“What if they try to give me some other girl besides Casey?” Roland asked nervously as he and Preacher stood in an alley across the street from the two-story frame building that housed Egan Powell’s place of business. Heavy curtains were drawn across all the windows, and yellow light showed dimly through the narrow cracks around the drapes.
“If they admit they got a girl like that there, chances are it’s her. Tell ’em you’ll wait for her if she’s busy with another customer. Nurse a drink at the bar for a while.”
Roland nodded in the shadows. “All right.”
“Remember, I’ll be right here,” Preacher told him. “If you need me in a hurry, stick your head out a window and holler. I’ll come a-runnin.”
“Are you sure
Preacher grinned. “I bounce back pretty quick-like. Don’t worry about me.”
“Fine. Preacher—”
Preacher had had more than enough of Roland thanking him for everything he’d done. He said, “Lorenzo’s around back of the place, and those bullwhackers are down yonder in the next block waitin’ for my signal. Let us know as soon as you get out of there with Casey.”
“I will.” Roland took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. “I guess I’m ready.”
“I think so,” Preacher said.
The young man shot him an appreciative glance, then stepped out of the alley. Strolling like he didn’t have a care in the world, he walked across the street and opened the door to go into the whorehouse. For a second he was silhouetted against the light inside, and then he was gone.
Over the years Preacher had learned how to wait patiently. Many times, that ability had saved his life. But just because he could stand or sit motionless for hours at a time didn’t mean he liked doing it. His mind always roamed. The older he got, the more his memories intruded on his thinking. He remembered his family—vaguely—and he remembered the friends he had made during the long, adventurous years since he had left home. For all the vastness of the frontier, in some ways it was a small place. Almost anywhere he went west of the Mississippi, sooner or later he was likely to run into someone who knew him. It was why he had decided against going into Powell’s. Even if Powell didn’t recognize him, somebody else might, and holler out something like, “Why, Preacher, you old son of a bitch, what are you doin’ here?” That would have ruined—
The sudden sound of a shot from across the street made Preacher’s head jerk up in alarm.
CHAPTER 26
Preacher’s first impulse was to yank the pistol from behind his belt, run across the street, and charge into the whorehouse ready to start shooting.
With an effort, he controlled that urge. Trouble broke out in those places all the time, and the gunshot he had heard didn’t necessarily have anything to do with Roland and Casey. Even if it did, if he rushed in it might get them killed.
Still, he couldn’t just wait in the dark, not knowing what was going on over there. He was going to have to risk going in.
He tugged his hat brim down low over his face and stepped out of the alley. As he started across the street, he saw several of the bullwhackers approaching the whorehouse as well. They had heard the shot and gotten worried about Roland. Preacher caught the eye of one of the men and waved him back. The man passed along the order, and they all stopped and began to withdraw with obvious reluctance.
There had only been the single shot, but Preacher didn’t know if that was a good thing or a bad one.
Maybe a single shot was all it had taken to kill Roland Bartlett.
He was only about halfway across the street when a man carrying a rifle stepped out the front doorway of the whorehouse. Instinct sent Preacher diving to the side as the rifle barrel came up. Orange flame geysered from the muzzle. Preacher heard the heavy lead ball hum past him as he went to one knee. He had his pistol in his hand, snapped it up, and fired. The rifleman ducked back inside as Preacher’s shot chewed splinters from one of the porch posts.
Preacher ran for a parked wagon nearby. He didn’t know what the hell was going on, but it couldn’t be anything good. He took cover behind the wagon and reloaded his pistol.
A man’s deep, gravelly voice boomed out through the open door of the whorehouse. “Preacher! Preacher, can you hear me?”
A frown creased the mountain man’s forehead. He didn’t recognize the voice.
“I hear you!” he called back harshly. There didn’t seem to be any point in denying who he was. “Who are you, mister, and what do you want?”
“It’s more a matter of what
Preacher bit back a curse. Obviously, Roland’s disguise hadn’t worked at all. Garity must have known somehow that they were in Santa Fe and had been watching for Roland or Preacher, waiting for them to show up looking for Casey.
Well, that wasn’t a complete surprise, he mused. They hadn’t kept the arrival of the wagons a secret. A man like Egan Powell probably had sources of information all over the settlement. He could have been told the Bartlett wagon train had rolled into Santa Fe several days earlier. If he’d passed that on to Garity, the two of them could have set up a trap, with Casey for the bait—
“Preacher! You’d better listen to me if you ever want to see those two youngsters alive again!”
Preacher had no doubt the gravelly voice belonged to Powell. “I’m listenin’!” Preacher shouted. The pistol was
