If anyone else had called him an old man, Preacher would have dented his skull with the butt of his Henry.
The nearest town of any size — other than the Springs, and Preacher could not go there; too many people knew him and might try to track him back to Smoke — was Del Norte, located just a few miles south of the Rio Grande, on the eastern slopes of the San Juan Forest.
He knew of a town being built at the site of old Antoine Robidoux’s trading post, up close to the Gunnison, but he doubted they would have any canning jars and lids, so he pointed his pony’s nose east-northeast, to avoid settlements as much as possible. He rode through the western part of the San Juans, cross the Los Pinos, through the Weminuche, then followed the Rio Grande into Del Norte — a long bit of traveling through the wilderness. But Preacher knew all the shortcuts and places to avoid.
As Preacher rode into town, coming in from the opposite direction, deliberately, his eyes swept the street from side to side, settling on a group of men in front of a local saloon. Most were local men, but Preacher spotted two as gun-hands.
He knew one of them: Felter. An ex-army sergeant who had been publicly flogged and dishonorably discharged for desertion in the face of the enemy; the enemy being the Cheyenne up in the north part of the state. But Preacher knew the man was no coward — he just showed uncommon good sense in getting away from a bad situation. After his humiliation and discharge from the army, Felter had turned bounty hunter, selling his gun skills — which were considerable — to the highest bidder. He was an ugly brute of a man, who had killed, so it was said, more than twenty men. He was quick on the draw, but not as quick as Smoke, Preacher knew. Nobody he had ever seen or heard of was that quick. He cut his eyes once more to Felter. The man had been accused of rape — twice.
The other man standing beside Felter looked like Canning, the outlaw. But Preacher was not sure of that. If it was Canning, and he was riding with Felter, they were up to no good — and that was fact.
In a general store, Preacher sized up the shopkeeper as one of those pinch-mouthed Eastern types. Looked like he might be henpecked, too.
Preacher bought a little bit of ribbon for Nicole to wear in her hair, and some pretty gingham for a new dress — she was swellin’ up like a pumpkin.
“Got any cannin’ jars?”
The shopkeeper nodded. “Just got a shipment of those new type with the screw top. Best around.”
“Can you pack ’em for travel over some rough country — headin’ east?” Preacher lied.
“I can.”
Preacher ordered several cases and paid for them. “Put ’em out back. I’ll pick ’em up later on. My old woman is ’bout to wart me plumb to death. Up to her bustle in green beans and sich. Know what I mean? Never should have got hitched up.”
“Sir.” The shopkeeper leaned forward. “I know
“Walter!” A shrill voice cut the hot air of the store. “You hurry up now and bring me my tea. Stop loafing about, gossiping like a fisherwoman. Hurry up!”
Preacher cringed at the thought of being married to someone who sounded like an angry puma with a thorn in its paw.
Black hatred flashed across the shopkeeper’s face.
“Git you a strap,” Preacher suggested. “Wear ’er out a time or two.”
The man sighed. “I have given that some thought, sir. Believe me, I have.”
“Good luck,” Preacher told him. He walked out into the street, his Henry cradled in his arms.
A young man in a checkered shirt, a bright red bandanna tied about his neck, dark trousers tucked into polished boots, and wearing two pearl-handled pistols, grinned at the mountain man.
“Hey, grandpa! Ain’t you too old to be walkin’ around without someone to look after you? You likely to forget your way back to the old folks’ home.”
The barflies on the porch laughed. All but Felter. He knew the breed of men called mountain man, and knew it was wise to leave them alone, for they had lived violently and usually reacted in kind.
Preacher glanced at the young would-be tough. Without slowing his stride, he savagely drove the butt of his Henry into the loudmouth’s stomach. The young smart aleck doubled over, vomiting in the street. Preacher paused long enough to pluck the pistols from leather and drop them in a horse trough.
“You run along home, now, sonny,” Preacher told him, over the sounds of retching and the jeering laughter of the loafers on the porch. “Tell your Ma to change your diapers and tuck you into bed. You ’pear to me to need some rest.”
Preacher stepped into the dark bar, allowed his eyes to adjust to the sudden gloom, and walked to the counter, ordering whiskey with a beer chaser.
The batwings swung open, boots on the sawdust-covered floor. The marshal. “Trouble out there, old- timer?”
“Nothin’ I couldn’t handle, young-timer.”
The marshal chuckled. “Calls himself Kid Austin. He’s been overdue for a comedown for some time. Thinks he’s quite a hand with those fancy guns.”
Preacher glanced at the lawman. “He’ll never make it. They’s a lot of salty ol’ boys ridin’ the hoot-owl trail that’ll feed them guns to him. An inch at a time.”
The marshal ordered a beer, then waited until the barkeep was out of earshot. He put his elbows on the bar
