Five
Jonathan was strong; anybody could tell that by looking at him. But he was also slow, and Preacher had no trouble weaving to the side so that the punch aimed at his head went past his ear without doing any harm.
Missing like that threw Jonathan off balance. He stumbled forward a step, and ran right into the short but powerful blow that Preacher snapped out with his right hand. Preacher’s knobby-knuckled fist smashed into the middle of Jonathan’s face. Blood spurted as cartilage crunched inside the man’s nose. He howled in pain and flailed at Preacher.
Any of the wild, looping swings might have taken Preacher’s head off if they connected, but the mountain man darted back a step, avoiding all of them. Then he moved to the side and went forward again, chopping another short blow at Jonathan’s head. It connected just above the man’s right ear and staggered him even more.
Jonathan must have realized that Preacher was too fast for him. He couldn’t hope to stand there and trade punches with the mountain man, because Preacher was going to hit a lot more times than he got hit.
So with a roar of rage, Jonathan spread his arms and launched himself at Preacher, wrapping the mountain man in a bear hug that Preacher couldn’t quite avoid.
Preacher felt himself going over backward, carried off his feet by Jonathan’s unexpected tackle. They landed on the warehouse floor with Jonathan on top. His crushing weight drove the air right out of Preacher’s lungs. A haze descended over his vision as he gasped for breath, and skyrockets that must have resembled the ones that flew over Fort McHenry during the War of 1812 exploded behind his eyes. Nobody was going to write a song about the red glare of these, though.
Over the roaring of blood in his ears, Preacher vaguely heard the shouts of the other workers in the warehouse. He couldn’t tell if they were cheering Jonathan on or rooting for Preacher to get the best of him. Knowing that he was going to pass out if he didn’t get some air pretty soon, Preacher groped upward and got his hand on Jonathan’s face. He ground the heel of his palm against Jonathan’s already busted nose.
Jonathan bellowed in pain and jerked back. That gave Preacher the chance to arch his back and heave the man off. Jonathan rolled across the floor, trailing strings of blood from his nose. Preacher went the other way.
He fetched up against somebody’s feet and legs. Strong hands reached down and clamped hard around his arms. Before he could even start to fight back, he was hauled to his feet and set upright.
“Go get that Bible-thumpin’ son of a bitch,” a gravelly voice said in his ear. Hands slapped him on the back, encouraging him and propelling him toward Jonathan at the same time.
So Jonathan didn’t have many friends here. Somehow, that didn’t come as a great surprise to Preacher.
Jonathan had climbed to his feet as well, and now lumbered toward Preacher. The bottom half of his face was covered with blood from his pulped nose, which was grotesquely askew. His eyes looked like those of a maddened bull. But instead of charging ahead wildly, he took his time now, lifting his fists in a boxing stance as he approached Preacher.
“I am the strong arm of the Lord,” he said in a thick voice. “I will smite thee, heathen. I will visit God’s mighty wrath upon thine head.”
“Mister, you’re crazier’n a bedbug,” Preacher said.
He blocked Jonathan’s first punch, then another and another. Jonathan was more dangerous now that he wasn’t fighting out of control, but he was still slow. Patiently, Preacher waited for a good opening, and when it came, he threw a hard right that landed solidly on Jonathan’s jaw. That rocked the man back and set him up for a looping left that slewed his head to the side when it landed.
Preacher’s fists were a blur as he stepped in and hooked a flurry of rights and lefts to Jonathan’s midsection. Jonathan was gasping for air when Preacher finally stepped back. His heavy arms drooped with weariness.
Preacher shot in a stinging left jab, and then followed it with a hard right cross that caught Jonathan on the chin. Jonathan’s head went the other way this time and his eyes rolled up in their sockets. His knees unhinged. He went straight down onto his knees, then pitched forward on his face, out cold.
The other men in the warehouse cheered.
Preacher was barely winded. He knew his hands would be a mite bruised and sore by the next morning, but he could tell he hadn’t damaged them by banging them against Jonathan’s hard head. As he looked down at the unconscious man, he muttered, “I got some Scripture for you, mister . . . God helps those who help themselves.”
Suddenly sensing that he was being watched, Preacher turned and saw Jake standing just inside the door of the warehouse, silhouetted against the light from outside. The youngster’s eyes were wide with shock and amazement as he stared at Preacher and at the unconscious form of his father.
Preacher took a step toward him and started to lift a hand. “Jake . . .”
The boy whirled around and dashed away.
“Damn it!” Preacher grated as he started after him. He didn’t know how much of the fight the boy had seen, but it was pretty obvious Jake had seen Preacher knock his father out cold. No wonder the kid was scared of him.
