been shot down from behind. As some of them wheeled their horses around to search for the source of the new threat, Preacher jammed the rifle back in its sheath and vaulted into the saddle. He sent the stallion lunging forward again and put the reins in his teeth, guiding Horse with his knees. Preacher pulled both pistols from behind his belt.
The guns were double-shotted and carried a larger than usual charge of powder, which made them mighty lethal, but he had to get closer to use them. He was relying on Horse’s speed and elusiveness for that. As the attackers who had turned toward Preacher opened fire, the big animal swerved from side to side, responding swiftly and surely to the pressure of the mountain man’s knees on his flanks.
Preacher felt as much as heard the hum of a rifle ball passing closely by his head. The sensation was nothing new to him, so he didn’t let it spook him. Instead he kept riding, drawing ever nearer to the attackers. Soon he was close enough to recognize some of them, and just as he’d expected, the man called Garity was among them. Preacher saw clearly the man’s beard and rawboned shape.
He was also close enough to use the pistols, and as Garity tried to draw a bead on him with a rifle, Preacher whipped up his right-hand gun and fired.
The two balls spread out as they flew through the air. One of them missed Garity entirely, but the other tore through his left arm. The impact of the shot made him drop his rifle and slew around in the saddle. He had to grab his horse’s mane to keep from falling.
Preacher heard Garity yell in a hoarse voice, “Let’s get the hell out of here!”
The men turned their horses and jabbed in their boot heels. The animals took off at a run, headed west along the trail.
Preacher started to fire his second pistol after them, but he let go of the trigger before the weapon went off. The chances of him hitting any of them were slim, and he wanted to have a loaded gun handy if they happened to turn around and try another attack.
It didn’t look like that was going to be the case. The raiders showed no signs of slowing down as they gave up their attack and galloped off along the Santa Fe Trail.
Preacher rode straight to the wagons. Bartlett, Roland, Casey, and Lorenzo crawled out from under a couple vehicles and hurried to meet him. Their clothes were smeared with mud, but he didn’t see any bloodstains on them.
A wave of relief went through him as he realized the young woman and the elderly black man hadn’t been hurt. In the time he had known them, he had grown quite fond of them both.
That was true the other way around, too. Casey asked anxiously, “Preacher, are you all right?”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” he told her as he dismounted. “They threw a little lead at me, but none of it came close.”
Bartlett said, “It was that man Garity and his friends, the ones who were here yesterday! I got a good look at the scoundrels.”
“Yeah, it was them, all right,” Preacher said, “and a dozen other polecats to boot. Garity’s bunch must’ve been plannin’ on meetin’ up with those other fellas, and when they did, he told them about these freight wagons.”
“Were they always planning to rob us?” Roland asked.
Preacher shrugged. “No tellin’. They may have been on their way to the mountains to do some trappin’ just like Garity said, and decided to take advantage of the opportunity fate put in their way. Or they could’ve been highwaymen all along.”
“Well, the important thing is that we defeated them and sent them packing,” Bartlett said.
Preacher shook his head. “No, the important thing, the thing we got to remember, is that they’re still out there. Only one man got hisself killed.” Preacher jerked his head toward the corpse that lay on the ground about a hundred yards away. The man’s horse had deserted him, following the other horses when the rest of the bunch galloped away. “And at least one of them is wounded,” Preacher went on, “maybe more, but really, we didn’t do all that much damage to them.”
“Then you think they’ll come back?” Roland asked with a frown.
“They don’t have to,” Preacher said. He pointed west along the trail. “They’re between you and the place where you’re headed. All they’ve got to do is wait for you to come to them.”
CHAPTER 9
Bartlett sent a couple of the bullwhackers to fetch in the body of the dead man. The powerfully muscled freighters were able to carry the corpse without much trouble. They laid it out next to one of the wagons so Preacher could have a look at it.
The man was skinny and had a scraggly black beard. One corner of his mouth was twisted grotesquely because of a knife scar that ran raggedly up his cheek. It looked like somebody had shoved a blade in his mouth and cut his face half open.
Preacher had never seen him before.
“This ain’t one of the fellas who was with Garity yesterday,” he said as he hunkered on his heels next to the corpse. “I’ve seen his sort before, though.”
“What sort is that?” Bartlett asked.
“The one that’ll do some trappin’ or some other kind of honest work if he absolutely has to, but he’d rather steal from other folks and enjoy the fruits of their labor.”
“Then we shouldn’t be mourning him too much, I suppose.”
Preacher snorted as he straightened to his feet. Since Casey was out of earshot at the moment, he said, “Hell, when we pull out you can leave the bastard layin’ here for the wolves, for all I care.”
Bartlett shook his head. “No, he’s still a human being. We’ll give him a decent burial.”
