Casey sat in those chairs. From the way their arms were pulled back, Preacher knew their hands were tied behind them. Beaumont was using them as bait, all right, and he was making sure they were right out there where Preacher couldn’t help but see them. Beaumont’s nerves were probably getting tired of the waiting. He wanted to goad Preacher into action.
Preacher’s jaw tightened as he studied the faces of the two women through the glass. His breath rasped between his teeth. He wouldn’t have thought it was possible for him to hate Shad Beaumont any more than he already did, but he discovered now that it was.
Jessie and Casey had been beaten. Preacher saw the blood and the bruises on their faces, and if Beaumont had stepped into view at that moment, Preacher might have put a rifle ball through the bastard’s head and been done with it. He wished he had done that a couple of weeks earlier. Uncle Dan would probably still be alive if he had.
Preacher wasn’t the sort to brood about what might have been, though. Instead, he took action to deal with what was. Now that he knew where Jessie and Casey were being held in the house, he could put his plan into effect. It was risky, no doubt about that, but with the odds stacked against him the way they were, there was no way he could rescue the women without putting them in danger first. As long as they were in Beaumont’s hands, they were doomed to die eventually, anyway.
Preacher climbed down into the alley again. He went to the back door of the emporium and used his knife to bust the lock, which wasn’t very strong. He went inside, and his eyes were accustomed enough to the darkness by now that he was able to find his way around the store and locate the things he needed. He made a bundle out of some burlap, slung it over his shoulder, and climbed up on the roof again, leaving some money on the counter to pay for what he had taken.
He was two blocks away from Beaumont’s house. That was a pretty far distance for what he had in mind, but he was confident the bow he had fashioned during the day would send the arrows that far. He had made half a dozen arrows, not bothering with trying to carve flint heads for them. Now he dumped them out of the makeshift quiver he had used to carry them and tore strips off the bolt of cloth he had taken from the store. He wrapped the strips around the ends of the arrows. Once he had done that, he dipped each cloth-wrapped arrowhead in the keg of pitch he had found in the store as well.
Preacher tore up some brown paper he had brought from below, making a pile of it in a metal bowl that would contain the fire. Then he took out his flint and steel and struck sparks with them, leaning over to blow on the tiny flames and make them leap higher.
Once the fire was burning well enough, he stood up and nocked one of the arrows to the bow. He held the pitch-soaked head of the shaft in the flames until it caught and began to blaze. Then he straightened, drew back the bow, aimed, and let fly.
The burning shaft arced through the darkness. Preacher watched it soar through the air and then curve downward . . . to land on the opposite end of the roof from the room where Jessie and Casey were being held prisoner.
Chapter 30
Even though Preacher watched the flight of the flaming arrow, by the time it landed he had set another one ablaze. With a grunt of effort, he drew the bow-string taut and sent the second arrow flying through the air after the first one. He knew he had the range, so he didn’t even watch this one. He just nocked the next arrow and let fly, then again and again and again.
By the time the sixth and final arrow landed on the roof of the big house, the flames had caught hold. Preacher heard yelling and knew that Beaumont’s men had seen the blazing streaks in the sky and figured out what was going on. They leaped out of their hiding places and hurried toward the house. Most people feared fire worse than anything else, and with good reason.
Preacher dropped the bow and snatched up his rifle. He lifted the weapon to his shoulder and drew a bead. He aimed at one of the lighted windows, and when one of Beaumont’s men was unlucky enough to pause between him and the window, Preacher pulled the trigger. The rifle boomed, and the man dropped like a rock as the heavy lead ball tore through him.
Preacher reloaded swiftly and downed another man the same way. With all the yelling and confusion going on around the house now, he wasn’t sure anybody even noticed. He glanced at the fire, saw it spreading across the roof, and figured he could risk taking the time for another shot or two. He reloaded, waited a few seconds for another target to present itself, and killed a third man.
That was all he could stand. He had to get down there. He couldn’t wait any longer.
He left the empty rifle where it was, ran to the front of the building, clambered out onto the awning over the boardwalk, hung from it, and dropped to the street. Some of the citizens of St. Louis who were still out and about at this hour had noticed the flames leaping from the roof of Beaumont’s house, and a number of them ran toward it, shouting questions. Preacher joined them, blending into the crowd. He drew two of the four pistols he carried behind his belt as he hurried along the street.
When he reached the lawn in front of Beaumont’s house, he looked around to see if Jessie and Casey had been brought outside already. Failing to spot them anywhere, he looked up instead. Smoke billowed from the burning roof and coiled around the house, but it didn’t obscure the window where he had seen the women earlier. He grimaced as he saw that they were still there, tied to the chairs. That meant he had to get inside the house to free them.
Beaumont had to realize that Preacher was the reason his house was on fire. That meant he would know that Preacher was coming for Jessie and Casey. He would wait in there as long as he could, still hoping to have the final showdown on his terms.
Preacher was willing to oblige him on that score. The mountain man headed for the front door as people started trying to form a bucket brigade stretching back to the nearest well. They would fail in that effort, Preacher knew. The fire was too well entrenched on the roof. The best the citizens could do was to keep the blaze from spreading. Preacher wished them luck with that, but he couldn’t stop to help them. He bounded toward the porch.
A knot of Beaumont’s men emerged from the house just as Preacher reached the steps. They had been warned to look out for him and probably had a good description of him, thanks to Cleve. They wouldn’t be looking for a seven-foot-tall giant anymore.
Sure enough, one of the men recognized him and yelled, “Hey, it’s him! Preacher!”
