Preacher rode hard toward the river, and as he did so, worry gnawed at his guts. He hadn’t expected his friends to run into any trouble. Of course, they were far enough from town that the possibility of encountering a Pawnee or Cheyenne war party existed, and bands of white renegades sometimes roamed through these parts, too.
The threat that loomed the largest, though, was Shad Beaumont. He had more reason to hate Preacher and want to strike at him through his friends than anyone else. Preacher wasn’t sure how Beaumont could have found them, though.
The time it took him to reach the river and then turn northwestward stretched out interminably, although Preacher knew logically it was only a few minutes. He scanned the morning sky, looking for dust that would betray the presence of riders. He had heard quite a few shots, which meant several people had been involved in the battle.
Maybe the shots hadn’t had anything to do with Uncle Dan and the two women, he told himself. He couldn’t quite bring himself to believe that, though. The tight, cold ball in his guts wouldn’t let him.
He topped one of the rolling hills and spotted something up ahead. A second later as he galloped toward it, he recognized it as Jessie’s buggy, which now lay overturned on its side. The horse that was hitched to the vehicle was still in its traces, lying on its side, motionless. A saddle horse was a couple of hundred yards away, moving around skittishly. Preacher recognized it as Uncle Dan’s mount.
His heart plummeted as he recognized those things. Now there was no hope that the trouble hadn’t involved his friends. The evidence that it had was right before his eyes.
But he didn’t see Uncle Dan or either of the two women anywhere. It was possible they had been taken prisoner and carried off somewhere. Preacher didn’t slow Horse as he raced toward the wrecked buggy. Wherever the men who had done this had gone, he would track them down. He made that vow to himself.
A rifle suddenly boomed from some brush to the left of the overturned vehicle. Preacher saw the puff of powder smoke from the bushes. The ball didn’t come anywhere near him, though, whining off harmlessly instead. Whoever was holed up in there wasn’t a very good shot. Using his knees to guide the stallion, Preacher veered Horse so that the buggy provided some cover for them. Rifle in hand, he leaped from the saddle while Horse was still moving and landed behind the buggy. He crouched and aimed over the top of the vehicle at the brush.
“Whoever you are, best throw out your guns and come out after ’em with your hands up!” he shouted.
He wasn’t sure what response he was expecting, but the one he got sure wasn’t it. A weak voice called, “Preacher? Is that you?”
“Uncle Dan!” Preacher exclaimed. He straightened and ran out from behind the buggy. A few fast, long-legged strides brought him to the bushes. He parted them, paying no attention to the way the branches clawed at his buckskins, and plunged into the thicket. He spotted Uncle Dan lying on the ground and went to his knees beside the old-timer.
Several dark splotches of blood on Uncle Dan’s buckskins told Preacher that he’d been shot through and through. It was a wonder the old man was still alive. Carefully, Preacher lifted him so that he was sitting up halfway. Uncle Dan’s hat was gone, and his long white hair was tangled around his head. Blood had trickled from his mouth, leaving a crimson trail in the snowy beard.
“Well, I’m . . . shot all to hell, Preacher,” he managed to say.
“It ain’t that bad—” Preacher began.
“The hell . . . it ain’t. I’m a goner, and we . . . both know it.”
Preacher didn’t waste time arguing. He got right to the point of what he needed to know.
“What happened?”
“Some fellas . . . jumped us. They come up . . . behind us. We tried to outrun ’em, but their horses was too fast. Couldn’t . . . get away.” The old man’s weathered face twisted in a grimace. “I’m plumb sorry, Preacher! I put up . . . as good a fight as I could . . . and so’d them gals . . . but they was too many . . .”
“Beaumont,” Preacher grated.
Uncle Dan licked dry lips. “Yeah. He was the boss of ’em. And there was a fella with him . . . Miss Jessie called him . . . Cleve. Said he was . . . a double-crossin’ . . . son of a bitch.”
A fire of hatred and fury sprang up within Preacher. Jessie had been worried about Cleve that very morning, and then the gambler had gone and betrayed her. Cleve knew where their camp was. He must have heard about Jessie’s plot against Beaumont being revealed and had gone straight to Beaumont to sell him that information. That would not only enrich Cleve, it would help keep Beaumont from suspecting his connection with Jessie, too.
Cleve had made it clear from the first that he had joined forces with Jessie for money and power, so it didn’t come as any surprise that he had switched sides as soon as it was better for him to do so. Preacher understood that, but it didn’t make him hate Cleve any less.
Those thoughts flashed through Preacher’s head while Uncle Dan paused to take a deep, ragged breath that made the old-timer wince in pain.
“Things’re all busted up . . . inside me,” Uncle Dan went on. “I took a bad tumble from my hoss . . . just about the time the buggy . . . turned over. I managed to . . . crawl into this here thicket . . . and throw some lead at the sons o’ bitches . . . but I was already hurt and they winged me a few times . . . to boot. Reckon they figured . . . I was done for . . . and they was right.” A grim chuckle came from him. “I must’ve . . . passed out for a little spell. Came to and heard a horse . . . I wasn’t thinkin’ too straight . . . I shoved my rifle out and squeezed off a shot. That was you comin’, weren’t it, Preacher? I didn’t . . . hit you?”
“Nope, don’t worry about that,” Preacher assured him. “I’m fine. Now, I need to get you out of these bushes —”
“Don’t . . . waste the time on me. You best get after . . . Beaumont. After they . . . stopped shootin’ . . . he yelled at me . . . said if I was still alive to tell you . . . that he’ll be waitin’ for you . . . at his place . . . if’n you want to see . . . Jessie and Casey alive again.”
The old-timer’s voice was getting weaker. It was barely above a whisper now. Preacher had to lean close to make out all the words.
“You . . . find Beaumont . . . and save them gals. And when you . . . settle the score . . . with Beaumont . . .
