CHAPTER 7
Simon Russell appeared on the passenger deck, hurrying toward Stahlmaske with his hands outstretched.
“Please, Count, there’s no need for any gunplay,” Russell implored. “I don’t know what’s going on here, but I’m sure we can sort it out.”
Stahlmaske didn’t lower the gun he had pointed at Preacher. Without taking his eyes off the mountain man, he said, “That unwashed lout attacked one of my servants.”
“That ain’t exactly the way it happened, Simon,” Preacher said. “I threw the first punch, true enough, but only to keep this big galoot from beatin’ that other fella to death.”
Senator Allingham came along the passenger deck, too, evidently summoned from his cabin by the commotion. He looked alarmed when he saw the pistols Stahlmaske was holding.
“What’s this?” he demanded.
“Just another demonstration of how most of your fellow Americans are little more than dangerous, uncivilized barbarians, Senator,” Stahlmaske snapped.
Gunther was starting to look a little less groggy, Preacher noticed. If the giant got his wits about him, he was liable to start the ruckus all over again. Preacher stood up and moved back a step. He didn’t want to be within easy arm’s reach if Gunther decided to act up again.
“I really reckon it’d be a good idea for you to put that gun away, Count,” he said. “My dog’s startin’ to get a mite peeved about you pointin’ it at me.”
Stahlmaske glanced along the deck toward the bow, where Dog still waited, obeying Preacher’s order to stay. The big cur wasn’t sitting down peacefully anymore, though. He was on his feet, with the hair on his back standing up and his teeth bared in a snarl. Dog knew when his master was being threatened.
The count cursed in German and started to swing the pistol toward Dog. Preacher snatched the tomahawk from behind his belt. He thought he could break Stahlmaske’s arm with a well-aimed throw before the count could pull the trigger.
Neither of those things happened because Simon Russell leaped forward with some of his old speed and agility and put himself in front of Stahlmaske’s gun.
“Hold your fire!” he said.
“You dare give orders to me?” Stahlmaske roared, but he didn’t press the trigger.
Senator Allingham said quickly, “I believe we should allow cooler heads to prevail, gentlemen. I assure you we’ll get to the bottom of this incident and deal with it appropriately, Count.”
Stahlmaske looked like he didn’t want to agree, but after a long moment he lowered the pistol.
“Very well,” he said. “But I want that man to stay away from me and my people.”
He jerked his head in a nod toward Preacher.
“That ain’t gonna be a problem,” the mountain man said. “I’ll be more than happy to steer clear of that bunch.”
Stahlmaske glared at him but didn’t say anything else. The count allowed Allingham to lead him away from the railing. The senator was talking and making animated gestures, but Stahlmaske didn’t appear to be listening.
On the cargo deck, Gunther rolled onto his side and muttered darkly as he struggled to get up. Preacher backed away. If Gunther still wanted to fight, Preacher would oblige him, but the mountain man hoped this fracas was over.
Unsteadily, Gunther climbed to his feet. Blood still oozed from his lips and trickled down his chin. He pointed a blunt, sausage-like finger at Preacher and said thickly, “We will finish this another time, American.”
“I’ll be around,” Preacher said, “any time you want to look me up.”
Gunther turned and tried to swagger off, but he was still a little too shaky to make the arrogant pose convincing. He had to put a hand against the engine room wall for a second to brace himself before he could go on.
Preacher stuck his tomahawk behind his belt again and went over to the man who’d been the object of Gunther’s wrath. The other servant was already there, kneeling beside his friend and helping him sit up.
The second man looked up at Preacher and started saying something in German, then at the mountain man’s uncomprehending expression he switched to halting English.
“Thank you . . . but you should not have . . . with Gunther interfered. He is . . . a very bad man.”
“I’ve dealt with bad gents before,” Preacher assured him. “Lemme give you a hand with your pard there.”
He took one of the beaten man’s arms while the second servant got on the other side. Together they lifted him to his feet. He tried to say something, but his jaw was already so bruised and swollen from the pounding Gunther’s fists had given it that he couldn’t get the words out.
“What’d they fight over, anyway?” Preacher asked the second man.
“Ludwig here—he is Ludwig and I am Egon—he commented to me that Gunther is a . . . a dummkopf. This is true, but it is not wise to let Gunther hear you say such a thing. Him it angers.”
Preacher grunted.
“Yeah, I’d say so.”
