CHAPTER 11
“Preacher, no!” Simon Russell cried. He leaped forward but was too late to prevent the mountain man’s instinctive reaction. Preacher’s right fist sunk wrist-deep in the count’s belly. A split-second later, Preacher’s left crashed against Stahlmaske’s jaw and knocked the man backward.
Stahlmaske probably would have fallen off the boat and landed in the river if Allingham hadn’t been fast enough to grab his arm.
While the senator was doing that, Gunther exploded out of the cabin with a furious roar and slammed into Preacher from behind. He wrapped his arms around the mountain man and lifted him off the deck as he powered forward.
They went over the side and landed in the shallow water between the riverboat and the bank. Water flew high in the air from the huge splash.
Preacher’s head was under the surface, and he hadn’t been able to catch a breath before being submerged because Gunther’s arms were wrapped around his chest like iron bands. With the big Prussian’s weight on top of him, pressing him down into the water and mud, Preacher knew he wasn’t far from drowning. Already a red haze began to settle over his brain.
He dug his feet into the river bottom in an effort to push himself up onto the bank, but they just slid in the slime and couldn’t get any purchase.
Preacher was damned if he was going to die here in this muck and mire. He fought with the only weapon at his disposal. He arched his spine and drove the back of his head into Gunther’s face as hard as he could.
The impact was solid enough to send a jolt through Preacher’s brain. He almost passed out, but he clung desperately to consciousness. Gunther’s grip seemed a little looser than it had been a moment earlier, so Preacher butted him again.
Gunther’s brutal embrace slipped enough for Preacher to wrench an arm free. He rammed his elbow into the big man’s belly. Drawing his knees up under him, Preacher heaved the upper half of his body out of the river. It was a feat of incredible strength, because he had to lift his enemy’s considerable weight, too.
Preacher’s ears were full of muddy water. Vaguely, he heard shouting, but he couldn’t make out any of the words or determine who the voices belonged to. At the moment it didn’t matter. He reached back with his free hand and clawed at Gunther’s face. Back east they might hold with dandified rules like no gougin’, but Preacher fought to win. If he could get a finger in Gunther’s eye, he’d pop the orb right out.
Instead Gunther let go of him and shoved him away. Preacher rolled onto the bank and came up with his chest heaving as he dragged air into his lungs. He turned and saw Gunther trying to flounder his way out of the water. In the moonlight the lower half of the Prussian’s face was black with the blood that had leaked from his smashed nose.
“Gunther!” Count Stahlmaske called from the Sentinel ’s deck. “Stop this battle immediately!”
Gunther ignored his employer’s command. Preacher could tell that the big man was too far gone in senseless anger to heed anything.
Stahlmaske, Russell, and Captain Warner stood at the edge of the riverboat’s cargo deck. Up on the passenger deck, a number of people had rushed to the railing to see what was going on. When Preacher glanced up there, he saw the rest of the Prussian contingent, along with Margaret and Sarah Allingham. The blond hair of the senator’s wife and daughter shone silver in the moonlight. They both watched raptly as Gunther stumbled ashore and charged at Preacher with his fists swinging wildly.
Preacher wasn’t fully recovered from almost drowning—even a man with his iron constitution needed more time than that—but he had some breath in his body again and was able to set his feet to meet Gunther’s attack. He ducked under a roundhouse swing and stepped in close to deliver a fast left and right to the big man’s belly.
Gunther had some fat on him, but underneath it were slablike muscles so as Preacher hit him it was like punching a wall. The mountain man tried to jerk his head out of the way of a careening fist, but it clipped him and knocked him to the side.
Preacher caught himself, blocked the next punch, and peppered Gunther’s already bleeding nose with a flurry of blows. Gunther howled in pain and rage and bulled forward. Preacher pivoted out of the way and tripped him. It might not have been the most sporting of tactics, but again, Preacher was in this fight to win.
In fact, he would have been more than happy to kick Gunther while he was down, but the Prussian rolled out of the way too fast. He slapped the ground and pushed himself up.
But as he did, his hand fell on a broken branch from one of the cottonwoods, and as he rose he gripped it like a club and swung it at Preacher’s head.
Preacher had to retreat as Gunther whipped the branch back and forth. His pistols had gotten wet, so they would have to be cleaned, charged, and primed again before he could use them. Anyway, he didn’t really want to kill Gunther, and for that reason he didn’t reach for his knife or tomahawk, either. He wasn’t afraid of the law, but he knew if he killed the Prussian, he would have to leave the riverboat. The count would never stand for having him on board. And he had given his word to Simon Russell to try to help.