The streets of St. Louis were busy this morning, as they nearly always were. By the time Preacher got out of the warehouse, Jake had lost himself in the crowd along the waterfront. Several riverboats were tied up at the docks, and passengers were loading and unloading. Workmen carried cargo off the boats and loaded other cargo. Jake could be anywhere, Preacher realized as he came to a stop. It would be just blind luck if he found the boy now.
Preacher bit back a curse. He didn’t know whether or not Jake could have helped him find the two men who had killed Abby, but at least questioning him would have been worth a try. Now that opportunity had vanished along with Jake.
Might as well go on to the buryin’, Preacher thought. He couldn’t do any more good here.
* * *
One of Shad Beaumont’s bodyguards was a big man with a bald, bullet-shaped head and an ugly grin made even uglier by the gaps where several teeth had rotted out—or been knocked out. The other man was equally large and sported a thatch of rust-colored hair and a handlebar mustache of the same shade. Both smiled in anticipation as they closed in on Schuyler Mims and Colin Fairfax. It was like they hadn’t beaten anybody to death for a while and were looking forward to it.
But as Baldy swung a sledgehammer punch at Schuyler and Handlebar grabbed for Fairfax, the intended victims darted back with surprising speed. Schuyler had more strength packed into his lanky body than was apparent. He smacked home a punch into the bald man’s face that landed with the sound of a meat cleaver striking a thick steak. Blood spurted from Baldy’s crushed lips. He gave an incoherent roar of pain.
Meanwhile, Handlebar was still trying to get his hands on Fairfax, who danced away from each lunge with speed and agility. As Handlebar rushed forward again, Fairfax leaped to the side and stuck out a leg. Handlebar tripped over it and fell to the street with a startled yell, crashing down onto the hard-packed dirt with stunning force. He lay there gasping for air. The impact had knocked the breath out of him.
Angered by being hit, Baldy rushed at Schuyler, swinging his fists in wild, flailing blows. Schuyler ducked some of them and blocked others. The couple of punches that got through rocked him back on his heels, but he didn’t lose his balance and stayed upright to slug it out with Baldy. Beaumont’s bodyguard outweighed Schuyler by at least fifty pounds, but Schuyler offset that potential advantage by being a lot faster. He bobbed and weaved, peppering Baldy with swift blows that struck like a snake.
Meanwhile, Fairfax rushed forward while Handlebar was still gasping for breath and got hold of the man’s arm, twisting it behind his back in a wrestling move. Fairfax didn’t hesitate. Even though he wasn’t a very impressive physical specimen to look at, he, too, was stronger than he appeared to be. And the dangerous, knockabout life he had led since being forced to flee from Philadelphia had made him ruthless when he had to be. He heaved as hard as he could on the bodyguard’s arm, and heard the sharp snap as the bones in the man’s shoulder came apart. Handlebar screamed.
That shriek of agony distracted his bald-headed companion, who looked over to see what was happening at just the wrong time. Schuyler’s fists were blurs as he hammered them into Baldy’s already injured face. Schuyler crushed Baldy’s nose, and he thought he felt the man’s left cheekbone shatter, too. Moaning, Baldy staggered back a step and then slumped to his knees. Schuyler’s right foot shot out in a kick. The heel of his boot caught Baldy on the jaw, breaking it, too, and sending the big bodyguard flying backward to sprawl senseless in the street next to Handlebar, who was clutching his dislocated shoulder with his other hand and writhing in pain as he whimpered.
Schuyler and Fairfax were both out of breath as they turned to face an astounded Shad Beaumont. Schuyler leaned over and put his hands on his thighs as he drew in great drafts of air. Fairfax asked, “Was that enough of a demonstration for you, Mr. Beaumont? We told you we can take care of ourselves.”
“I’d say you damned sure can,” Beaumont replied as he jerked his head in a curt nod. “I wouldn’t have guessed that anybody could handle those two bruisers like that. Can you shoot?”
“We’re expert shots,” Fairfax answered without hesitation, not mentioning anything about how Schuyler had missed Preacher on the river the day before or their failed attempt to kill the mountain man at the tavern. There was nothing wrong with their marksmanship there; they would have ventilated the son of a bitch if that whore hadn’t jumped up and gotten in the way of the pistol balls.
“All right, I reckon maybe I can use you after all,” Beaumont said.
Schuyler straightened, having recovered from his exertions. He waved a hand toward the fallen bodyguards and asked, “What about those two? I ain’t sure we want to work for you if they’re gonna be holdin’ a grudge against us.” He ignored the warning glance Fairfax sent in his direction. “I don’t want to spend my days and nights havin’ to watch my back for fear o’ them tryin’ to get even with us.”
“Don’t worry about that.” Beaumont said. “Their services are too valuable for me to dispense with them, but I’ll give strict orders that there won’t be any reprisals. They followed my orders, and you two gents just defended yourselves. There’s nothing there for anyone to be angry about.”