“For a while we stay away from him. Calm down, he will.”
“I hope you’re right, Egon.”
Simon Russell had come down the stairs from the passenger deck. He approached the men and told them, “There are a couple of rooms next to the engine room that are being used for servants’ quarters. Got cots in there so that fella can lay down for a while if he needs to.”
Egon nodded.
“Danke, Herr Russell. Thank you.”
As Egon led his friend away, Russell turned to the mountain man, shook his head, and said, “I’m sorry about that, Preacher. We’ve barely steamed away from the dock and already there’s been trouble.”
“I ain’t sure a little scrap like this qualifies as real trouble,” Preacher replied with a trace of a smile. “At least nobody got hurt too bad.”
“Yeah, well, I wish it hadn’t happened, anyway.”
“You did everything you could to keep it from gettin’ worse,” Preacher pointed out. “And it sure as hell would have if that count fella had taken a shot at Dog.”
Russell looked at Preacher and slowly nodded.
“You’d have killed him, wouldn’t you?”
“More than likely.” The mountain man shrugged. “Thanks to you, I didn’t have to.”
“Thank God it didn’t come to that. If anything happened to the count, there’s no telling how much trouble it would cause between his country and ours. He’s not gonna forget that you stood up to him. He doesn’t like that.”
“Fair enough. I don’t like him.”
Russell grinned and said, “I’ve got a jug in my cabin. I know it’s a little early in the day—”
“Never too early in the day to clear away the cobwebs in a fella’s throat,” Preacher said as he clapped a hand on his old friend’s shoulder.
A short time later the Sentinel steamed into the mouth of the Missouri River. It would follow this broad stream known as the Big Muddy for hundreds of miles to the mouth of the Yellowstone River, where trappers would congregate to sell their pelts. Preacher knew that word of the riverboat’s arrival would spread with surprising speed through the mountains.
That day was still a couple of weeks in the future, though, and if today’s events were any indication, those weeks wouldn’t be peaceful ones.
By evening, things on the boat seemed to have calmed down. The passengers had spent most of the day in their cabins. Preacher had spent his time on deck, not wanting to be cooped up inside four walls when he could be outside in the sun and fresh air.
He sat on a crate of supplies, smoking a pipe and watching the rolling landscape go by on both sides of the river. Dog sat beside him on the deck, tongue lolling out. The barge loaded with horses floated along behind the boat, attached by heavy ropes.
This far downriver, the Missouri was wide and deep. It wouldn’t be until they got farther upstream that it would become treacherous, filled with snags that could rip out a boat’s hull and sandbars where a vessel could get stuck.
As evening approached, Captain Warner turned the boat toward the southern bank where the Sentinel would put in for the night. Even in this more placid section of river, traveling in the dark was just too dangerous.
Like most river pilots, Warner knew the best places to stop. The boat steamed toward a tree-lined stretch of bank. Not only would the Sentinel tie up here, but the crew could also chop a little wood to replace what had been burned during the day. Farther upriver, trees would be few and far between, so it was good to take on fuel for the burners whenever there was a chance.
Preacher was standing at the railing watching the shore come closer when Senator Allingham approached him.
“Hello, Preacher,” the politician said.
“Senator,” Preacher replied, trying not to sound too curt. He didn’t care for government folks just on general principles, but Allingham seemed to be a likable enough fella.
“You’ll be dining with us tonight, I hope.”
Preacher looked over at him and squinted.
“After what happened this mornin’, I don’t reckon the count would be too happy to have me sittin’ at the same table as him.”
“The count’s not inviting you. I am.” Allingham lowered his voice. “Between you and me, Count Stahlmaske is a royal pain in the rear end. I didn’t ask for the job of escorting him on this tour of the frontier. The president prevailed upon me to do so.”
“Ol’ Andy Jackson can be pretty persuasive, all right. I fought under him at the Battle of New Orleans, back when I was just a youngster.”
“Is that right? You’ve had an interesting life, Preacher.”
“It ain’t over yet,” the mountain man said dryly. “I aim on bein’ around for a spell yet. That is, if I don’t get myself killed by agreein’ to go along with somebody else’s damn fool ideas.”
Allingham laughed and said, “Like coming along on this riverboat journey?”
“You said it, Senator, not me.”
“Well, I hope you’ll join us in the dining room anyway. Count Stahlmaske claims that he came over here to learn about America, and I don’t think he’s going to find anyone more American than you, my friend!”