CHAPTER 6
Preacher felt the deck vibrate under his feet as the engines engaged. An uncharacteristic whine came from Dog as he stood beside the mountain man gazing out at the water. Preacher reached down and scratched behind the big cur’s ears.
“Don’t worry, old-timer,” he said. “It’ll be all right.”
He wished he believed that. Steam engines were unnatural contraptions, though, and they were harbingers of a noisy, stinking civilization that seemed intent on spreading all across the country and ruining the wilderness that was left. One of these days, a fella would have to go a long way to find a place where he couldn’t hear an engine running.
Fortunately for Preacher, he figured the sort of life he led insured that he would dead long before that day ever came.
With great splashes, the paddle wheel at the back of the boat began to turn. Running in reverse, its blades dug into the river and pulled the Sentinel away from the dock. Preacher turned and looked up into the pilot house. Through the open window he saw Captain Warner at the wheel, spinning it and guiding the boat into the middle of the stream.
When it was well clear of the docks, the whistle blew again and the paddle wheel came to a stop, dripping silvery drops of water from the blades that were above the surface. Slowly, they began to move again, turning the other way now, and the Sentinel eased forward. The vibrations under Preacher’s feet increased a little as the engines pushed the boat ahead against the grip of the river’s current.
They were on their way, Preacher thought.
The sound of loud voices talking in a foreign language made him turn his attention back to the cargo deck. He walked along the rail until he could look down at the three men who had unloaded the trunks and bags off the wagon that had followed the carriages to the docks. Preacher was a little surprised to see them. He had figured they were just men Russell or somebody else had hired to bring those things from the hotel where the party had been staying.
Since the men were still here, though, and since Preacher realized they were talking in German, it was more likely they were servants who worked for Count Stahlmaske.
And they weren’t just talking in German.
They were arguing.
All three of the men were fairly big, but one of them towered over the other two. His shoulders were as wide as an ax handle, and they and his arms bulged with muscles. His head sat on a thick neck and was bald as an egg.
The argument seemed to be between him and the other two men. Preacher had no idea what it was about, since he couldn’t follow the guttural words being thrown back and forth.
The big bruiser must have had enough, though. His right arm suddenly lashed out, and the big fist at the end of it cracked against the jaw of the closest man. The fella who’d been hit flew backward with his arms flung out to the sides.
For a second Preacher thought the man was going to topple off the boat into the river. He caught himself just in time to keep from getting soaked.
With an angry yell, the third man threw himself at the big bald fella from behind, jumping onto his back and grabbing him around the neck. He began hammering punches to the side of the bald man’s head.
The bald man reached up and back, took hold of his attacker, and heaved him up and over as he bent forward. Howling in alarm, the man flew through the air and crashed among the trunks that had been brought aboard.
Preacher felt some admiration for the bald man. Clearly he wasn’t afraid to take on two-to-one odds.
But then the man swung around to his first foe, slung him to the deck, dropped on top of him with both knees, and began pounding fists into his face.
If he kept that up for very long, there was a good chance he’d kill the unlucky gent.
Preacher leaned over the rail and shouted, “Hey! Stop that!”
The big bald man paused in the beating he was handing out and looked up at Preacher. His face, which reminded Preacher of a lumpy potato, contorted in a snarl as he spat words at the mountain man. Preacher didn’t understand them, of course, but they sounded like cussing to him.
Then the man went back to smashing his fists into his victim’s face.
At least this was a simple decision for Preacher to make. He didn’t like being cussed at, and he wasn’t going to stand by while some big bruiser beat a smaller man to death. He said, “Dog, stay,” and headed for the stairs leading down to the lower deck.
Behind him, Dog growled deep in his throat. The big cur wanted in on the action, too. But he would follow Preacher’s command, as he always did.
By the time Preacher reached the cargo deck, several members of the riverboat’s crew had come up, drawn by the commotion of battle. They didn’t appear eager to step in, however, even though they were big and muscular enough to have done so. They probably had orders not to interfere with the passengers unless they were endangering the boat somehow.
Preacher didn’t have to worry about that. He strode up behind the big bald man and raised his voice.
