“I don’t know where Beaumont lives yet,” the mountain man said after he’d taken a sip of the strong black brew, “but I know where I can find him. He’ll be at a saloon called Dupree’s, or if we can’t catch up with him there, we can try at a fancy whorehouse called Jessie’s Place.”
Uncle Dan laughed. “A saloon or a whorehouse. What a choice for a feller to have to make.”
“From what I was able to find out, he’s at Dupree’s almost every night. Here’s what he looks like.”
Preacher described Beaumont, the blonde who’d accompanied him, and the fancy carriage that had brought them to Dupree’s. For good measure, he told Uncle Dan everything he knew about Jessie’s, too. It wouldn’t hurt anything for the old-timer to know everything that he knew . . . just in case.
When Preacher was finished, Uncle Dan scratched at his beard and said, “You know . . . you could just climb up on the roof o’ the buildin’ across the street from that saloon with a rifle and shoot the son of a bitch.”
“I know,” Preacher said. “Don’t think I haven’t considered it. But then I thought about all the innocent folks who’ve died because of Beaumont, like your nephew, and somehow . . . it just didn’t seem like shootin’ him down like a dog was good enough.”
“Been some not-so-innocent folks died because of him, too, like that Mallory woman.”
Preacher nodded as his fingers tightened on the tin cup holding his coffee. Uncle Dan was right about one thing: Laura Mallory hadn’t been innocent. But she hadn’t deserved to die, either, and she wouldn’t have if not for Shad Beaumont.
“Yeah,” he mused, “I guess what we’re doin’ is for all the folks whose blood is on Beaumont’s hands.”
“Good enough for me. Say, you didn’t happen to bring a jug back from town, did you?”
“Afraid not.”
Uncle Dan sighed. “Well, I reckon we’ll have to do without, then. Got a couple of biscuits and a little bacon left, if you’re interested.”
“Now you’re talkin’,” Preacher said.
He spent the night at the camp and rode back into St. Louis early the next morning, well before sunup so that he could slip into town without anyone seeing him. It would be better, he thought, if no one knew he had left the settlement the night before.
With nothing to do until evening, Preacher found a small livery stable and used the last of his money to rent a stall for Horse. Then he asked the proprietor if he could muck out the place in return for something to eat and the right to sleep in the loft that night. He was pleased when the man agreed. That arrangement accomplished two goals. It kept him off the street for most of the day—as much as he had changed his appearance, he didn’t think anybody in St. Louis would recognize him, but why take extra chances?—and if anyone asked about “Jim Donnelly,” it established that he was broke and willing to do just about anything, no matter how nasty a job it was.
Preacher didn’t know how long he might have to stay here. The next step in his plan might work out that very night, or it might take several more days to come to fruition.
At midday, the liveryman shared a meager lunch with him, then Preacher went back to his work. By nightfall, he had the place about as spotless as a livery barn could ever get.
“You done a good job, son,” the proprietor told him. “O’ course, that’s what I’d expect from a feller right off the farm. You’re bound to be good at shovelin’ dung.”
Preacher nodded his thanks. He had the liveryman fooled, along with everyone else he had encountered in St. Louis. They all took him for some sort of bumpkin, just as he intended.
“You’re welcome to have supper with me,” the liveryman went on.
“I’m much obliged,” Preacher said, “but that was thirsty work. I thought I’d go have a drink somewhere.”
The liveryman sighed. “Young folks . . . Well, don’t get drunk and forget where you left your horse.”
“Not likely,” Preacher said, and meant it.
He used the water trough to clean up a little, then headed for Dupree’s. Beaumont’s carriage wasn’t parked out front. Preacher stood in the mouth of an alley across the street and watched, hoping that Beaumont would show up later.
An hour passed as night settled down over St. Louis, and Preacher began to think that the plan might have to be postponed until the next night or possibly even moved to Jessie’s Place. But then Shad Beaumont’s carriage came rolling along the street. Preacher stepped out from the alley and began walking toward the entrance to Dupree’s.
The driver brought the carriage to a halt in the same place where he’d stopped it the night before. With the same alacrity, he hopped down from the seat and opened the door. Beaumont climbed out of the vehicle, and this time he didn’t turn back to help a companion disembark. Evidently he was alone tonight. That was good, Preacher thought. It made things easier that way.
Beaumont stepped up onto the boardwalk as the driver closed the carriage door behind him. At the same time, Preacher circled in front of the team and came up onto the boardwalk, too, about twenty feet to Beaumont’s left. Beaumont didn’t even glance in his direction. The man sauntered toward the doors of Dupree’s, his beaver hat cocked at a rakish angle on his head, his long, elegant cape swirling around his knees.
Suddenly, Preacher lunged at him, shouting, “Look out!” He covered the distance between them in a heartbeat, and as he slammed into Beaumont and knocked him off his feet, a gun boomed somewhere nearby, the muzzle flash lighting up the night.
Chapter 13
The collision sent Beaumont crashing to the boardwalk with Preacher sprawled on top of him. The rifle ball chewed into one of the posts holding up the awning over the walk and sprayed splinters down on the two men. Preacher shoved himself up on one knee, yanked a pistol from behind his belt, and fired into the shadows farther up the boardwalk, at the corner of the building.
