Preacher didn’t doubt that. Beaumont hadn’t gotten the wealth and power he possessed by giving up easily.
When they reached Jessie’s, Preacher jumped down from the driver’s box and opened the carriage door for Beaumont. Lorenzo asked, “You gonna be here long enough for me to take the horses around back to the stable, boss?”
“I don’t know how long I’ll be here,” Beaumont snapped. “Just wait right out front here.”
“Yes, sir.”
Beaumont marched up the walk to the front door. Preacher followed a couple of steps behind him, looking around as he always did, as if on the alert for an ambush or anything else that might threaten Beaumont. There wasn’t any real danger, of course, but Beaumont didn’t know that.
And, come to think of it, Preacher realized that he couldn’t rule it out entirely, either. Beaumont had other enemies in St. Louis. It was possible that one of these days, Preacher might actually have to defend Beaumont against a genuine attempt on his life. That would be a damned hard pill to swallow, but he wouldn’t have any choice if he wanted Beaumont to continue believing that he was really Jim Donnelly.
Brutus was waiting for them at the door, as usual. As he swung it open and they came in, he bowed a little and said, “Good to see you, Mr. Beaumont. Would you like me to fetch Miss Jessie for you?”
“No, I’ll just go back to her office if that’s where she is.” With the arrogant stride of a man who didn’t expect to be denied anything he wanted, Beaumont started along the hallway that ran toward the rear of the house. He walked like a man who owned the place . . . which, of course, he did.
“Yeah, she’s back there,” Brutus said. “I can tell her you’re here—”
“No need,” Beaumont said.
Preacher started after him, only to have Brutus get in his way. The big man put a hand on Preacher’s chest to stop him, saying, “Why don’t you wait in the parlor, Mr. Donnelly? Got some good-lookin’ gals in there to keep you company, if you want.”
Preacher saw a worried look in the man’s eyes that made him aware Brutus was trying to tell him something. He didn’t know what it was, though, and he didn’t get a chance to ask him about it, because Beaumont paused, glanced over his shoulder at the two of them, and said impatiently, “Donnelly, come with me. You can carouse with those whores some other time.”
“Yes, sir,” Preacher said. He started to move past Brutus, only to have the man shift position to block his path.
“Careful,” Brutus breathed. “Turn your face away when you go past the parlor.”
At that instant, Preacher realized there must be somebody in the parlor who represented a threat to him. Brutus hadn’t really meant to take him in there when he’d made his suggestion a moment earlier. That had been strictly for Beaumont’s benefit. If Beaumont hadn’t insisted that Preacher come with him, Brutus would have hustled the mountain man off somewhere else in the house.
Preacher didn’t know for sure what was going on and didn’t have a chance to try to figure it out, because at that moment, two things happened. Jessie appeared at the far end of the hallway, perhaps having heard Beaumont’s voice, and closer, between her and Beaumont, a man stepped out of the parlor into the corridor with his arm around the waist of one of the whores. The man was a tall, barrel-chested gent with a long, ragged brown beard that looked like it hadn’t been trimmed in a while. He was laughing at something the girl with him had just said, but that didn’t stop his eyes from turning toward Beaumont, Brutus, and Preacher.
The man’s gaze landed on Preacher and froze. Recognition flashed in his eyes. Preacher knew him, too, but he hadn’t expected to ever see the man again. The last time he’d laid eyes on him had been during that Indian attack on the wagon train. The man who had just come out of the parlor was Buckhalter, the renegade wagonmaster who’d been working for Beaumont.
And now Buckhalter jerked his arm up, pointed, and yelled, “Preacher! Damn it, there he is now! Preacher!”
Chapter 25
Beaumont stiffened and whirled around, his hand darting under his coat for a hidden gun. He stared toward the foyer,
“Donnelly!” Buckhalter roared. “What the hell are you talkin’ about? That’s Preacher,
He clawed at a pistol stuck behind his belt.
Well, this bit of bad luck had blown things all to hell, Preacher thought as Beaumont’s eyes widened in shock and understanding of what Buckhalter meant. There was nothing left to do now . . .
Except kill the man he had come to St. Louis to kill. The problem was that Beaumont and Buckhalter both had guns in their hands now, and Preacher had only one pistol. Even though he was fast with it and probably could reload as swiftly as any man alive, there was no way he would be able to gun down either of the men and reload in time to stop the other one from killing him. At this close range, he didn’t think either Beaumont or Buckhalter were likely to miss.
That meant if he killed Beaumont, Buckhalter would undoubtedly kill him. The price was worth it, though, for justice to finally catch up to Shad Beaumont, Preacher thought as he smoothly pulled the pistol from behind his belt and brought it up. His thumb looped over the hammer and drew it back.
A shot sounded, only it wasn’t the boom of a large-bore pistol but rather the sharper crack of a smaller weapon. Buckhalter lurched forward, the barrel of his gun drooping. The weapon roared and smoke and flame spurted from the muzzle, but by then it was pointing down and the heavy ball smacked harmlessly into the floor. Buckhalter fell to his knees and pitched forward, blood welling from a hole in the back of his head.
Preacher caught a glimpse of Jessie standing at the end of the hall, powder smoke curling from the barrel of the little pistol in her hand as she held her arm extended out in front of her.
