Preacher stepped closer to the vehicle and reached out to grasp the brake lever. Lorraine was still holding it, too, but he was careful not to touch her hand.
“I’ll take a look at it, but I ain’t promisin’ I can—”
He didn’t get to finish, because at that moment, a hand came down hard on his shoulder and jerked him around roughly, and then a fist smashed into his face.
Chapter 5
The impact of the unexpected blow knocked Preacher against the driver’s box on the front of the wagon. The back of his head banged painfully against the boards. A loud, angry voice bellowed, “Get the hell away from Miz Donnelly, you no-good polecat!”
The punch was so hard it blurred Preacher’s vision for a second. As his eyesight cleared, he saw Mike Moran standing in front of him, both hamlike hands clenched into fists now. The tall, burly guide sounded mad, but his face still looked like it was carved out of stone.
“Mr. Moran, what in the world are you doing?” Lorraine cried. “There was no reason for you to hit Preacher.”
“I seen him grab your hand and try to kiss you, ma’am,” Moran said. His voice was loud enough to carry to everyone who had heard his first shout and started to gather around the Donnelly wagon to see what the ruckus was all about. “I seen him makin’ advances to you, plain as day.”
Lorraine gasped. “That’s not true.”
“I seen it with my own eyes,” Moran grated, then without warning he lunged forward, clapped his massive hands on Preacher’s shoulders, and flung him away from the wagon. Preacher’s feet left the ground for a second before he came crashing back to earth in a rolling impact that sent a twinge of pain jabbing through his left arm.
“Don’t! This isn’t necessary—”
Preacher looked up and saw Lorraine tugging at Moran’s arm as the man stalked forward, obviously intent on continuing the fight. Although it hadn’t been much of a fight so far, Preacher thought. Moran had taken him by surprise, something that didn’t happen very often, and Preacher couldn’t help but wonder if it was because he’d been distracted by being so close to Lorraine Donnelly. Then that pile driver punch had addled him for a minute.
But his brain was clearing now. Anger blew away the fog that had clogged his thinking.
Moran jerked free of Lorraine as Preacher started to get up. “I’m gonna stomp you into the ground, mister,” the guide said. “Anybody who’d molest a married woman deserves it.”
Even though Preacher was mad, he was thinking clearly enough to realize something. Ever since this started, Moran had been bellowing like a bull about how Preacher had acted improperly toward Lorraine. The guide was trying to turn the rest of the immigrants against him, Preacher thought.
He suddenly wondered if Buckhalter had something to do with this.
He could ponder on that later. Right now, Moran still loomed over him. Preacher had only made it up on one knee, and Moran had a big foot drawn back, ready to kick him in the face.
Preacher was ready when that booted clodhopper came at him, though. His hands shot up. He grabbed Moran’s ankle, stopping the kick before it could cave in his jaw. Then he heaved upward and put the strength of his legs into it as he surged to his feet.
Moran yelped in surprise and alarm as he felt himself going over backward. Unable to stop himself, he crashed down on his back like a falling tree.
Out of the gathering crowd, Pete Stallworth rushed with an enraged expression on his broad face. “You can’t do that to a friend of mine!” he yelled as he swung a punch at Preacher’s head.
Preacher didn’t want to fight Stallworth, or Moran, for that matter. He jerked his head aside so that Stallworth’s fist whipped harmlessly past his face and grabbed the man’s arm. Using Stallworth’s own momentum against him, Preacher swung him around and rammed him into the side of the Donnelly wagon. Stallworth bounced off, and when Preacher let go of him, he stumbled and fell.
Moran was getting back up by now, though. He charged Preacher, arms flailing. A lot of the bystanders were shouting now, some of them yelling encouragement to Moran since they had heard his accusations against Preacher and believed them, others asking questions. Lorraine was still trying to stop the fight, but since Moran ignored her, Preacher had no choice but to do so as well. He wasn’t going to just stand there and let Moran whale on him without fighting back.
Problem was, Moran outweighed him and had a longer reach, plus Preacher had to be careful about reinjuring that left arm. He couldn’t risk slamming punches into Moran’s face or body with that hand. The impact might damage the healing bone.
Preacher ducked under Moran’s wild blows and stepped in close. He hooked a right into the guide’s belly. The punch was so hard that Preacher’s fist sunk into Moran’s gut almost to the wrist. Moran bent forward, the breath gusting out of his mouth. Preacher came up and drove his right elbow under Moran’s chin. That jolted Moran’s head back. Like using a hammer to drive a nail, Preacher pounded the side of his right hand into Moran’s nose. Blood spurted. Moran howled in pain and stumbled backward.
He tripped over Stallworth’s legs and went down again. Stallworth still seemed to be stunned from his collision with the wagon. With both of his opponents down for the moment, Preacher reached for one of the pistols at his waist, intending to make sure this fight was over.
That was when Uncle Dan yelled, “Look out, Preacher!”
From the corner of his eye, Preacher spotted Buckhalter pointing a pistol at him. Preacher twisted aside as Buckhalter pulled the trigger. Smoke and flame spouted from the weapon’s muzzle. Preacher heard the low-pitched hum of the heavy ball as it went past his ear, then the thud as it struck one of the sideboards of the Donnelly wagon.
“Hold it right there, mister!” Uncle Dan said. “You best not reach for another pistol. I’ll blow a hole in your
