Moran was getting back up by now, though. He charged Preacher, arms flailing. A lot of the bystanders were shouting now, some of them yelling encouragement to Moran since they had heard his accusations against Preacher and believed them, others asking questions. Lorraine was still trying to stop the fight, but since Moran ignored her, Preacher had no choice but to do so as well. He wasn’t going to just stand there and let Moran whale on him without fighting back.
Problem was, Moran outweighed him and had a longer reach, plus Preacher had to be careful about reinjuring that left arm. He couldn’t risk slamming punches into Moran’s face or body with that hand. The impact might damage the healing bone.
Preacher ducked under Moran’s wild blows and stepped in close. He hooked a right into the guide’s belly. The punch was so hard that Preacher’s fist sunk into Moran’s gut almost to the wrist. Moran bent forward, the breath gusting out of his mouth. Preacher came up and drove his right elbow under Moran’s chin. That jolted Moran’s head back. Like using a hammer to drive a nail, Preacher pounded the side of his right hand into Moran’s nose. Blood spurted. Moran howled in pain and stumbled backward.
He tripped over Stallworth’s legs and went down again. Stallworth still seemed to be stunned from his collision with the wagon. With both of his opponents down for the moment, Preacher reached for one of the pistols at his waist, intending to make sure this fight was over.
That was when Uncle Dan yelled, “Look out, Preacher!”
From the corner of his eye, Preacher spotted Buckhalter pointing a pistol at him. Preacher twisted aside as Buckhalter pulled the trigger. Smoke and flame spouted from the weapon’s muzzle. Preacher heard the low-pitched hum of the heavy ball as it went past his ear, then the thud as it struck one of the sideboards of the Donnelly wagon.
“Hold it right there, mister!” Uncle Dan said. “You best not reach for another pistol. I’ll blow a hole in your noggin if you do!”
Breathing a little heavily, Preacher saw that Uncle Dan had drawn his own pistol and now had Buckhalter covered from behind. He was pretty sure that Buckhalter’s shot hadn’t hurt anybody, but he looked around quickly to make certain. He wanted to see with his own eyes that Lorraine Donnelly was all right.
She appeared to be, although she was pale and seemed shocked by the violence that had broken out with no warning. Preacher asked quietly, “That shot didn’t hit you, did it?”
She shook her head and said, “I . . . I’m fine.”
“Uh . . . Preacher?” That was Uncle Dan’s voice. “We got a mite of a problem here.”
Preacher turned his attention back to his friend and traveling companion and saw that several of the men from the wagon train had pistols and rifles leveled at Uncle Dan. That was a reasonable enough reaction, Preacher supposed. He and Uncle Dan were strangers, after all, and the way these folks saw it, the two of them had come into camp and started attacking members of the wagon train.
“Everybody just take it easy,” he said. “There don’t need to be any more shootin’.”
“That’s right,” Ned Donnelly said as he pushed his way through the crowd. “Everyone, put your guns down! Lower your guns, please!”
With obvious reluctance, the men from the wagon train followed his orders. Preacher said, “I reckon you can put your gun down, too, Uncle Dan.”
“But this polecat’s liable to have another pistol hid out somewheres on him,” the old-timer protested.
Donnelly said, “If he does, he won’t use it.” He moved so that he was between Preacher and Buckhalter. “I give you my word on that.”
Buckhalter’s face was flushed with anger above his jutting beard. “I was just trying to save my friends!” he said. He pointed a finger at Preacher. “That man attacked them! If you ask me, Donnelly, he’s the real savage around here . . . and you invited him into our midst!”
“Take it easy—” Donnelly began.
“Why don’t you ask Moran what he saw Preacher doing to your wife?”
With a frown, Donnelly turned sharply toward Preacher. “What’s he talking about? I heard a lot of yelling, but I was on the other side of the camp and couldn’t understand any of it.”
Before Preacher could say anything, Lorraine hurried forward and put a hand on her husband’s arm. “It’s nothing, Ned,” she told him. “This is all just a terrible misunderstanding.”
Moran sat up, holding a hand over his broken nose as it continued to leak crimson. “I saw him pawin’ your wife, Donnelly!” he declared. “Saw it with my own two eyes!”
The whole thing was clear to Preacher now. Buckhalter had set it up. Moran had been waiting for some excuse to pick a fight, and when Preacher and Lorraine had gone over to the wagon to have a look at that brake lever, either Moran had recognized the opportunity or Buckhalter had and told the guide to start the ruckus. Then Buckhalter would step in at the right moment, shoot Preacher, and claim that he had been reaching for a pistol. That way, Buckhalter could say that he had killed Preacher in order to protect Moran.
Yeah, something was rotten here. Preacher didn’t know what it was, but Buckhalter had to be at the center of it, and Moran was mixed up in it, too. Possibly Stallworth as well, although he might have jumped into the fight simply because Moran was his friend.
Donnelly looked past his wife and asked coldly, “Is there any truth to what Moran says, Preacher?”
Lorraine moved so that he couldn’t help but look at her. “I just told you there isn’t, Ned. Preacher didn’t do anything improper. I just asked him to take a look at that brake lever on the wagon while we were waiting for you to get back for supper. That’s all.”
Donnelly frowned. “You’re sure?”
“I think I would know, don’t you?”
Donnelly looked past her again. “Preacher . . . ?”
“Your wife’s tellin’ you the truth,” Preacher said. “Nothin’ happened.”
“Well, how was Mike to know that?” Buckhalter blustered. “It’s getting dark. He looked over there and thought he saw something going on. Maybe he jumped to the wrong conclusion—”
“No maybes about it,” Uncle Dan put in.
“That doesn’t change the fact that when he tried to go to Mrs. Donnelly’s assistance, Preacher attacked him!”
Lorraine shook her head. “I’m sorry, Mr. Buckhalter, but Mr. Moran struck the first blow.”
Buckhalter looked like he was on the verge of a fit of apoplexy. “Mike got carried away by his concern for you—”
“That’s enough,” Donnelly said. “I can see now that it was all a misunderstanding, like my wife told me. An unfortunate misunderstanding. We’re just lucky that no one was badly hurt.”
Moran said, “My nose is broke!”
“We have several men with medical training among the company. Your nose will be tended to, Mr. Moran. In the meantime . . .” Donnelly faced the crowd and raised his voice. “Everyone go on back to your wagons. There’s nothing more to see here.”
The other two scouts, Jennings and MacKenzie, helped Moran and Stallworth to their feet as the immigrants began to scatter. The fight had provided them with some excitement, a break from the routine of the journey, but now it was time for supper, and they were hungry after a long day on the trail. Aided by their friends, Moran and Stallworth stumbled away. Buckhalter followed them, casting hostile glances over his shoulder toward Preacher as he did so.
Donnelly turned toward Preacher and began, “I’m sorry about what happened here—”
“Forget it,” Preacher cut in, his voice hard as flint. “I reckon it’d be better if Uncle Dan and me left. We’ll get our horses.”