Preacher's Fire

the Mississippi about a quarter of a mile downstream. “We’re gonna take over that riverboat?”

“That’s right. It’s just a cargo boat, no passengers, and it’s the cargo we want. We’ll pick off the pilot and the captain in the pilot house by shootin’ from shore, then board her, get the drop on the rest of the crew, and run the boat aground on the bank. We got wagons and drivers waitin’. Won’t take long to unload all the cotton the boat’s carryin’ and cart it away.”

Preacher let out a low whistle. “That’ll be worth a pretty penny, I reckon. Did Mr. Beaumont put you up to this?”

“Damn right. I told you he was smart.”

Preacher didn’t say anything about the cotton already belonging to Beaumont. He didn’t know if Dugan was aware of that part of the scheme and didn’t want to raise even a hint of suspicion that he might know about it.

The steamboat’s whistle sounded again, closer this time. It was almost at the bend when Preacher and the other men reached the four canoes pulled up on the bank.

“Three men to a canoe!” Dugan ordered as they dismounted. “Donnelly, you’ll be the fourth man in the first canoe. Troy and I will stay here on shore and pick off the captain and the pilot.”

“I’m a mighty good shot with a rifle, if I do say so myself,” Preacher said. “You might want me to stay here with you, Dugan.”

“Do what I told you!” the leader of the robbers snapped. “Unless you want to back out of the deal completely, and I’ll tell the boss if you do.”

“Take it easy, take it easy. I’ll go along with your orders. I was just tryin’ to help.”

“Then move! Here comes that damned riverboat!”

It was true. The big sidewheeler was coming into view around the bend, close to the near shore because of the way the channel ran. The would-be robbers hurriedly climbed into the canoes and shoved off. Preacher found himself right up front in the lead canoe, the most dangerous spot to be when the attack got underway.

He didn’t care about that. He knew that the men working for Jessie and Cleve had to be somewhere close by, and no doubt they would strike at any moment. In the meantime, though, the pilot and captain of the riverboat were in deadly danger.

Preacher had snatched up one of the paddles in the bottom of the canoe, laid the flintlock across the narrow boat in front of him, and dug the paddle in the water like the other men. Their efforts sent the canoe cutting across the river’s surface toward the steamboat. Preacher saw the name Harry Fulton painted on the boat’s bow, with St. Louis, Mo. underneath it. Smoke billowed from the top of the tall, round smoke-stack that ran down to the firebox in the vessel’s engine room. The whistle blew again, loud enough now to hurt the ears, and Preacher saw the big paddle wheels on the sides of the boat suddenly lurch to a halt. Somebody on board must have spotted the river pirates approaching and ordered the engines stopped.

It was too late. The boat’s momentum carried it forward against the current for a moment as it slowed. The canoes arrowed toward it.

Preacher dropped his paddle at his feet, snatched up his rifle, and stood up as he turned back toward the shore. One of the other men in the canoe yelled, “Hey! What the hell do you think you’re—”

The canoe rocked back and forth, thrown off balance by Preacher’s movements, but he ignored that and drew a bead on Dugan as he eared back the flintlock’s hammer. Neither Dugan nor Troy had fired yet at the pilot house. Preacher didn’t give Dugan the chance to do so. He pressed the trigger.

The flintlock roared and kicked against his shoulder. Fifty yards away on shore, Dugan’s coonskin cap leaped in the air as the ball from Preacher’s rifle smashed into his head and dropped him like a rock.

The other men in the canoe were shouting at him now, some of them yelling curses while others warned him not to upset the little craft. Preacher saw the man nearest him clawing at the butt of a pistol behind his belt and didn’t hesitate. He drove the butt of his rifle into the center of the man’s face as hard as he could and felt bone crunch under the impact.

At that moment, rifles began to bang on the far shore. Powder smoke spurted from a clump of trees that grew down close to the water. On the near bank, Troy went down, still without firing a shot. Preacher heard the hum of rifle balls passing through the air not far from his head and put one foot on the side of the canoe, shoving off with it as he leaped out into the river. That tipped the canoe over behind him. The men in it spilled out into the water.

Preacher hauled as much air into his lungs as he could before the Mississippi closed over him. He dove deep and kicked hard to get away from the area where the shots from the far shore were cutting into the water. Jessie and Cleve might have warned their men to try not to kill him, but in the heat of battle, sometimes it was hard to be careful. He stayed under as long as he could, then began kicking toward the surface.

That wasn’t easy, since he was fully dressed and weighed down with two pistols and a rifle, but he wasn’t willing to give up any of the weapons if he didn’t have to. His legs were powerful enough to propel him to the surface. As his head broke out into the air, he gratefully gulped down a breath. That eased the pounding inside his skull.

He saw the Harry Fulton off to his left, now drifting slowly downstream with its engines stopped. Two of the canoes were overturned, and the other one appeared to be sinking, probably shot full of holes. Several bodies floated in the river near the canoes. Two of Beaumont’s men were trying to swim to the near shore.

More shots doomed their efforts. They jerked in the water and then slowed as reddish streamers of blood drifted away from them. The men came to a stop and began to float facedown.

That left Preacher as the only apparent survivor of the group that had tried to take over the riverboat. He swam slowly toward the Harry Fulton as a flat-bottomed skiff with several men in it pushed off from the far shore. The men paddled out to rendezvous with the riverboat.

Preacher was closer and got there first. Three men were waiting for him on deck—the captain and a couple of crewmen, all of them holding pistols. They covered him as he tossed his empty rifle onto the deck and then caught hold of one of the fenders and used it to help him climb on board.

“Don’t try anything, you thieving bastard!” the captain ordered.