He turned his head a little, though he hadn’t really been aware of doing it. Something moved between him and the sun, blocking the bright light and searing heat.
“You’re awake, are you, Preacher?” a mocking voice asked.
Garity. Preacher recognized the man’s tone. Since Garity knew he had regained consciousness, there was no point in trying to conceal the fact.
Preacher managed to open his eyes and found himself staring up at Garity, although he couldn’t see the man as anything except a black silhouette with the sun behind his head, radiating redly around it.
“I was beginnin’ to think the boys were too rough on you, even though I told ’em to take it easy,” Garity went on. “I’m glad to see you’re still alive. I want your dyin’ to take a long time.”
Preacher didn’t say anything. His lips were blistered, and his mouth felt like it had a wool sock in it. After a moment, he realized that sock was his tongue.
Garity turned his head and said to someone else, “Bring her over here.”
Preacher’s heart sank. The only “her” he knew of out there was Casey. He had hoped she had gotten away. Evidently that wasn’t the case.
It was confirmed a few seconds later when she said, “Oh, my God, Preacher, I’m sorry. When I saw you weren’t behind me, I . . . I turned back to see what had happened. I should have kept going.”
He managed to husk, “Y-yeah . . . I reckon . . . you should have . . .”
“It wouldn’t have mattered,” Garity said. “As soon as I realized you were gone, I would’ve come after you and found you, darlin’. You’re gonna be with me all the way to Santa Fe.” He paused. “I know a fella who owns a whorehouse there. He’ll pay me a tidy sum for a pretty little yeller-haired gal like you.”
“Go to hell,” Casey spat at him. “You’ll have to kill me first.”
“That’s mighty big talk for a gal who can’t do a damned thing to back it up.” Garity laughed. “You might as well face it. From here on out, you do what I say.” He shifted so the fierce sunlight slammed into Preacher’s eyes again. “And right now I say you’re gonna stand there and watch while Preacher dies, no matter how long it takes. And it’s gonna take a
“You bastard!” Casey’s hands were still tied in front of her, but her feet were loose. She lunged at Garity and raised her hands as she tried to claw at his face. Preacher couldn’t see it, but he could hear enough to guess what was going on.
Garity shoved her away with a laugh. “Hang on to her, boys,” he ordered. “Make sure she keeps her eyes open.”
“Let me go!” Casey cried. “Let me go, damn you!”
The men ignored her. She started to sob.
Preacher wanted to tell her it was all right, but he couldn’t find the strength to form the words.
Despite the ordeal he was being forced to endure, his brain was still working, and one thought was crystal clear: Garity hadn’t said anything about Roland Bartlett and the other men from the wagon train.
That could mean Garity didn’t know about them. If he wasn’t aware Roland and the others were nearby, there might still be a chance to turn the tables on him.
That meant waiting for Roland to do something. Obviously hours had passed since the battle at the camp. Daylight had come again. From the angle of the sun shining down into his face Preacher guessed that the morning was fairly well advanced. Roland and the other men were close enough to have heard the shooting going on the night before. Yet they hadn’t come to find out what was going on.
Preacher’s already cracked and bleeding lips cracked a little more as he smiled faintly. He had told Roland to stay put. By God, it looked like the boy was going to do as he was told!
“Preacher . . .” Casey said tentatively. “Preacher, what are you smiling about?”
“Nothin’,” he told her. Roland was their only hope. If that wasn’t enough to make a man smile, he didn’t know what was.
After a few minutes, he asked, “Casey, where are we?”
“Shut up,” one of the men left to guard her said. “Garity didn’t say nothin’ about lettin’ the two of you talk.”
“He didn’t say we couldn’t, either,” Casey argued. “Preacher’s dying anyway. What difference does it make if he knows where he is?”
The men didn’t answer for a moment, then one of them said, “I don’t reckon it makes a damn bit of difference. Go ahead, tell him.”
“We’re the same place we were last night,” Casey said. “Garity decided not to move the wagons just yet. He said he could afford to wait”—she choked up for a second—“to wait until you were dead.”
“What about . . . them Injuns?”
“They’re all dead except for a few who got away.”
“I wonder . . . if it was that same bunch . . . of Comanch’.”
“It must have been,” she said. “They could have been following us, waiting for a chance to settle the score for what happened before. They might not have known that Garity stole the wagons. They must have thought Mr. Bartlett was still in charge.”
Casey’s statement agreed with the vague theory that had formed in Preacher’s mind. The caravan had been jinxed from the start. Trailed by the Indians, trailed by Garity’s outlaws, trailed by that damned bear . . .
Maybe he was the one who was jinxed, he thought. He had always had a way of attracting trouble, ever since
