CHAPTER 3
Preacher wasn’t going to stand by and do nothing while his son was killed. He had two flintlock pistols shoved behind the broad leather belt around his waist. He reached for the guns, then realized that if he blew a hole in the man about to break Hawk’s neck, there was a good chance the heavy lead balls would pass on through his body and into the youngster. Preacher couldn’t risk that.
Instead he grabbed the tomahawk that was also stuck behind his belt. A perfect throw would lodge the sharp flint head in the back of the man’s skull without endangering Hawk.
As it turned out, the mountain man didn’t need any of his weapons. Hawk writhed like a snake, and his opponent couldn’t hold him. Hawk worked his way out of the grip seemingly by magic and dropped to a crouch. His elbow drove back sharply into the man’s groin, causing a startled, high-pitched yelp of pain. As the man began to double over, Hawk turned and lifted an uppercut with all the deceptive strength in his slim body. His fist crashed into the man’s jaw and made his feet come off the ground as he flipped over backward, out cold.
A voice said, “That was as fine a display of pugilism as I’ve seen in a long time, lad!” A man with a thatch of gray hair and bushy side whiskers came toward Hawk. He must have been watching the fight from the corner of the building. “Who are you, my friend? Do you speak English?”
“I speak the white man’s tongue,” Hawk said. He pointed toward the porch. “And I travel with him.”
Preacher chuckled and moved forward to the top of the steps. “You knew I was up here watchin’ the whole time, didn’t you, Hawk?”
“Of course. I am not blind as so many of your people seem to be.”
The newcomer looked up at the porch and said, “Is that you, Preacher?”
“Howdy, Vernon,” Preacher said by way of answer. “Good to see you again. The sprout over there”—he nodded toward Hawk—“is Hawk That Soars.” Preacher paused. “My son.”
“Is that so?” Vernon Pritchard said. He thrust out his hand toward the youngster. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Hawk That Soars.”
Hawk hesitated, still not entirely comfortable with the customs of the white men, but he gripped Pritchard’s hand and shook it.
“I didn’t know you had any children, Preacher,” the trader went on.
Preacher scratched his jaw and said, “You and me both. But I’ve never been good at keepin’ up with that sort of thing.”
“I take it those are your pelts on that pack mule?”
“Mine and Hawk’s and a couple of other fellas. You want to make us an offer on ’em?”
Pritchard went over to the mule, opened one of the packs enough to check the furs bundled inside it, then said, “All of them the same quality?”
“Yep.”
With the keen eye of an experienced trader, Pritchard estimated the load’s weight, then stated a figure.
“You can do a mite better than that,” Preacher said.
Pritchard laughed. “You drive a hard bargain, my friend. I’ll raise my offer by . . . ten percent.”
“Twenty-five.”
“Fifteen,” Pritchard countered.
“Done,” Preacher said.
“I’ll have my men unload. What about the mule?”
Preacher pointed along the street and said, “We’re gonna take the horses down to Fullerton’s. If one of your boys can bring the mule along when you’re done, I’ll tell Fullerton to be lookin’ for him.”
“I can do that.”
Preacher nodded toward the three men lying sprawled in the street. They were starting to come around, stirring a little and letting out an occasional moan. The bubbling noises coming from the one whose nose Hawk had broken sounded miserable.
“You know these varmints?” the mountain man asked.
“Not to speak of. There are dozens of crooked brutes just like them around now. Do you want me to send for the constable so you can have them arrested?”
“No, I reckon Hawk already dealt ’em out enough punishment for bein’ stupid.”
“I considered killing them,” Hawk said, “but I thought the other white men might be upset and cause trouble for you, Preacher.”
“Don’t ever hold back on killin’ somebody who needs it on account of me,” Preacher advised. “If I worried overmuch about what other folks think, I never would’ve taken off for the tall and uncut when I was still just a younker.”
With the deal for the furs settled, Preacher and Hawk walked toward the stable, leading the four horses. Dog padded alongside the mountain man.
After a minute or so, Hawk said, “I am pleased you did not try to help me back there. I can fight my own battles.”
“Never doubted it,” Preacher replied. He didn’t say anything about how he’d been preparing to take action when Hawk got loose from the third man. His help hadn’t been needed . . . but he had been ready if it was.
Full night had fallen by the time they reached Fullerton’s Livery Stable. The proprietor, Ambrose Fullerton, was a short, round man with a white beard and a genius’s touch with animals. Preacher wouldn’t trust Horse to anybody else in St. Louis, and he knew Fullerton wouldn’t mind if Dog stayed here, too.
Fullerton came out of the office as Preacher and Hawk led the four horses into the barn’s broad center aisle. He shook hands with Preacher and patted Horse on the shoulder and Dog on the head. They wouldn’t accept such familiarity from many people.
“And who’s this?” Fullerton said as he smiled at Hawk.
“My son, Hawk,” Preacher explained. “We’ve been doin’ some trappin’ together.”
“It’s good to meet you, Hawk. You’ll find that your pa has a lot of friends here in Sant Looey.”
Hawk nodded solemnly and said, “I am beginning to understand this. He likes to talk about how many enemies he has made, but I think he has made more friends.”
“Not necessarily,” Fullerton said. “Most of Preacher’s enemies are dead.”
Preacher ignored that and jerked a thumb toward the two extra horses. “Seen these mounts before?”
Fullerton looked the horses over, studying them for a couple of minutes before he said, “As a matter of fact, I think I have. I believe they were stabled here for a few nights, a week or so ago.”
“Remember what their owners looked like?”
“One was a tall, dark-haired fella. Had a lean and hungry look about him, as Audie might say when he’s spouting old Bill Shakespeare. The other one was shorter. Had a red beard, as I recall.”
