“You didn’t know who I was,” he said. “No harm done.”
Other than the ringing in his ears, and she didn’t have to know about that.
“Do you need powder and shot for your pistols?” She held out a powder horn and shot pouch toward him.
Preacher grinned and took them from her. “I dang sure do.” With swift, practiced efficiency, he began reloading the weapons.
When both pistols were charged and ready, he handed the powder horn and pouch back to Lorraine and said, “You’d better hunt some cover, ma’am.”
“I’m going to stay right here and reload for Ned,” she declared without budging. “We have two rifles.”
And they’d be liable to need them, Preacher knew. He nodded curtly and settled for saying, “Keep your head down as much as you can. Where are your youngsters?”
“In the wagon, between our trunks.”
That was as good a place as any for the boys. Preacher nodded again and began loping around the circle to see how the rest of the defenders were holding up.
A frightened yell made him head for one of the gaps between wagons. As he approached, he saw one of the immigrants wrestling with a tall, hatchet-faced bandit who looked like a half-breed. The pilgrim had an ax, but as Preacher came closer, the bandit wrenched it away from him and swung it. With a grisly thunk! the blade split the immigrant’s skull, sinking deep into his forehead.
The half-breed didn’t have time to enjoy his triumph. His face turned into a crimson smear as Preacher fired one of the pistols into it. He stuck the empty gun behind his belt and reached down with that hand to pull the ax free, trying not to think about the sound it made as it came loose. Another bandit bounded up onto the wagon tongue and started over. Preacher met him with the ax, whipping it back and forth so that the razor-sharp blade opened up deep slashes across the man’s chest. The man fell off the wagon tongue, and as he landed facedown on the ground, Preacher swung the ax up and brought it down in the back of the man’s head.
He had lost track of how many members of the gang he had killed in the past ten minutes or so. He knew he had made a pretty good dent in their numbers, though, so it didn’t really surprise him when the shooting began to die down. The attack had been blunted before it even began, and now it was losing the rest of its momentum.
Preacher saw one of the defenders go down with blood welling from a wound in his arm just as he finished reloading a rifle. Leaping to his side, Preacher took the weapon from him and said, “I’ll put it to good use, friend.” He lifted the rifle and aimed at another muzzle flash from the attackers. The rifle boomed as he pressed the trigger, and Preacher was rewarded by a howl of pain from his target that trailed off into a gurgling moan.
Several more shots sounded, and then a tense, eerie silence fell over the camp and the surrounding area. Preacher didn’t know if any more of Beaumont’s men were out there. Maybe they were all dead. It was possible, too, that the survivors had given up and lit a shuck out of there.
“Preacher!”
He looked around and saw Uncle Dan trotting toward him. The old-timer’s beard was streaked with red from a bullet graze on his cheek, but other than that he seemed to be all right.
“I think they’ve rabbited,” Uncle Dan said as he came up.
“I hope you’re right. You think we should go have a look-see?”
“I don’t know any other way to be sure, even though I ain’t all that fond o’ the idea.”
Preacher chuckled. “Neither am I. We’d best reload all our guns before we venture out there.”
“I’m going with you.”
Preacher looked around and saw that Ned Donnelly had come up on his other side. He shook his head, saying, “I ain’t sure you ought to do that.”
“I am,” Donnelly declared. “I’m the captain of this wagon train. The safety of its members is my responsibility.”
Donnelly should have thought of that before he hired a skunk like Buckhalter, Preacher thought, then told himself that maybe he was being a mite unfair. Donnelly hadn’t had any real reason to suspect Buckhalter of treachery until today.
“All right,” he said. “Let’s go.”
As soon as their weapons were reloaded, the three men left the camp, moving warily through the darkness. Preacher whistled softly for Dog, and the big cur came loping up to him. Having Dog along would make it a lot easier to locate any two-legged varmints still lurking in the shadows.
The three men and the dog circled the camp several times, working their way farther out each time. They found numerous bodies, but no live bandits. The survivors might have taken some of the dead and wounded with them, but they hadn’t lingered long enough to retrieve all of their fallen companions.
When Preacher was satisfied that the threat was over, at least for tonight, he led Uncle Dan and Donnelly back to the camp. As they walked through the gap between the wagons, he was surprised to hear a familiar blustery voice saying, “That man Preacher was behind the attack, I tell you! He and the old man were scouts for that band of thieves! They came in here and spun that cock-and-bull story about savage Indians being ahead of us so that we wouldn’t suspect an attack was about to come from the other direction!”
Uncle Dan let out a low whistle. “That varmint don’t give up easy, does he? He’s tryin’ to bluff his way through!”
“Let me handle this,” Donnelly said. He stalked toward the large group of immigrants gathered on the other side of the circle and raised his voice. “Mr. Buckhalter!”
Buckhalter stopped talking and turned to see who had hailed him. As he spotted Preacher and Uncle Dan following Donnelly, he grabbed for a pistol at his waist and yelled, “There they are! Get them!”
None of the pilgrims made a move, though. Donnelly was in the way. He raised his hands and called out, “Everyone listen to me! Mr. Buckhalter is mistaken! Preacher and Mr. Sullivan had nothing to do with the attack on us! They fought side by side with us and helped defend us against the robbers!”
Buckhalter’s beard jutted out defiantly. “I didn’t see that!” he declared. “And I don’t believe it!”
Lorraine Donnelly stepped forward. “It’s the truth,” she said in a loud, clear voice. “I was about to speak up myself, but my husband beat me to it. With my own eyes, I saw Preacher and Mr. Sullivan battling the attackers.”
“That’s not possible!” Buckhalter blustered.
Donnelly stopped in front of him. “You’d better not be calling my wife—or me—a liar, Mr. Buckhalter. You’re simply mistaken.”
“No, he ain’t,” Preacher drawled. “He’s lyin’ . . . and for a good reason. He’s the boss of the gang that’s been trailin’ you ever since the wagons left St. Louis. He set up the attack.”
Buckhalter’s face darkened in fury. “That’s a bald-faced lie!” he bellowed.
“Give it up, Buckhalter,” Preacher said. “I heard some of those varmints talkin’ before you gave the signal for the attack to begin. And I know that all of you are workin’ for Shad Beaumont, too.”
At the mention of Beaumont’s name, the flush disappeared from Buckhalter’s face. He paled instead, because he had to realize now that the game was up. His hand moved toward the pistol at his waist. Preacher was ready to grab his own gun.
But before he could, a roar sounded behind him, and what felt like an avalanche crashed down on him.
Chapter 8
The crushing weight drove Preacher to the ground. What felt like an iron bar clamped itself across his throat, cutting off his air.
Even under attack like this, he was thinking straight enough to have a hunch that it was Mike Moran who had jumped him. Preacher was convinced that Moran was in on the scheme with Buckhalter. The big man must have been in the crowd of immigrants, heard Preacher’s reference to Beaumont, and figured that he was done for.