Cleve had made it clear from the first that he had joined forces with Jessie for money and power, so it didn’t come as any surprise that he had switched sides as soon as it was better for him to do so. Preacher understood that, but it didn’t make him hate Cleve any less.
Those thoughts flashed through Preacher’s head while Uncle Dan paused to take a deep, ragged breath that made the old-timer wince in pain.
“Things’re all busted up . . . inside me,” Uncle Dan went on. “I took a bad tumble from my hoss . . . just about the time the buggy . . . turned over. I managed to . . . crawl into this here thicket . . . and throw some lead at the sons o’ bitches . . . but I was already hurt and they winged me a few times . . . to boot. Reckon they figured . . . I was done for . . . and they was right.” A grim chuckle came from him. “I must’ve . . . passed out for a little spell. Came to and heard a horse . . . I wasn’t thinkin’ too straight . . . I shoved my rifle out and squeezed off a shot. That was you comin’, weren’t it, Preacher? I didn’t . . . hit you?”
“Nope, don’t worry about that,” Preacher assured him. “I’m fine. Now, I need to get you out of these bushes—”
“Don’t . . . waste the time on me. You best get after . . . Beaumont. After they . . . stopped shootin’ . . . he yelled at me . . . said if I was still alive to tell you . . . that he’ll be waitin’ for you . . . at his place . . . if’n you want to see . . . Jessie and Casey alive again.”
The old-timer’s voice was getting weaker. It was barely above a whisper now. Preacher had to lean close to make out all the words.
“You . . . find Beaumont . . . and save them gals. And when you . . . settle the score . . . with Beaumont . . . you’ll be settlin’ up . . . for me and Pete, too . . .”
Uncle Dan’s breath went out of him in a long sigh. The light in his eyes faded at the same time. Preacher knew that his friend was crossing the divide. Hoping that Uncle Dan could still hear him, he rasped, “I’ll see you on the other side one of these days, old-timer.”
Then he gently closed the lifeless, staring eyes.
Preacher sat there for a minute with his own eyes closed, then drew in a deep breath. He lowered Uncle Dan carefully to the ground and left the thicket. One of the wheels on the buggy had shattered when it overturned. He looked at the broken spokes and picked out one that he thought could be used as a shovel. Then he got a blanket from his pack and went back into the brush to wrap the old-timer’s body in it.
A part of Preacher cried out for him to hurry back to St. Louis and head straight for Beaumont’s house, as Uncle Dan had urged him to do. But that was what Beaumont would expect, so Preacher decided to wait. He didn’t think Beaumont would hurt Jessie or Casey right away. They were the bait in the trap Beaumont had set for Preacher, so he couldn’t just kill them outright.
Besides, Uncle Dan deserved to be laid to rest properly.
Preacher lifted the body onto Horse’s back and tied it in place. Then he led the stallion along the river until he found a suitable spot, a high, tree-shaded hill with a good view of the valley and the broad stream flowing through it. Uncle Dan should have been buried in the Rockies, but they were too far away. This would have to do.
Using the broken spoke, Preacher began digging. It was hard work, and as the day grew warmer, sweat sprang out on his face. He kept at it until he had a nice, deep grave.
Then he lowered Uncle Dan’s body into the hole and covered it. When he was finished, he stood beside the grave with his hat in his hand and said, “Lord, you know I ain’t much for speechifyin’, and even though they call me Preacher, You and me never been all that close. But I’ll say this . . . I don’t reckon there’s anybody in this world who appreciates the mountains and the streams and the prairie You made more than I do, and if that counts for anything with You, I’d ask You to look kindly on this old fella who showed up on Your doorstep a while ago. He’s one of the finest men I ever knew, and if You can find a fiddle up there in heaven for him to play, he’ll have the angels dancin’ a jig ’fore You know it. I reckon that’s all I’ve got to say, so I’ll wrap this up the way the real preachers do by sayin’ amen.”
With that, he put his hat on and turned away from the mound of dirt that marked the final resting place of Uncle Dan Sullivan. He took hold of Horse’s reins, swung up into the saddle, and motioned for Dog to follow him as he hitched the stallion into motion. Preacher started at an easy lope toward St. Louis.
There was no need to hurry now. It was all over except for the rest of the killing . . . and that would come later, once night had fallen.
It looked like every lamp in Shad Beaumont’s house was lit. Yellow light glowed from all the windows. From the roof of a building a couple of blocks away, Preacher used the spyglass he had taken from his pack to study the place. He didn’t see anybody moving, but he was confident that Beaumont was in there, and so were Jessie and Casey. Also, he had no doubt that a dozen or more well-armed men were hidden around the house, just waiting for him to show up.
Not that they would kill him if he waltzed up there, he knew. Their orders would be to take him prisoner, not to slay him. Beaumont would want the pleasure of killing him.
Of course, if Preacher attacked openly and forced the men to gun him down, Beaumont probably wouldn’t lose too much sleep over that. He had wanted Preacher dead for a long time, and if that was the way things played out, Beaumont would be able to live with it.
And then, once Preacher was gone, he could take his time with the two women . . .
Preacher had a hunch that Beaumont had watchers posted all around the settlement, waiting for him to show up. When he did, Beaumont’s plan probably called for the sentries to send word to the house that he was on his way.
That was why Preacher hadn’t ridden in openly. He had spent the day building a small raft, barely big enough for him to lie on with his rifle beside him, along with a few other things he had worked on during the day. He’d had to leave Horse and Dog behind, because this was a chore he could only handle by himself. In the dark buckskins he wore, and with his face smeared with mud, he knew that the raft would look like a floating log in the darkness. Before the moon came up, with only starlight washing over the Mississippi, he made his slow way downstream, letting the current carry him.
When he reached the riverfront area, he had steered the tiny raft in among the wharves that jutted out into the water. Being careful to keep his rifle and pistols out of the muck, he had slid off into the mud under one of the wharves and listened intently for several minutes before crawling out into the open. He stayed in the shadows, moving like a shadow himself, a phantom who carried death with him. He was confident that none of Beaumont’s men had seen him.
With the same level of stealth Preacher would have employed sneaking into an Indian village, he made his way through the streets of St. Louis, staying in the deepest, darkest shadows, until he reached a position that commanded a view of Beaumont’s house. That was where he lay now, on the roof of a general store that was closed for the night. He had climbed up here from the alley that ran behind the store.
Slowly, Preacher moved the spyglass, checking each window in turn, trying to see if he could make out what was going on inside. All the curtains on the ground floor were pulled tightly shut, and the windows themselves were closed.
That wasn’t the case on the second floor. Some of those windows were open for ventilation, and the night breeze stirred the curtains inside the rooms, creating occasional gaps through which Preacher caught glimpses of what was inside.