“I told you to stop that, mister. Get away from that man, now!”
The bald man rose to his feet and turned slowly, menacingly. He was a good six inches taller than Preacher and probably forty pounds heavier. Up close like this, he was a damn behemoth, Preacher thought.
An ugly grin split the man’s face. He waved a hand dismissively at Preacher and said, “You damn fool American . . . back off.”
A moan came from the man lying on the deck with his face bloody and already swollen almost beyond recognition. Preacher nodded toward him and told the bald man, “Leave him alone. You keep hittin’ him like that and you’re liable to kill him.”
“Jawohl, that is right, I kill him.” The bald man’s voice sounded like rusty nails being shaken in a keg. “He need killing.”
“What in blazes did he do?”
“He says Gunther is . . . is . . .” The big man frowned as he searched for the right word. “Stupid!”
“And you’d be Gunther, I reckon?”
“Ja.” The man pounded one massive fist into the palm of the other hand. “Gunther Klostermann.”
“Well, leave him alone, Gunther. You’ve already done enough damage.”
“I take no orders from you, American. I take orders from Count Stahlmaske.”
The man on the deck groaned again and rolled onto his side. He tried to get his hands and knees under him so he could crawl away. Gunther twisted toward him and with another of those strangled German curses lifted a foot into the man’s midsection in a savage kick.
“Damn it,” Preacher said. He sprang forward, grabbed Gunther’s shoulder with his left hand, jerked him around, and crashed his right fist into the Prussian’s mouth.
Preacher was lean and rawboned, not the sort of hulking bruiser Gunther Klostermann was, but the mountain man packed an incredible amount of strength in his frame. He put as much of that power as he could behind the punch, and it landed cleanly.
Gunther grunted and went backward a couple of steps, but then he caught himself. Blood oozed from his split lips, but that didn’t stop him from grinning again.
“Well, hell,” Preacher said.
Gunther stopped grinning. He bellowed and came at Preacher like an avalanche. Preacher tried to twist out of the way, but Gunther snagged his buckskin shirt and threw him against the structure that housed the boilers and engine room. Preacher hit the wall with tooth-jolting force that took his breath away.
The clumping of heavy footsteps warned him that Gunther was about to ram him against the wall again. This time Preacher was able to get out of the way so that the bigger man didn’t crush him and probably snap some of his ribs. Gunther was the one who ran into the wall.
Preacher hit him in the back, then clubbed his hands and smashed them against the back of Gunther’s neck. When Preacher hit a man like that, it usually knocked him out.
Not in this case. Gunther swung an arm in a backhanded blow that felt like someone had smashed Preacher across the chest with a tree trunk. The mountain man stumbled backward.
Preacher tripped over the man Gunther had been thrashing earlier and sprawled on the deck. Gunther came after him. Preacher figured the big Prussian might kick and stomp him to death if he got a chance, so he rolled out of the way and swung his leg around.
The move took Gunther by surprise and swept his legs out from under him. With a crash that seemed to shake the whole boat, Gunther slammed down on the deck. Before he could catch his breath, Preacher landed on top of him, driving a knee into the big man’s belly and throwing a left and a right that rocked Gunther’s head from side of side.
Gunther seemed groggy now. The back of his head had hit the desk pretty hard when he fell, Preacher knew. Not wanting to waste even a momentary advantage, Preacher hit his foe again and again. He didn’t let up for a second.
He knew that if he gave Gunther any chance to recover, he might not have another opportunity to defeat the giant.
The boom of a gunshot stayed Preacher’s fists. He heard a ball hum over his head and saw the little splash where it hit the river beside the boat. Preacher froze with his right fist lifted over his head, poised to come crashing down on Gunther’s face again.
“Stand up and step away from that man or I’ll kill you!”
Preacher looked back over his shoulder and saw Count Albert Stahlmaske standing at the railing on the passenger deck. The count held two flintlock pistols. A tendril of gray smoke still curled from the muzzle of the weapon in his left hand.
The gun in his right hand was aimed straight at Preacher’s head, and the mountain man could tell from the cold fury he saw in Stahlmaske’s eyes that the count really wanted to pull the trigger right about now.