Chapter 7
Preacher and Uncle Dan split up, the old-timer skulking off to the right while Preacher made his silent, deadly way through the darkness to the left. Preacher made it clear through hand gestures that they were to locate and dispose of as many of Beaumont’s men as they could in the time they had left before Buckhalter gave the signal to begin the attack on the wagon camp.
There was no way to know how much time that would be. The only thing Preacher was sure of was that it was running out with every second that went by.
He hoped that the robbers weren’t clustered together. If they were, he and Uncle Dan were out of luck, and so, maybe, were the immigrants. They needed lone targets that could be handled without raising a ruckus and alerting the other bandits that all was not going as planned.
The sharp tang of whiskey came suddenly to Preacher’s nose. One of the men must have brought along a flask, he decided, and the hombre was fortifying himself with some liquid courage before the attack. Indulging that thirst was bad for a fella’s health sometimes, Preacher thought as a fierce grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. He tightened his grip on his knife as he spotted the man kneeling beside the trunk of a tree, facing toward the camp. This time, taking a drink of whiskey was gonna be downright fatal.
A minute later, Preacher was moving away from that spot, leaving another dead man behind him with a slit throat. This wasn’t the first time he had conducted such a deadly mission in the dark of night. In the past he had slipped among his enemies on numerous occasions, killing them swiftly and silently. Because of this ability, some of the Indian tribes in the mountains called him the Ghost Killer; others knew him as the White Death. But all of them, deep down, feared Preacher and what he could do.
The minutes ticked by, and with them went the lives of four more of the bandits. That made at least seven of them, Preacher thought, and chances were that Uncle Dan had disposed of a few more by now, too. They were whittling down the odds, just as he had set out to do.
But they wouldn’t get a chance to do any more whittling, because as he rose from the corpse of his latest victim, two shots suddenly rang out from the camp, one right after the other. Preacher knew that had to be Buckhalter’s signal.
Harsh yells came from dozens of throats as the men hidden around the perimeter of the camp leaped to their feet and rushed toward the wagons. They had no idea that there were fewer of them now than there had been a short time earlier.
Were there fewer enough to make a difference?
Preacher didn’t know.
But he was going to take down a few more of them and see if that helped.
He was already on his feet. He shoved the knife back in its sheath and pulled both pistols from behind his belt. His thumbs looped over the hammers and pulled them back. As he ran forward, more shots sounded from the camp. That would be Buckhalter and whoever else was working for him, striking like vipers in the midst of the pilgrims they were supposed to be guiding to a new life, not an unexpected death.
Preacher ran up behind one of the attackers. He didn’t waste time or breath calling out to get him to turn around. He just pointed his right-hand pistol at the man’s back and blew a hole in the son of a bitch. The man fell, plowing up the dirt with his face.
The attackers began to open fire, probably thinking that one of their own had fired that shot. Preacher veered to his left and closed in on one of the other bandits as the man charged toward the wagons. The fella wore a coonskin cap with an especially bushy tail that bounced on his back as he ran.
He must have heard Preacher coming, because he turned his head to look just in time to catch both balls from the double-shotted pistol in the face. The coonskin cap flew in the air as the man’s head was blown out from under it.
Preacher leaped past the falling body and headed for another of the attackers about twenty yards away. This one must have seen him shoot the other man, because he turned and brought up the rifle in his hands. Preacher went diving to the ground as flame gouted from the barrel.
He rolled and came back up on his feet, still moving. The man was only a few feet away by now. He reversed his grip on the rifle, holding it by the barrel so that he could swing it like a club. Preacher went under it, lowering his shoulder and crashing into the bandit. The man went over backward, with Preacher landing on top of him.
The collision and the fall stunned the man long enough for Preacher to drop his pistols and grab the rifle instead. He wrenched the flintlock out of the man’s hands and brought the butt down hard in the middle of his face. Preacher felt bone crunch under the impact. The man arched his back for a second, then sagged back to the ground in death.
Preacher dropped the rifle, snatched up his empty pistols, and tucked them behind his belt as he came to his feet. He loped toward the camp. Muzzle flashes lit up the night all around him. More shots came from inside the camp, but they were directed outward now. That meant the immigrants were putting up a fight.
Preacher had lost sight of Uncle Dan and hoped that the old-timer was all right. Dan Sullivan was a tough old bird, though, and could take care of himself. Preacher had problems of his own, such as the man he came up behind as the varmint knelt and aimed a rifle toward the wagons.
Before the man could fire, Preacher drew his knife and threw it. The blade went into the man’s back to the hilt and drove him forward. The rifle slid from his fingers. Preacher grabbed the knife, ripped it free, and plunged it in again just to make sure, then ran on toward the wagons.
He saw a rifle spurt flame between two of the vehicles and heard the ball whine past his head. The pilgrim who had fired the shot thought he was one of the bandits!
That realization made Preacher pick up speed. The rifleman would have to reload before he could fire again. That delay gave Preacher a few seconds to reach the wagons and let the defenders know who he was. He hurdled the wagon tongue as the man struggled with a ramrod, trying to get it down the barrel. Preacher could see him by the dim light that came from the embers of a nearby cooking fire.
“Hold on!” Preacher called. “I’m a—”
He was about to say “friend” when a gun blasted close beside him. He felt the sting of burning powder against his face. The roar was so loud it hit his ear almost like a fist and made him stagger. He twisted his head around and saw Lorraine Donnelly standing there with a smoking pistol in her hand. He knew he was lucky she had hurried her
