Preacher saw a worried look in the man’s eyes that made him aware Brutus was trying to tell him something. He didn’t know what it was, though, and he didn’t get a chance to ask him about it, because Beaumont paused, glanced over his shoulder at the two of them, and said impatiently, “Donnelly, come with me. You can carouse with those whores some other time.”
“Yes, sir,” Preacher said. He started to move past Brutus, only to have the man shift position to block his path.
“Careful,” Brutus breathed. “Turn your face away when you go past the parlor.”
At that instant, Preacher realized there must be somebody in the parlor who represented a threat to him. Brutus hadn’t really meant to take him in there when he’d made his suggestion a moment earlier. That had been strictly for Beaumont’s benefit. If Beaumont hadn’t insisted that Preacher come with him, Brutus would have hustled the mountain man off somewhere else in the house.
Preacher didn’t know for sure what was going on and didn’t have a chance to try to figure it out, because at that moment, two things happened. Jessie appeared at the far end of the hallway, perhaps having heard Beaumont’s voice, and closer, between her and Beaumont, a man stepped out of the parlor into the corridor with his arm around the waist of one of the whores. The man was a tall, barrel-chested gent with a long, ragged brown beard that looked like it hadn’t been trimmed in a while. He was laughing at something the girl with him had just said, but that didn’t stop his eyes from turning toward Beaumont, Brutus, and Preacher.
The man’s gaze landed on Preacher and froze. Recognition flashed in his eyes. Preacher knew him, too, but he hadn’t expected to ever see the man again. The last time he’d laid eyes on him had been during that Indian attack on the wagon train. The man who had just come out of the parlor was Buckhalter, the renegade wagonmaster who’d been working for Beaumont.
And now Buckhalter jerked his arm up, pointed, and yelled, “Preacher! Damn it, there he is now! Preacher!”
Chapter 25
Beaumont stiffened and whirled around, his hand darting under his coat for a hidden gun. He stared toward the foyer, past Preacher, and snapped, “Donnelly! Preacher must have run back outside! Go get him!”
“Donnelly!” Buckhalter roared. “What the hell are you talkin’ about? That’s Preacher, right there!”
He clawed at a pistol stuck behind his belt.
Well, this bit of bad luck had blown things all to hell, Preacher thought as Beaumont’s eyes widened in shock and understanding of what Buckhalter meant. There was nothing left to do now . . .
Except kill the man he had come to St. Louis to kill. The problem was that Beaumont and Buckhalter both had guns in their hands now, and Preacher had only one pistol. Even though he was fast with it and probably could reload as swiftly as any man alive, there was no way he would be able to gun down either of the men and reload in time to stop the other one from killing him. At this close range, he didn’t think either Beaumont or Buckhalter were likely to miss.
That meant if he killed Beaumont, Buckhalter would undoubtedly kill him. The price was worth it, though, for justice to finally catch up to Shad Beaumont, Preacher thought as he smoothly pulled the pistol from behind his belt and brought it up. His thumb looped over the hammer and drew it back.
A shot sounded, only it wasn’t the boom of a large-bore pistol but rather the sharper crack of a smaller weapon. Buckhalter lurched forward, the barrel of his gun drooping. The weapon roared and smoke and flame spurted from the muzzle, but by then it was pointing down and the heavy ball smacked harmlessly into the floor. Buckhalter fell to his knees and pitched forward, blood welling from a hole in the back of his head.
Preacher caught a glimpse of Jessie standing at the end of the hall, powder smoke curling from the barrel of the little pistol in her hand as she held her arm extended out in front of her.
Preacher was about to fire at Beaumont, when a big shape suddenly leaped forward and got in the way. Brutus lunged at Beaumont just as the man pulled the trigger. Even over the blast of the pistol, Preacher heard the meaty thud of lead striking flesh. Brutus grunted in pain and reeled backward, crashing into Preacher as he did so.
“A trap!” Beaumont yelled as he cast a furious, wild-eyed glance over his shoulder at Jessie. “It’s a damned trap! You betrayed me, you bitch!”
Preacher had gone down under Brutus’s massive weight. It was like having a house fall on him. He was stunned, the breath knocked out of him. He tried to lift his pistol and shove Brutus aside so he could get a shot at Beaumont, but the man ducked through the parlor door and vanished.
Screams came from inside the parlor, and then a second later Preacher heard glass crash. He finally managed to get out from under Brutus, but by the time he reached his feet and hurried to the parlor door, Beaumont was gone. The front window, which had been covered by heavy curtains, was shattered and the curtains had been pulled down. As Preacher looked at the damage, he realized that Beaumont had dived through the window to escape.
Several of the girls who worked here were in the parlor, along with a couple of customers. They all stared fearfully at Preacher, who realized he still had the pistol in his hand. He was about to tell them that they were in no danger when a scream came from the hallway behind him.
“Brutus!”
He wheeled around and saw Jessie on her knees next to the big man. She put her trembling hands on either side of his face and turned his head so that he appeared to be looking at her, only his wide, staring eyes were empty and lifeless now. As Preacher watched, a large red stain continued spreading across the front of Brutus’s white shirt.
Preacher didn’t know what the hell Brutus had been trying to accomplish by leaping at Beaumont that way. Maybe he had thought that he could knock Beaumont’s gun aside and keep anyone else from getting killed. Maybe it had been just instinct that made him move toward trouble instead of away from it, since his job was to keep ruckuses from breaking out here in the house. No matter what Brutus’s motive, his actions had gotten him killed.
And maybe saved Preacher’s life in the process.
That was just one more mark against Beaumont, Preacher thought as he saw tears rolling down Jessie’s cheeks. One more score to settle with the bastard.
Preacher reached down and grasped Jessie’s arm as she continued sobbing over Brutus’s corpse. “We got to get out of here,” he rasped. “You heard Beaumont. He thinks you’re to blame for what just happened here.”
“I . . . I am,” Jessie choked out. “It’s my fault Brutus is dead.”
“No, it ain’t, but we can worry about that later. Beaumont’s got men workin’ for him all over St. Louis. He won’t have to go very far before he finds some of them and heads back here.”
Jessie let Preacher tug her to her feet. She used the back of her hand to paw at her wet, red eyes.
“You’re right,” she said. “With his temper, he’s liable to come back with a bunch of men and . . . and burn the place down. We have to leave, find some place to hide . . .”
Preacher nodded. “Where’s Cleve?”
“I don’t know. Maybe at Dupree’s. Not here, though. He should be safe, at least for a while. Shad may not suspect him of being involved in this. We need to find him and warn him—”
“Later,” Preacher said. “For now, let’s just get you out of here.” Something else occurred to him. “And Casey—I mean Cassandra—too.”
Jessie stared at him. “Cassandra?” she repeated. “What does she have to do with this?”
“You saw how Beaumont was when he lost that shipment of cotton. He might’ve beaten her to death that night if he’d gotten anywhere near her. How mad do you reckon he’s gonna be about you and me double-crossin’ him?”