister.”
“I don’t care if he’s Andrew Jackson and Davy Crockett rolled into one,” snapped Lomax. “Nobody shoots their mouth off at me and gets away with it.”
“Those are some good men you’re talking about,” Jamie said. “I’ll thank you not to sully their names by mentioning them again.”
Lomax took a step toward him, sticking out his chest and sneering. He was half a head shorter than Jamie but almost as powerfully built.
“There you go again, tellin’ me what to do. I don’t like it, MacCallister. And just so you know . . . you don’t scare me, mister. Not one little bit.”
“The feeling’s mutual, then,” Jamie said with a curt nod.
Despite the crowd, the cantina had fallen silent.
A few minutes earlier, a girl had been dancing while a couple of hombres played guitars. Her taunting smile, her swirling midnight hair, her lush bosom and bare shoulders in a low-cut blouse, her brown, flashing legs under the long skirt she twitched up as she danced, all had the men watching her clapping, whistling, and calling ribald encouragement.
She backed away in the silence, retreating behind the bar, and the formerly rapt audience turned its attention to the confrontation in the corner.
The man who had recognized Jamie said, “I don’t know if you should be doin’ this, Lomax. MacCallister’s fought Injuns and all sorts o’ badmen and has hisself a big ranch up in Colorado. He ain’t a man to mess with.”
“Well, neither am I,” Lomax blustered. “Anybody with a lick o’ sense knows that I’m a man to stand aside from.”
One of the other men snickered and said, “Yeah, because you’re liable to trip over somethin’ and fall on somebody, like you damn near just did a minute ago.”
Lomax whirled on that unfortunate soul, who probably wouldn’t have said such a thing if he hadn’t been drunk. The muleskinner lashed out with a big, knobby-knuckled fist that crashed against the man’s jaw and sent him flying through the air to land on a nearby table, which collapsed under the impact and made the men who had been sitting there topple over backward in their chairs. They shouted angrily as they scrambled to their feet, grabbed the man who had fallen on the table even though the calamity hadn’t been his idea, and started punching him.
Lomax’s other friends yelled and charged over to help the man being assaulted. Still more of the cantina’s customers leaped into the fray. The fight spread through the room like somebody had taken steel and flint and struck a spark that landed in a pile of black powder.
Lomax frowned at the sudden chaos, then turned to look at Jamie and raised his voice to declare over the uproar, “Hell, I ain’t sure I want to fight you if there ain’t nobody to watch, MacCallister.” He jerked a hand toward the melee. “All these fools are too busy with their own scufflin’ now.”
Jamie leaned his head toward the table and said, “Want to sit down and have a cup of coffee with me instead?”
Lomax scratched at his beard, pushed his lips in and out as he thought about it, and after a moment he said, “Sure, why the hell not?”
A thrown chair sailed through the air toward Lomax’s head. Jamie reached out, the movement smooth but almost too swift for the eye to follow, and grabbed the chair before it could strike Lomax. He set it at the table and nodded.
“Obliged,” Lomax said.
Jamie looked over at the bar, caught the eye of the proprietor, who was peering nervously over the hardwood, and raised his cup, then pointed at Lomax to indicate that the man should bring coffee to both of them. A few minutes later, one of the working girls weaved her way through the fighting, yelling crowd and set a tray with two cups on it on the table in front of Jamie and Lomax.
“Hell of a note, ain’t it?” Lomax said as he picked up one of the cups.
“Yep,” Jamie said. He sipped from the fresh cup. “I haven’t forgotten the things you called me, by the way.”
“Don’t expect you to. But we’ll settle that later, I reckon.”
Jamie nodded. They sat there and watched the brawl ebb and flow around them as they drank their coffee.
Like a wildfire, the fracas burned itself out quickly. Half-conscious men were draped over the backs of chairs or sprawled in the wreckage of tables. Puddles of booze from broken whiskey and tequila bottles soaked into the hard-packed dirt floor. Moans and groans filled the air. The cantina’s proprietor stood behind the bar with both hands clapped to his mostly bald head as he looked around in dismay at the destruction and wailed, “Aiii, Dios mio!”
Jamie nodded toward the man and said to Lomax, “You really ought to pay that hombre for all this damage, since you’re the one who started it.”
“Me?” Lomax demanded. “It was your damn fault. You and your big feet!”
Jamie shook his head. “You just weren’t paying attention where you were going.”
Lomax gulped down the rest of his coffee and clattered the cup back onto the table. “That’s it,” he said as he surged to his feet. “You and me are gonna settle this once and for all, MacCallister.”
“You sure about that?”
“Damn right, I’m sure! Come on, let’s get to it! I’m the rippin’est, roarin’est lobo wolf on the Santa Fe Trail! I’m gonna beat you to a frazzle! I’m gonna tear one o’ your arms off and whale the tar outta you with it! I’m gonna knock your head right offen your shoulders and . . .”
Jamie stood up and uncorked a roundhouse right that landed while Lomax was still flapping his jaw. The blow lifted him off his feet and dumped him on his back with his arms and legs spraddled out. He managed to raise his head and groan once before it flopped to the side. He was out cold.
