“I’ll do that, son,” Preacher promised.
Over the next quarter of an hour, Preacher and Larson conducted their business, settling on a mutually agreeable price for the furs. “I’ll have to meet you tonight to pay you,” Larson said, “but if it’s all right with you, I’ll get some men up here with a wagon right away to load those pelts and get them in the warehouse.”
Preacher nodded. “Fine by me. You ain’t never given me any cause not to trust you.”
A hard edge in Preacher’s voice carried the unspoken warning that it wouldn’t be wise to give him any reason for distrust.
Larson chuckled and said, “I certainly don’t intend to start now. Where should I look for you?”
“I’ll be at Fargo’s tavern.” Nearly everybody in St. Louis was familiar with the tavern operated by an old riverman named Ford Fargo. Preacher was sure Larson would know where the place was.
Larson nodded and said, “I’ll see you later then. You’ll keep an eye on those pelts until my men pick them up?”
“Won’t let ’em out o’ my sight,” Preacher promised.
It took another half an hour for Larson’s men to arrive with the wagon and start loading the furs. During that time, the boy called Jake pestered Preacher with seemingly endless questions. Preacher put up with it patiently for a while, but Jake was starting to remind him of a particularly annoying magpie by the time Larson’s men arrived.
“Where you goin’ now, Mr. Preacher?” Jake asked as Preacher headed for Fargo’s tavern.
“Got some other things to do,” Preacher replied. “And I done told you, boy, just call me Preacher. Ain’t no need for the mister.”
“My pa says I ought to respect my elders, and you’re pretty old.”
Preacher’s jaw tightened. “Well, I’ll see you later, all right?”
“Can I come with you?”
“No, you run on back to the docks. Where I’m goin’ ain’t for youngsters.”
“Where’s that?”
“You know what a tavern is?”
Understanding dawned on Jake’s face. “Ohhhh. You’re gonna go get drunk and find yourself a whore.”
Preacher frowned. “What the hell—I mean, what in blazes does a young fella like you know about things like that?”
“I know a lot,” Jake said with a sage expression on his round face. “I listen when folks talk. Grown-ups don’t always pay as much attention to what they’re sayin’ around kids as they should.”
Preacher could believe that. He said, “Well, for your information, I ain’t lookin’ for no whore, and I don’t plan to get drunk.”
“Don’t you like whiskey and women?”
Preacher gritted his teeth again and wondered if he was going to have to toss this little jackanapes into the river to get away from him.
It didn’t come to that, because at that point a man came along the riverbank calling Jake’s name. “Shoot, that’s my pa,” the boy said. “Reckon it’s time to go home for supper. Be seein’ you, Mr. Preacher.”
“Sure thing,” Preacher said, thinking to himself that Jake wouldn’t see him again if he saw the inquisitive little varmint first.
Now that he had gotten away from Jake, Preacher headed for the tavern again. He had told the boy the truth —he didn’t intend to get drunk.
But a shot of whiskey would sure go down nice right about now.
“You sure that’s him?”
“Yeah, I got a good look at him through the spyglass before you took that shot at him. That’s the son of a bitch who put a rifle ball through my arm, all right. I got a score to settle with him.”
The two men stood behind a run-down shack not far from the river’s edge, peering furtively around the corner of the building. They had been watching for the past half hour or so as the dark-bearded mountain man waited for Joel Larson’s men to arrive. The tall, sandy-haired one with the prominent Adam’s apple wore buckskins and a floppy-brimmed felt hat. The shorter, stockier man was dressed in a shabby black suit and a gray shirt that had once been white. A battered beaver hat was crammed down on a mostly bald head. He had a dirty rag tied around his upper left arm to serve as a bandage. Blood had soaked through the rag in one place, leaving a small crimson stain.
Both men had gaunt, beard-stubbled faces and narrow, hate-filled eyes. Earlier in the afternoon, they had been perched in some brush along the western bank of the river about a mile north of the settlement, waiting for some pilgrim to come along who looked well-heeled enough to rob. The mountain man had certainly filled the bill, with that canoe loaded with furs. If the tall man, Schuyler Mims, hadn’t missed with his shot, the mountain man would be dead now, and Schuyler and his partner, who went by the name Colin Fairfax, would be selling those furs to Joel Larson.
Instead, Schuyler’s aim had been just a little off. The same couldn’t be said of the mountain man’s aim. His return shot had nicked Fairfax in the arm as he and Mims were trying to get away from the riverbank. The ball hadn’t actually gone through his arm as he’d said, but rather had grazed it, knocking out a tiny chunk of flesh. It wasn’t a serious wound, but it had hurt like hell and Fairfax had bled like a stuck pig, all the while howling curses as Schuyler tried to patch up the injury.
Fairfax was still angry at his partner for missing, but he was more angry at the mountain man who had so coolly and accurately shot back at them. During the ride back down here to St. Louis, Fairfax had vowed that he would find the man and get even with him for what had happened. The fact that the mishap had occurred while the
