Preacher's Assault

Garity shook his head. “That ain’t gonna happen.”

One of his men spoke up. “Why not, Garity? You said yourself that Preacher’s half dead. Hell, you can finish him off easy.”

The other men nodded in agreement.

“Damn it, have you forgot who’s givin’ the orders here?” Garity snapped at them.

“Their lives are ridin’ on it, too,” Preacher said. “The ghost bear will kill ’em all.”

“Shut the hell up about some stupid ghost bear!” Garity roared. “There ain’t no such thing!”

“Then go ahead and shoot me,” Preacher challenged. “See what happens.”

Garity glowered at him for a long moment, then muttered, “Son of a bitch.” He drew the knife at his belt and used it to point at two of his men. “Point your rifles at him while I’m cuttin’ him loose. If he tries anything funny, go ahead and kill him.”

“You’re gonna fight him, Garity?” one of the outlaws asked.

“No, I’m gonna cut him loose and then kill him,” Garity said. “It ain’t gonna last long enough to call a real fight.”

They would see about that, Preacher thought.

Garity moved closer to him and started sawing on the ropes that held him to the wagon wheel. After a moment, the ropes parted. Without them to hold him up, Preacher’s strength deserted him momentarily and he fell to his knees.

Garity laughed. “See what I mean?” he told his men. “What’s about to happen ain’t a fight at all. It’s gonna be pure slaughter.”

With his hands tied behind his back, Preacher struggled to his feet. He dragged a couple deep breaths into his lungs, turned sideways, and held his bound hands away from him.

“Finish it, Garity,” he said.

“Oh, I’ll finish it, all right,” Garity said meaningfully. He moved behind Preacher and roughly sliced the bonds around the mountain man’s wrists, leaving a stinging cut on Preacher’s arm in the process. Preacher pulled his hands in front of him. They were like chunks of dead meat. He shook them and flexed them. A million tiny knives pricked him as the blood began to flow again, but it was welcome torture. It meant that he would be able to use his hands again.

“All right,” Garity said. He held out a hand to one of his men. “Gimme your knife.” The man did so, and Garity threw the knife into the ground at Preacher’s feet. The handle quivered a little as the weapon stood upright. “Whenever you’re ready, Preacher,” Garity said. “Just don’t take all night about it. I’m gettin’ a mite anxious to carve you into little pieces.”

Preacher looked down at the knife, then up at Garity. “I don’t think I can do it,” he said. “I’m too beat up. I can’t take you on.”

“I knew it,” Garity sneered. “What a damn coward.”

“But I got a substitute,” Preacher went on. “Somebody you can fight instead of me.”

“Oh? Who’s that?” Mockingly, Garity waved a hand at Casey. “The whore? Or that boy?” He pointed at Roland.

“Nope,” said Preacher. “Him.”

He nodded toward the far side of the circle, where the grizzly that had just climbed over a wagon tongue reared up to its full height and let out a soul-shattering roar.

CHAPTER 23

The oxen began to scatter, moving as fast as the massive brutes could move, as the bear charged through them and headed across the circle toward the fire and the humans gathered around it. The outlaws yelled in fear as they swung around and started firing toward it. Their pistols and rifles boomed, adding to the terrible racket as the bear continued to bellow out its rage and hate.

Preacher had no doubt it was the same bear, and he was more than halfway convinced the damn thing was some sort of avenging spirit. But it was flesh and blood, too, and as it reached the nearest man, it slapped him aside before he could get out of the way. The man flew through the air and came crashing down on the ground with his head twisted on his neck at an impossible angle.

As Garity watched the bear, Preacher leaped forward and snatched the knife from the ground, intending to plunge the blade into Garity’s back. Sensing the movement Garity twisted aside and slashed at Preacher with the knife he still held.

Preacher jerked back. The tip of Garity’s blade raked across his bare chest, leaving behind a fiery line that oozed blood into the thick dark hair on the mountain man’s chest. Garity was off balance for a second because of the near miss, and Preacher’s knife sliced across his forearm, but not deeply enough to make Garity drop his knife.

Garity howled in pain. “You bastard!” He came at Preacher, slashing wildly back and forth. In the face of the furious assault, Preacher had to give ground.

He was light-headed from exhaustion, hunger—it had been well over twenty-four hours since he’d had anything to eat—and the effects of being knocked out twice in that same period of time. He needed a few thick steaks, a jug of whiskey, and some real sleep.

Instead he had a vicious madman coming at him with a knife. Preacher’s back bumped against the wagon wheel where he had been tied. He couldn’t retreat any further. Garity thrust his knife at Preacher, who twisted aside and barely avoided the blade. Garity’s arm went through the gap between two of the wheel’s spokes. Preacher reached behind the wheel, grabbed Garity’s wrist, and yanked it down as hard as he could. Trapped, the bones in Garity’s forearm snapped with a crack like a tree branch breaking. He screamed and slammed a punch to