CHAPTER 25
Preacher knew it might take a few days for Juanita’s quest for information about Casey and Garity to pay off. He spent that time taking it easy, recovering from everything he had been through. Every minute that passed while he didn’t know where Casey was gnawed at his nerves.
He forced himself to relax. Juanita fed him well, as she had promised, and each day he felt a little stronger. She deemed him still too weak for any exercise in the bedroom, and although he might have argued that point, he didn’t make an issue of it. If they got the chance, they would make up for lost time later, he figured.
Roland paid several visits to the cantina. When they located Casey and mounted a rescue attempt, he wanted to be part of it. Preacher was inclined to go along with that. Roland had grown up some during the journey from Missouri. That plan he had hatched to get Preacher and Casey away from Garity hadn’t been too bad. It hadn’t actually worked, of course, but nobody’s plans worked all the time, not even Preacher’s.
“How’d you fare with sellin’ that freight?” Preacher asked the young man as they sat at a secluded table in a corner of the cantina with Lorenzo and Juanita.
“I’m working on it,” Roland replied. He had been letting his beard grow, and with the dark tan his skin had acquired during the journey over the Santa Fe Trail, he was starting to look a little like one of the
Preacher had a hunch Casey was still alive—the girl had proven herself to be a survivor, after all—but they had no guarantees that was true. Taking care of Garity might come down to avenging Casey’s death rather than rescuing her, Preacher knew. Roland ought to be prepared for that possibility.
Before he could say anything, the old man who played the guitar in the cantina during the evenings came into the place and looked around. Spotting them at the table, he headed across the room toward them with an excited look on his white-bearded face. His sombrero was thumbed back on his mostly bald head, and his guitar was slung by its strap on his back.
He tugged the broad-brimmed, steeple-crowned straw hat off and held it in front of him respectfully as he stopped beside the table and said, “Senora.”
“What is it, Pepe?” Juanita asked.
“I have news of the man and the woman you seek,” the old man said.
Preacher, Roland, and Lorenzo all leaned forward in anticipation. They had been waiting for that moment, and they hoped it turned out to be true.
“Go ahead, Pepe,” Juanita told him. “What have you discovered?”
“I have been talking to my nephew Pablo. He came into town yesterday with a mule train from Mexico City. Well, you know Pablo . . . The first thing he had to do when he arrived was to find a pretty senorita with whom to spend some time. The boy is my sister’s
Preacher felt a surge of impatience. He wanted to tell the old man to hurry up and get to what they wanted to know, but he reined in the impulse. Trying to hurry Pepe might result in slowing him down even more.
“Yes, go ahead,” Juanita gently prodded. She knew how to handle him.
“He mentioned that he went to the house of ill repute owned by Egan Powell.”
Juanita’s eyes widened, and Preacher asked, “Who’s Egan Powell?”
“A very bad man,” Juanita replied. “An American, as you can tell by the name. He came here several years ago and became a Mexican citizen, saying that he never wanted to go back to the United States. You can probably guess why.”
“He was a wanted man there,” Preacher drawled. “The law probably made it too hot for him.”
Juanita nodded. “That is the rumor, although no one knows for certain. What I do know is that Powell has killed several men since he has been in Santa Fe, each of them with his bare hands.”
Lorenzo asked, “They let fellas get away with murder in this town?”
“Those killings were not murder. In each case, the man got drunk and caused trouble in Powell’s business. They were all armed with guns or knives. Powell took their weapons away and beat them to death.”
“Sounds like a pretty bad hombre, all right,” Preacher said. “Just the sort of gent who’d be friends with a lowdown skunk like Garity.”
Pepe’s head bobbed up and down. “Si, senor. Pablo said he saw a man, an American, at Powell’s with his arm in a, how you say it, a sling, like this young gentleman here wore when he first came to Santa Fe.”
Pepe pointed to Roland, who had discarded his sling the day before as his wounded shoulder continued to heal.
“The arm had splints on it,” Pepe added.
“There can’t be more than one American in Santa Fe with a broken arm right now,” Roland said excitedly.
“You can’t be sure of that,” Preacher pointed out, “but I admit, it ain’t likely. What else did your nephew say, Pepe? Did he notice a blond American girl there?”
Pepe shook his head. “No, senor. But he was not looking for one. He only recalled the man with the sling when I asked him about such an hombre just now. He might not have remembered even then had not Senor Powell gotten angry with the man and told him to stay upstairs.”
Roland looked over at Preacher and asked, “Why would Powell want Garity to stay upstairs?”
“He’s keepin’ him out of sight for some reason,” Preacher guessed. “He don’t want anybody to know that
