“All right,” he said. “Let’s go.”
As soon as their weapons were reloaded, the three men left the camp, moving warily through the darkness. Preacher whistled softly for Dog, and the big cur came loping up to him. Having Dog along would make it a lot easier to locate any two-legged varmints still lurking in the shadows.
The three men and the dog circled the camp several times, working their way farther out each time. They found numerous bodies, but no live bandits. The survivors might have taken some of the dead and wounded with them, but they hadn’t lingered long enough to retrieve all of their fallen companions.
When Preacher was satisfied that the threat was over, at least for tonight, he led Uncle Dan and Donnelly back to the camp. As they walked through the gap between the wagons, he was surprised to hear a familiar blustery voice saying, “That man Preacher was behind the attack, I tell you! He and the old man were scouts for that band of thieves! They came in here and spun that cock-and-bull story about savage Indians being ahead of us so that we wouldn’t suspect an attack was about to come from the other direction!”
Uncle Dan let out a low whistle. “That varmint don’t give up easy, does he? He’s tryin’ to bluff his way through!”
“Let me handle this,” Donnelly said. He stalked toward the large group of immigrants gathered on the other side of the circle and raised his voice. “Mr. Buckhalter!”
Buckhalter stopped talking and turned to see who had hailed him. As he spotted Preacher and Uncle Dan following Donnelly, he grabbed for a pistol at his waist and yelled, “There they are! Get them!”
None of the pilgrims made a move, though. Donnelly was in the way. He raised his hands and called out, “Everyone listen to me! Mr. Buckhalter is mistaken! Preacher and Mr. Sullivan had nothing to do with the attack on us! They fought side by side with us and helped defend us against the robbers!”
Buckhalter’s beard jutted out defiantly. “I didn’t see that!” he declared. “And I don’t believe it!”
Lorraine Donnelly stepped forward. “It’s the truth,” she said in a loud, clear voice. “I was about to speak up myself, but my husband beat me to it. With my own eyes, I saw Preacher and Mr. Sullivan battling the attackers.”
“That’s not possible!” Buckhalter blustered.
Donnelly stopped in front of him. “You’d better not be calling my wife—or me—a liar, Mr. Buckhalter. You’re simply mistaken.”
“No, he ain’t,” Preacher drawled. “He’s lyin’ . . . and for a good reason. He’s the boss of the gang that’s been trailin’ you ever since the wagons left St. Louis. He set up the attack.”
Buckhalter’s face darkened in fury. “That’s a bald-faced lie!” he bellowed.
“Give it up, Buckhalter,” Preacher said. “I heard some of those varmints talkin’ before
At the mention of Beaumont’s name, the flush disappeared from Buckhalter’s face. He paled instead, because he had to realize now that the game was up. His hand moved toward the pistol at his waist. Preacher was ready to grab his own gun.
But before he could, a roar sounded behind him, and what felt like an avalanche crashed down on him.
Chapter 8
The crushing weight drove Preacher to the ground. What felt like an iron bar clamped itself across his throat, cutting off his air.
Even under attack like this, he was thinking straight enough to have a hunch that it was Mike Moran who had jumped him. Preacher was convinced that Moran was in on the scheme with Buckhalter. The big man must have been in the crowd of immigrants, heard Preacher’s reference to Beaumont, and figured that he was done for.
He was going to try to kill Preacher first, though, before his own fate caught up to him.
Preacher drove his right elbow up and back and heard an animal-like grunt as it sank into his attacker’s belly. He reached back with his left hand and tangled his fingers in the man’s hair. A hard tug brought a howl of pain as Preacher came away with a handful of hair.
That distracted his opponent enough for Preacher to buck up off the ground and throw the man to the side. Preacher rolled the other way and came up on his feet. He saw that his hunch had been right. It was Mike Moran who clambered upright about ten feet away, blood running down the side of his face from his scalp where Preacher had torn out the clump of hair that he now tossed aside.
Uncle Dan raised a pistol and pointed it at Moran. “Hold it right there, big fella,” the old-timer warned.
“This here fight’s gone on long enough.”
Moran started to curse in a low, monotonous voice, but a muffled scream cut across his profanities. Preacher’s head jerked around. He saw Buckhalter backing toward one of the wagons with an arm looped around Lorraine Donnelly’s throat. His other hand held the muzzle of a pistol pressed against her head.
“Lorraine!” Ned Donnelly cried.
“Stay back!” Buckhalter warned. “I’ll kill her!” Preacher shook his head. “No, he won’t. He knows that if he pulls that trigger, he’ll be shot plumb full o’ holes his own self before Miz Donnelly hits the ground. Might as well go ahead and give up, Buckhalter, because you ain’t gettin’ out of this.”
Preacher started forward, but Donnelly said, “No!” and got in his way. The man put a hand against Preacher’s chest. “I know you’re probably right, Preacher, but I can’t take that chance with Lorraine’s life.” He turned to the renegade wagon master. “What do you want, Buckhalter?”
“Safe passage out of here,” Buckhalter replied. He had such a tight grip on Lorraine that she couldn’t budge. “For me and Moran. And I want the money chest.”
