THE FIRST MOUNTAIN MAN PREACHER’S ASSAULT
WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE with J. A. Johnstone
PINNACLE BOOKS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Title Page
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
MATT JENSEN, THE LAST MOUNTAIN MAN: DAKOTA AMBUSH
Copyright Page
CHAPTER 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 weren’t 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 didn’t 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 ain’t lookin’ for trouble.”
“I ain’t either,” replied the man pointing the gun at him. “I’m lookin’ for money, and I’ll take what you got.”
Preacher couldn’t help but chuckle. “Well, you are smack-dab out of luck, friend, because I don’t 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. He’d 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 Preacher’s 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 wasn’t 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. “You’re 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 he’d been in an unusually peaceable mood. He didn’t cotton to being called a liar and his back stiffened in anger.
“You’d best put away that pistol and step aside, mister,” he said harshly. “Else I won’t be responsible for what happens.”
The man laughed. “Are you crazy? There are two of us and only one of you. If you don’t have any money, gimme your guns and anything else you got that’s worth anything.”
“Seems to me like the odds are against you,” Preacher said.
“You talkin’ about that mutt? You think he’s the equal of one of us?”
“Hell, no,” Preacher said. “I think he’s worth a dozen no-account scum like you. Probably more.”
The robber grated a curse.
Preacher didn’t 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. Dog’s weight and strength drove the man backward off his feet, so the shot went well over Preacher’s 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 robber’s 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 man’s 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 man’s 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 robber’s belly. Preacher ripped it back and forth, opening a hideous wound through which the man’s 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 wouldn’t 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 they’d had in mind for him.
That mistake had cost them their lives.
“Come on, Dog,” he said softly. “Let’s get out of here. They probably got a constable in this town, and we ain’t 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. Preacher’s 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.