“That was a mighty nice punch, Jamie,” a new voice called from the cantina’s doorway. “Glad I got here in time to see it.”
“Thanks,” said Jamie without looking around as he flexed the fingers of the hand he’d just used to wallop Lomax.
Satisfied that he hadn’t broken any bones, he turned his head and then frowned as he saw a man in an army uniform walking toward him.
“I’d say it’s good to see you again, Colonel, but I’m not so sure about that. You’ve got some sort of job that’s going to keep me away from home for a while, don’t you?”
“That’s right, Jamie,” the officer said. “I’m afraid I do.”
Chapter 2
San Francisco, 1852
“Dadgum it, woman,” Preacher said as he tugged at the tight collar around his neck and grimaced. ”Are you tryin’ to strangulate me to death?”
Colleen Grainger slapped lightly at his hand and said, “My goodness, Preacher, if you keep messing with that, you’re going to ruin it. You look so dapper and handsome, all dressed up in a nice suit. And you even shaved!”
“Don’t get used to it,” muttered Preacher.
“What did you say, dear?”
“Nothin’. Are you about ready to go out and have dinner at this fancy eatin’ place?”
“Yes, and then to Mr. Maguire’s theater. The local players are putting on a production of Hamlet. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.”
Preacher frowned. “Is there killin’ in that one?”
“Yes, quite a bit.”
“All right, then,” the mountain man said. “I reckon it won’t be too bad.”
Colleen rested a hand on his freshly shaven cheek, which was so smooth that it felt strange to Preacher.
“You’re just humoring me, aren’t you, Preacher?” she asked, smiling.
“Nah, of course not. I want to go out and eat at the place and then see the play. It’ll be, uh, enjoyable.”
“Well, I still think you’re lying, but it won’t hurt you to soak up a little culture.”
“No, ma’am,” he said. “It sure won’t.”
But he was lying. He would have much rather been back at Red Mike’s, the riverfront tavern in St. Louis where he had spent so many happy hours—and quite a few dangerous ones—as a younger man.
Red Mike’s wasn’t there anymore, though. The brawny Irishman who’d owned it had gone to live with his daughter and now spent his days in a rocking chair on her front porch.
The very thought of living like that made Preacher shudder, right down to his bones.
Colleen patted his cheek, then turned to pick up her handbag and go to the door of the hotel room. She looked mighty nice in the fancy, expensive green gown she wore, with her auburn hair piled up on top of her head like that.
She was a widow in her early forties, about ten years younger than Preacher. Her late husband had struck it rich during the Gold Rush but hadn’t lived long enough to really take advantage of his new-found wealth. Colleen seemed to enjoy being rich, though. She could afford to indulge her every whim, and seldom hesitated in doing so.
The money she had didn’t interest Preacher in the slightest. For him, true riches lay in clear, crisp mountain mornings, high country meadows, and peaks so tall that they looked like God His Ownself might live on them. As long as Preacher had enough money for provisions, powder, and shot, that was all he needed to reach those places where he was truly happy.
On the other hand, Colleen Grainger was one hell of a nice-looking woman and mighty pleasant company, so he could put up with fancy restaurants and going to the theater, at least for a while.
He had been in California for several months, just drifting around at loose ends after going out there with some friends, a young couple looking to make a new start. After making sure they were well established on a farm in that big valley to the south, he had taken his leave, not wanting to intrude on them.
Eventually he’d wound up in San Francisco, which had boomed like blazes in the years since the Gold Rush, and had met Colleen Grainger, who evidently had seen something she liked in a scruffy old mountain man in a buckskin shirt. They had spent considerable time together since then, all of it enjoyable.
It helped that Colleen wasn’t looking for another husband—and Preacher sure as blazes wasn’t looking to settle down.
He put on the short, silk top hat she had bought him to go with the fancy dark suit. It was silly looking, he thought, but she seemed to like it. They went downstairs and out through the ornate lobby of the hotel where Colleen lived.
Officially, Preacher wasn’t staying there. He had an arrangement with the owner of a livery stable not far away. He was keeping Horse, his rangy gray stallion, there, and Dog, the big, wolflike cur who was his other trail partner, hung around the stable, too. The proprietor had told Preacher he could sleep in the hayloft if he wanted to. But most nights, the mountain man had been at the hotel.
Colleen had a carriage waiting. It was all dark, polished wood and gleaming brass trim. The big black horses hitched to it had brass decorations on their harness, as well.
He and Colleen would be traveling in style tonight, thought Preacher.
The driver would have opened the door for her, but Preacher was there first and helped her into the carriage. He climbed in and settled himself on the seat beside her, facing forward.
“This is cozy,” she said as the vehicle began rolling through the streets toward the restaurant. She leaned against Preacher and turned her face up. He knew she expected him to kiss her, and he didn’t see any harm in obliging.
Several minutes passed like that, then Colleen moved back a little and said breathlessly, “My, you certainly do know how to start off an evening in enjoyable fashion, Preacher.”
“I aim to please, ma’am.”
“So far, you’re succeeding admirably. I’d even go so far as to say—”
She stopped short, prompting Preacher to ask, “What was that you were gonna say?”
