“Better not tell the boss about this,” he said. “We ain’t supposed to open up for any reason. Rice still owes me two dollars from that last poker game, though, and by God, I don’t want him dyin’ before he pays me!”
A smile tugged at Preacher’s mouth. Greed, like lust, was something that could bring a man down without much trouble.
“Well, here, see if he’s got it on him,” Preacher said. He gave the unconscious figure a hard shove toward the man at the door, then whirled and kicked the man with the lantern in the belly. The man doubled over and started to fall. Preacher grabbed the lantern before it could drop to the floor, shatter, and start that fire he wanted to prevent.
A harsh curse came from behind him. He swung around in time to see that the second guard had gotten tangled up with the man Preacher had knocked out, just as Preacher had hoped would happen. The guard had gone to one knee and was trying to get up. Preacher met him with a hard, looping right that stretched him out on the warehouse floor, out cold.
The man Preacher had kicked in the belly was still gasping for breath, but he was also trying to work a pistol out from behind his belt. Preacher brought the barrel of his pistol crashing down on the man’s head, knocking him out as well.
The whole thing, start to finish, had taken less than three minutes.
Preacher set the lantern down on a crate, lifted the bar holding the doors closed, and went back outside for the other guard. When he had all four of them inside, he used some rope he had brought with him to tie their hands and feet, then pulled some more bandannas from his pocket and blindfolded them as well, so they wouldn’t be able to see what was going on if they regained consciousness before the men hired by Jessie and Cleve finished cleaning out the stolen merchandise from the warehouse.
Then Preacher opened the door a little, stuck the lantern out, and waved it from side to side three times. That was the signal. A few moments later, he heard the creak of wheels as several big freight wagons rolled toward the warehouse. He swung the doors wide open to let them in.
He was surprised to see that Cleve himself was at the reins of one of the wagons. The gambler grinned at him and said, “Good work. You didn’t have to kill any of them.”
“Said I wouldn’t,” Preacher replied.
Cleve nodded and lifted a hand in farewell. “We’ll handle it from here.”
“Those fellas better be alive when you leave. They ain’t any threat to you now.”
“Fine,” Cleve said as he hopped down from the wagon he had brought to a halt. “You have my word.”
Preacher wasn’t sure what that was worth, but for now he had to accept it. He nodded and left the warehouse, trotting away through the shadows.
A few blocks from the warehouse, he stopped in an alley and pulled the bandanna from his face. It felt good to have it off. He just wasn’t cut out to be a thief, even though he was helping to steal from a thief and a murderer.
As he walked away into the night, he wondered how long he would have to be back in the mountains before he started to feel clean again.
Chapter 24
Beaumont was livid the next morning when one of his men came to the house to deliver the bad news about the warehouse robbery. Preacher and Lorenzo were having breakfast in the kitchen when they heard the furious shouting.
“Oh, hell,” Lorenzo muttered. “Somethin’ else gone wrong. Startin’ to seem like this house got a hoodoo on it.”
Preacher started to get up. “I reckon I’d better go see what it’s all about.”
The stocky, florid-faced Irish woman who did the cooking for Beaumont swung away from the stove and said, “Sit yourself right back down, Mr. Donnelly. ’Tis not finished with your breakfast you are, and no good will come of leavin’ perfectly good food on your plate.”
Preacher listened for a moment to the raving coming from upstairs, then grinned and sank back into his chair. “I reckon you’re right, ma’am,” he said. “I believe I’ll finish these here flapjacks first.”
Something crashed upstairs. Lorenzo shook his head and muttered, “Man ain’t gonna have a stick o’ furniture left that ain’t broken if this keeps up.”
After breakfast, Preacher climbed the stairs and knocked on Beaumont’s door, which was closed. “Come in,” Beaumont called from the other side of the panel.
Preacher opened the door and stepped into the room. Beaumont stood by the window, wearing a dressing gown and holding a glass in one hand and a bottle of whiskey in the other. He tipped up the bottle, splashed liquor into the glass, then threw it down his throat. Preacher wasn’t sure why he didn’t just drink from the bottle. Too undignified, he supposed.
“Kind of early in the day for that Who-hit-John, ain’t it, boss?” he asked.
“Not after the sort of news that I’ve had this morning,” Beaumont snapped. “The time of day doesn’t really matter right now.”
“More trouble?”
“Someone broke into one of my warehouses last night, knocked out the guards, and emptied it of everything that was in it. They cost me five thousand dollars, maybe more.” Beaumont poured more whiskey into the glass. “And I know who did it, too.”
“You finally found somebody willin’ to talk?” Preacher didn’t see how that was possible, since he had accompanied Beaumont every time the man left the house and had been there for all the interrogations.
Beaumont shook his head. “No. But I’ve figured it out at last. There’s only one person who could be to blame
