Preacher's Assault

Powell got his hands around Preacher’s throat. Looking into the man’s glaring, murderous eyes from only inches away, Preacher saw Powell’s strength fading. Only a few more moments of life remained in the whorehouse owner, but that might be enough for him to choke the life out of the mountain man.

Preacher still had the knife in his hand, and he drove it upward into Powell’s throat, unleashing a flood of crimson. Powell let out a grotesque, bubbling cry and slumped sideways as his grip on Preacher’s throat slid away. Preacher shoved clear of the corpse and rolled to his feet again.

A few feet away, Garity was on top of Roland, trying to stab him. Roland jerked his head aside. The blade gashed the side of his neck.

“Garity!” Casey cried.

Preacher watched as Garity looked up. He saw the outlaw’s eyes widen as Garity peered at Casey, who stood a couple feet away with a pistol gripped tightly in both hands, aimed directly at his face. Before Garity could do more than open his mouth to yell a protest that went unvoiced, Casey pulled the trigger.

The pistol boomed. Smoke gushed from the barrel and engulfed Garity’s head. The outlaw flew backward and landed with his back against the buggy’s wheel. His head slumped forward. As the smoke cleared, Preacher saw that the pistol ball had smashed Garity’s skull and blown out the back of his head. It was a grisly mess.

Lorenzo had come running up along with Fawcett and the other bullwhackers during Preacher’s struggle with Powell. He had been so busy fighting for his life that he hadn’t noticed their arrival. “She took my pistol,” the old- timer said. “I figured she had it comin’.”

Casey slowly lowered the pistol. A strand of gray smoke still curled from its barrel. “Come back from that, you son of a bitch,” she whispered at Garity.

Then she dropped the gun and would have collapsed if Roland, bleeding from several wounds, hadn’t been there to pull her into his arms and support her.

“It’s over,” he told her as she started to sob. “It’s really over this time.”

Preacher looked at Lorenzo and nodded. “You done good givin’ her your gun that way. If anybody had the right to blow that varmint’s brains out, it was her.”

“That’s what I figured,” Lorenzo agreed. “You all right, Preacher?”

“Yeah. A mite tired, that’s all.” In fact, when he tried to take a step, he staggered and almost fell. Fawcett gripped his arm to steady him.

“We need to get you back to Juanita’s place,” Lorenzo said. “I got a hunch that after a few weeks of the senora takin’ care of you, you’ll be just fine.”

“I expect you’re right about that,” Preacher said with a grin.

Roland and Casey came to see him at the cantina a week later. They had been staying at one of the hotels in town. They had some healing up of their own to do, so Preacher didn’t worry when he didn’t see them for a while.

He was feeling a lot better himself. Plenty of sleep and good food—along with nobody trying to kill him—worked wonders for his health. He was sitting at the table in the corner with Juanita and Lorenzo when the two young people came in and started across the room toward them.

Preacher raised a hand in greeting. “You two look like you’re doin’ a mite better than the last time I saw you,” he commented.

Roland still had a bandage on the gash on his neck, and Preacher could tell from the way he moved that his torso was probably bandaged where Garity had slashed him. But he had a big grin on his face.

Casey was smiling, too. As the two of them sat down at the table, she said, “We came to issue an invitation.”

“Oh?” Preacher said with a twinkle in his eyes. “Somethin’ special about to happen?”

“We’re getting married,” Roland burst out as if he could no longer contain himself.

“Well, congratulations,” Lorenzo said. “Can’t say as I’m surprised, though.”

“I was surprised when Roland asked me,” Casey said. “I didn’t figure any man would ever want me after everything that—”

Roland stopped her by laying a hand on hers and squeezing.

Preacher drawled, “It’s a wise man who knows that today and tomorrow are a hell of a lot more important than yesterday. Somebody said that once, but I don’t remember who.”

“Let’s just call it the wisdom of Preacher,” Juanita suggested.

“Let’s not,” he said dryly. He changed the subject by asking Casey, “So, I reckon this means you’ll be headin’ to St. Louis with Roland when he starts back with the wagons?”

“I’m not going back to St. Louis,” Roland replied before Casey could say anything.

Preacher raised his shaggy eyebrows. “You ain’t? What’re you gonna do with those wagons and ox teams?”

“I’ve already done it. I sold them to one of the other freight outfits. Cliff and the other bullwhackers will be going with them.”

“So what do you plan on doin’ with yourself if you ain’t in the freight business no more?”

“I was negotiating with a man who owns a store here in Santa Fe, trying to sell him the goods we brought out here,” Roland explained. “But when he mentioned that he wanted to sell out, I just bought the store from him instead. It’ll be well-stocked with all the goods we had in the wagons.”

“And I’ll help him run it,” Casey said.

Preacher smiled and nodded slowly. For Casey, remaining here in Santa Fe would be a lot better than going