Preacher nodded. “That’s them, all right.”
Fullerton regarded Preacher intently for a second, then said, “I don’t suppose they’ll be needing those horses anymore.”
“Nope, they sure won’t.”
“In that case, I can take them off your hands if you want. Give you a fair price.”
Preacher didn’t bother haggling this time. He took what Fullerton offered him, then said, “You don’t happen to know the names of those two fellas, do you? Or if they had any family around here? If they did, the money for the horses should rightfully go to them.”
Fullerton shook his head. “They didn’t offer their names, and I didn’t ask. They didn’t act like they were from around here, though. Fact is, they rode into town with some other fellas. All of them were new to these parts, seems like.”
“How many other men are we talkin’ about?” Preacher asked.
“Fourteen or fifteen, I’d say. Some kept their horses here, some didn’t. But they’re all gone now. I didn’t get names for any of them, either.” Fullerton rubbed his chin. “I can tell you about one of them, though. Hard to forget him. He was even bigger than you, Preacher. Didn’t have a beard, but he was sporting one of those long mustaches that curl up on the ends. Funny-lookin’ thing. The way the others acted, he was sort of the leader of the bunch.”
“But they’re not around anymore, you say?”
Fullerton shook his head and said, “I haven’t seen any of ’em for a few days. I reckon they took off for greener pastures, wherever that might be.”
Greener pastures, thought Preacher. Like lurking around west of the settlement to rob and kill trappers on their way to St. Louis with a load of pelts. Well, two members of the gang wouldn’t be doing that anymore.
As they left the stable, Hawk asked, “Where will we stay tonight? We should make camp before it gets much later.”
“We won’t have to sleep on the ground tonight,” Preacher said. “A friend of mine has a place here in town. It’s mostly a tavern, but he rents rooms, too, and we can get something to eat there. That’s where we’re headed now.”
“Sleep . . . in one of these buildings?”
“You’ve slept in tepees your whole life.”
“Those are different.”
Preacher laughed. “We’re gonna have this same conversation about everything when it comes to civilization, ain’t we?”
“Sleeping in a building.” Hawk shook his head. “It seems wrong.”
“Well, you’ll just have to see if you like it. The place we’re headed is called Red Mike’s.”
Preacher led the way to the tavern not far from the waterfront. He stopped here every time he visited St. Louis and considered the burly Irishman who ran the place to be a friend. More than once, Preacher had gotten into fights either inside Red Mike’s or near the place, but that didn’t stop him from returning.
The streets were busy, and now that night had fallen, it was likely there weren’t too many innocents out and about. Preacher and Hawk passed a number of hard-looking men, but those fellows gave them a wide berth. Preacher supposed some of them recognized him and figured it wouldn’t be a good idea to tangle with him. Others just instinctively gave him room.
He knew he had something of a lean and hungry look himself. He recognized the quote because he’d heard it often enough from his friend Audie, who had been a college professor many years ago, before giving up that life to come west and take up trapping.
There were also women in the windows of some of the buildings they passed, calling down coarse invitations to the men in the street and sometimes displaying their charms by lantern light. Preacher could tell Hawk was trying not to stare at them but only partially succeeding.
“There are too many people here,” Hawk said with a scowl as they walked along.
“I hear tell there are even bigger, more crowded settlements back East, and I’ve even spent some time in one called New Orleans, down near the mouth of the Mississippi.”
Hawk shook his head. “It cannot be. That many people would breathe up all the air.”
“Sometimes I feel that way myself,” Preacher agreed.
They came to an unimpressive-looking building which had no sign on it because everybody knew where Red Mike’s was. Preacher opened the door and went inside. Hawk followed him but stopped short, making a face at the thick clouds of grayish-blue smoke that filled the air. At least half of the men in the tavern were puffing on pipes. Some of the serving wenches were, too. Adding to the miasma in the air were odors of spilled beer and whiskey, vomit, and human waste.
“How do you stand it?” Hawk asked when Preacher looked back to see what was keeping him.
“I’d say you get used to it, but I ain’t sure if that’s true or not, because I’ve never been here long enough for that. I spend a night or two now and then, but after that I’m on my way back to the mountains.”
“That sounds like a good plan. Let us go now.”
Preacher laughed and clapped a hand on his son’s shoulder. “Come on. It ain’t that bad. I’ll introduce you to Mike.”
Hawk allowed himself to be led reluctantly toward the bar at the side of the low-ceilinged room. On the other side of the tavern, stairs led up to the second floor, where those rooms for rent Preacher had mentioned were located.
The bar was crowded, but when Mike spotted Preacher, he bellowed, “Step aside there, step aside! Make room!”
“What the hell, Mike!” one of the drinkers protested. “We got as much right here as anybody else.” The man glanced around to see who was going to displace them, then added with a frown, “More right than a damn Injun!”
“That’s my son you’re talkin’ about, mister,” Preacher said in a flat, hard voice.
“Then he’s a dirty half-breed, and he shouldn’t even be in here!”
Preacher stiffened. He was proud of his boy, and he wasn’t going to let anybody insult Hawk that way. It was an insult to Bird in a Tree, too, and that was even more intolerable. He was about to throw a punch, despite the look he got from Mike that implored him not to start anything, when a voice like beautiful music from a bell cut through the hubbub in the room.
“Gentlemen, wouldn’t you rather drink than fight?”
A bare arm, complete with smooth, creamy female flesh, was thrust in front of him, and the hand at the end of that arm held a foaming, brimming tankard of beer. He lifted his gaze to the prettiest pair of blue eyes he had seen in a long time, and behind him he heard Hawk exclaim softly in what sounded like awe.