The crewmen yelled, caught up in the excitement of the fight, and Dog barked thunderously. The big cur couldn’t contain himself anymore. He leaped easily from the deck to the shore and bounded forward, eager to get in on the fray.
“Dog, stay back!” Preacher shouted. If Dog knocked Gunther down, his fangs were likely to rip out the man’s throat before anybody could stop him.
Dog halted but continued snarling and yapping, ready to spring into action if Preacher should fall.
“I bash your head in, then kill that stupid dog, ja?” Gunther said as he paused in his swings with the makeshift club. “You lay a hand on the count, you deserve to die.”
“Seems like a mighty foolish notion to me, Gunther,” Preacher said. “I ain’t sure that stiff-necked aristocrat is worth either of us dyin’.”
Gunther roared again and renewed his attack.
Preacher was ready, though. He twisted out of the way as the branch descended toward his head and grabbed Gunther’s wrist with both hands. Twisting even more, he used the big man’s own momentum against him and hauled him forward, at the same time throwing a hip into Gunther’s body. It was a classic move the Indians used when wrestling with each other for sport.
Out of control now, Gunther flew into the air, turned over, and landed on his back with stunning force. Preacher grabbed the club and tore it out of his hands. He dropped to his knees next to Gunther’s head and pressed the branch into the big man’s throat with enough force to keep Gunther from breathing.
“I can crush your windpipe before you can stop me,” Preacher warned his opponent. “You might beat me, but even if you do, you’ll strangle to death before anybody can do anything about it.”
Gunther tried to growl and couldn’t even do that.
“I’m gonna step back and let you up, but this fight is over, you understand? Come at me again and I’ll kill you. That’s a promise, mister.”
Gunther lifted a hand, but instead of making a fist and striking at Preacher, he used it to wave the mountain man away.
Preacher lifted the branch from Gunther’s throat, stood up, and stepped back. Gunther rolled onto his side and gasped for breath.
Preacher knew the feeling. He had been doing the same thing a few minutes earlier.
“Bravo! What a stirring battle!”
The shout from the boat took Preacher by surprise. He looked up at the passenger deck and saw Roderick Stahlmaske standing there, an excited grin on his round face.
“Roderick!” his older brother snapped from the cargo deck. Roderick suddenly looked like a little boy who had been caught doing something he shouldn’t. He backed hurriedly away from the rail.
“I agree,” Sarah Allingham said from where she stood several yards along the railing. “It was a fabulous display of savagery.”
“Hush!” her mother scolded her. “And what are you doing out here in your nightdress? This is scandalous! Get back in the cabin right now.”
Stahlmaske jumped with athletic grace from the deck to the shore and stalked toward Preacher and Gunther. Preacher thought at first that he was going to help Gunther up, but then he realized he should have known better when the count strode past the still-gasping servant.
“My man’s crude defense of my honor changes nothing,” Stahlmaske said as he came to a stop in front of Preacher. “My challenge to you still stands.”
“You ain’t fixin’ to slap me again, are you?” Preacher asked. “I wouldn’t take it kindly.”
“I’ve already issued the challenge. There is no need to repeat it. It would have been more fitting had I had a gauntlet with which to strike you, but one must make do in a backward country such as this.”
“I got no interest in fightin’ a duel with you, Count. It’s a downright stupid idea if you ask me.”
Stahlmaske trembled with anger as his hands balled into fists at his side. He said, “Are you declaring yourself to be a coward, then? That is what refusing my challenge will amount to.”
Preacher glanced at the boat. He could tell from the faces of both Russell and Allingham that the two men wanted him to find some way out of this. They wanted the incident smoothed over.
Russell was an old friend and Preacher liked Allingham more than he’d expected to when he found out the man was a politician. But there were some things he just wasn’t going to do, even out of friendship.
“Nobody’s ever made me say I was yellow, and it sure as hell ain’t gonna start with you,” Preacher said. “I accept your challenge, Count. If you want a duel, you got one.”
Up on the cargo deck, Russell cursed softly. “Excellent,” Stahlmaske said. “As the challenged party, you have the choice of weapons. Will it be pistols or sabers?”
With pistols, Preacher was pretty sure that one or both of them would wind up dead. He might stand more of a chance of defeating the count in a knife fight without killing him. And a saber was just an overgrown knife, wasn’t it?
“I reckon sabers will do,” he said.
“Excellent!” Stahlmaske looked genuinely pleased. “Tomorrow morning at dawn we cross steel—in a duel to the death!”