“This isn’t the way to the restaurant.”
Preacher didn’t think that was what she’d been about to say a moment earlier, but it didn’t matter. He heard the worried tone in her voice and turned his head to look out the window on his side of the carriage.
The neighborhood through which they were passing appeared to be a mite on the squalid side, but that didn’t mean anything. Areas of riches and poverty were cheek by jowl all over San Francisco, as they were in any city once it got big enough.
“Maybe the fella at the reins knows a different route,” Preacher suggested.
Colleen shook her head. “No, I’m pretty sure we’re going the opposite direction from the restaurant. There’s no reason we should be in this part of town. It can be dangerous here.”
“The driver’s lost, then. I’ll tell him to turn around and head back to the hotel.”
As Preacher leaned over and stuck his head out the window, he heard warning bells going off in the back of his mind. For the most part, cities were treacherous, rotten places where the dangers were usually hidden, rather than being out in the open like they were in the wilderness.
At Colleen’s insistence, he hadn’t worn the pair of .44 Colt Dragoon revolvers he usually carried these days. The weight of the guns would have been mighty comforting right about now, he thought. But he wasn’t exactly without resources—or weapons.
He had stuck a couple of small flintlock pistols in the waistband of his trousers, at the small of his back where his coat covered them. He also had a dagger hidden down the side of his boot. He’d figured what Colleen didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.
Still, maybe there was nothing to worry about. Maybe the driver was just inexperienced and lost. Preacher could understand how somebody could get turned around in a place like San Francisco, with all of its narrow, twisting streets.
“Hey, mister,” he called to the driver. “The lady says you’re goin’ the wrong way.”
The man glanced back over his shoulder, then suddenly whipped the horses and sent them lunging ahead faster. The unexpected surge threw Preacher back against the seat and jolted him into Colleen’s shoulder.
She cried out in surprise. “What’s that lunatic doing?”
“I reckon he’s up to no good,” Preacher replied.
At the higher rate of speed, the carriage bounced more on every rough spot, throwing him and Colleen around. It was enough to rattle a fellow’s teeth.
“What does he want?”
“Most folks probably know you’ve got a heap o’ money,” Preacher said. “My guess is that he’s working with some gents who want to make you a prisoner and hold you until you turn over a big pile o’ cash to them.”
“I won’t do it!” flared Colleen. “And they can’t make me!”
Preacher didn’t explain just how brutal varmints like that could be, especially when they had a woman at their mercy. Anyway, he didn’t plan on allowing things to get that far.
For a second, he considered letting the driver continue on to wherever he was supposed to rendezvous with his partners, just so he could take care of them all at once, but that would be running too much of a risk with Colleen’s safety. He told her, “Hang on tight,” and reached for the door handle. He twisted it with one hand while he used the other to grab one of the pistols at the small of his back.
Standing up and swinging his body partially out of the carriage, Preacher pointed the gun at the driver and shouted, “Stop that team right now, you lowdown skunk!”
The man glanced over his shoulder, fear on his beefy face. He jerked on the reins and veered the running horses sharply to one side, making the carriage sway violently. Colleen cried out again as the maneuver threw Preacher far out to the side. He barely hung on with one hand and was able to keep only one foot in the carriage.
As the vehicle straightened, he recovered quickly, but before he could bring the pistol to bear again, the driver twisted on the seat and slashed at him with the whip. The leather strands struck the back of Preacher’s gun hand and left a bloody streak. The pain made him drop the gun.
“Son of a—” Preacher grated, then bit back the rest of the curse. He had another pistol, but before he could reach for it, the driver slashed at him again with the whip, aiming for his face.
Preacher flung up his bleeding hand just in time, and the whip wrapped around it instead of slashing his face. He didn’t give the driver a chance to jerk it back. He pulled hard.
Lurching toward Preacher, the driver yelled in surprise and alarm. He let go of the whip, but not in time to prevent him from sprawling on the seat where the mountain man could reach him. Preacher threw the whip aside and grabbed the driver’s collar.
The horses were runaways, thundering straight along the street. Preacher hesitated just a second when he saw that they were approaching a wrought iron hitching post sticking up at the side of the street then he heaved with his considerable strength and the unfortunate driver slid off the seat and tumbled from the carriage.
Preacher heard the heavy thump as the man’s momentum carried him into the hitching post. He had no way of knowing how much damage the collision did to the driver, but it had to be considerable. Enough to render him no longer a threat for the time being, that was for sure.
“You all right in there, Colleen?” Preacher called to the auburn-haired widow.
“Y-yes,” came back the shaky answer. “Can you stop this thing, Preacher?”
“Just what I’m about to do,” he assured her. He got a good grip with both hands on the brass rail around the top of the carriage and threw a leg up onto the driver’s box. It took only a second for him to haul himself onto the seat.
The reins hissed and writhed on the floorboards like snakes. Preacher reached down and snagged them, glad he wouldn’t have to jump onto the backs of the team in order to stop them. He could do that if he needed to, of course, but he was getting a mite too long in the tooth for such hijinks, ...
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