Fairfax wasn’t so sure. He’d be holding a grudge if he’d received a thrashing like that. But he supposed that with Beaumont’s fierce reputation, the bodyguards would go along with whatever he said.
“You have any problem with following orders?” Beaumont went on.
Fairfax shook his head, and Schuyler said, “You just tell us what to do, Boss, and we’ll do it.”
“Even if it’s against the law.”
Schuyler shrugged. “I reckon if we didn’t figure on breakin’ the law, we wouldn’t have asked you for a job in the first place.”
Beaumont threw back his head and laughed. “No, I suppose not. All right, you’re hired. I have a job in mind where I can use the two of you, if you’re interested.”
“Oh, we’re interested, all right,” Fairfax said. “Just tell us who you want killed.”
* * *
Abby’s funeral at the public cemetery on the outskirts of the settlement was surprisingly well attended. Ford Fargo was there, of course, and so were the half-dozen girls who worked at his tavern. Fargo must have closed the place down for the funeral, Preacher thought, which was an indication of just how highly the tavern keeper thought of Abby. In addition, several roughly dressed rivermen were there at the cemetery. They were probably tavern customers who had been with Abby and were fond of her.
Preacher didn’t feel guilty about what had happened. He had never been one to blame the victim. Abby’s death was the fault of the two sons of bitches who shot her, and nobody else. But he regretted that she had lost her life by being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Fargo, who stood beside the open grave where the crude wooden casket had already been lowered, was talking when Preacher sidled up to the rear of the little group of mourners. Fargo was reminiscing about what a cheerful and enthusiastic worker Abby had been. “She was a gal who would do just about anything you asked her do,” he said.
One of the rivermen snickered, and looked like he was about to make some ribald comment about Fargo’s choice of words, but Preacher tapped him on the shoulder before he could say anything. When the man glanced around and saw the cold, dangerous stare Preacher had fixed on him, he swallowed and ducked his head, making it clear by his attitude that he would keep his mouth shut after all.
Fargo gave Preacher a grateful glance and went on. “All of us will miss Abby, who had a smile and a kind word for just about everybody. She was one sweet little gal, that’s for sure.” He bowed his head and started to pray. “Lord, some would claim that folks like us don’t have any right to ask any favors of You. But I recollect what it says in the Good Book about how when Your Son was down here on earth, he spent quite a bit of time in places like mine, talkin’ to folks like us. I’m hopin’ that you’ll bear that in mind when I ask that You have mercy on poor Abby and let her into Your house up there in Heaven. She may not have been what folks would call a good girl, but I can promise You, there wasn’t a smidgen of evil in her. She had a good heart. Amen.”
Several of the mourners muttered, “Amen,” including Preacher.
Fargo picked up a handful of dirt from the pile of it beside the grave and dropped it onto the casket. The clods thudded against the lid. One by one, the women came forward and did the same, followed by some of the men. The rest looked uncomfortable with the idea, and started to drift off toward the river. The sun was high overhead, and the air was hot. At this time of day, folks wanted a drink, or something to eat. That was true of Preacher, too, but he wasn’t going to leave just yet. He lingered while the others all walked, and after a few minutes only he and Ford Fargo were left standing beside Abby’s grave.
Preacher picked up a shovel he saw lying on the ground nearby and began filling in the hole. While Preacher was working, Fargo asked, “Did you have any luck findin’ those bastards who done this?”
“Afraid not,” Preacher said with a shake of his head. “I didn’t turn up anybody who knew them.”
“Those skinned-up knuckles of yours look like you might’ve asked the questions sort of emphati-clike.”
Despite the grim circumstances and surroundings, Preacher had to chuckle at that. “One fella took exception to tellin’ me what I wanted to know.”
“I’ll bet he was sorry he did that.”
“Wouldn’t know. He was sorta quiet when I left.”
Fargo laughed, too, then grew more solemn as he said, “At least Abby got a proper send-off. I think that’s important. I hope wherever she is, she knows that we done all we could for her.”
“I reckon she does,” Preacher said. He finished shoveling the dirt into the grave, leaving it slightly mounded. It would settle with time. The wooden headstone on which Abby’s name had been carved would stand for a while, but eventually it would be gone. The time would come when nobody even remembered Abby, and people might not even be able to tell that there had ever been a grave here.
That was the fate of most folks, Preacher reflected, but at least Abby would be remembered for a while and her bones would rest together in one place. He figured that when he crossed the Great Divide, his body would probably lie unattended on the prairie or in the mountains until scavengers came along and disposed of it, scattering the bones to kingdom come, where sun and wind and weather would strip everything from them and polish them until they were all that was left of him, not even a memory.
But to a man like him, who lived so close to the earth, that didn’t sound like such a bad way to go.
He was just tamping down the mound of dirt with the shovel when a footstep sounded behind him, and a voice said, “Excuse me. I’m looking for a man called Preacher.”