Blood on the Divide (24 page)

Sutherlin knew little about the caliber of person called mountain man.

* * *

In their stinking, filthy lairs, Malachi and Dirk and Son and what was left of their gangs brooded over their fires and waited for the arrival of spring. They had spent the entire winter nurturing the flames of hatred and now they could hardly contain themselves. To a man – even so far as Ansel, with all his goofiness – all they could think of was the killing of Preacher. And Ansel, at least in the minds of those near him, had gone completely around the bend. He mumbled and slobbered and grunted and had seemingly lost the ability to speak even semico-herently. Even Malachi had lost patience with him and now tried his best to ignore his brother. Couldn't nobody get any sense out of the fool. But they knew this: come the spring, they would hunt down and kill Preacher. They all agreed on that. Even Ansel, as far as anyone could tell. When asked, he would grunt and slobber and bob his head up and down.

“We kill Preacher come the spring,” Kenrick said. “Even if we all die doin' it.”

“Damn right,” Son said.

Malachi nodded his head in agreement.

The men let their wild hatred fully consume them. They waited.

Preacher lay snug in his robes and slept. He didn't hate, he just knew what had to be done and he was going to do it.

* * *

At the mission, George Martin and Coretine, and Miles Cason and Betina were married by the missionaries.

Preacher had led the men deep into the wilderness. Now it was time to start the war. He struck the first blow between the Laramie and Medicine Bow mountains. Preacher was waiting on the west side of Muddy Creek when Sutherlin and his men stopped to rest and water their horses. He had Sutherlin all lined up in his sights, and just as he squeezed the trigger, a new man picked up back at the post made a very bad move by stepping in front of Sutherlin and took the ball directly in the center of his back. The big ball busted the man's spine, angled up and ripped out of his throat, and splattered Sutherlin with blood. Edward Sutherlin let out a scream of fright and shock, hit the rocky ground, and hugged it close as his men scattered out, seeking whatever cover they could find. The dead man fell directly on top of Sutherlin.

“Damn,” Preacher said. He slipped back to his horses and pressed on westward, looking for another good ambush site. He consoled himself with the knowledge that at least there was one less to deal with.

Back at the creek, the outlaws dug a shallow grave and dumped the dead man in it. They didn't even take the time to cover the mound with rocks. The dead man was known only as Peter. The outlaws rifled his saddlebags and pockets, took his boots, and rode off without a word of prayer. From this time on, Edward Sutherlin would ride in the center of the column and always have someone close beside him after dismounting.

“A thousand dollars to the man who kills Preacher,” he told his men.

A thousand dollars was several years' wages. The men needed no further incentive.

“You got the money on you?” a man named Mueller asked, his voice heavily accented, a sly look in his eyes.

“Don't be foolish,” Sutherlin told him. “So you'd better keep me alive.”

“Accordin' to this map,” Lester said, “which ain't worth a shit as far as I'm concerned, they's another creek about five miles ahead of us. Then they's a river of some sorts and then we hit more mountains.”

“Is there any way around them?” Big Max asked.

“Yeah,” Lester said sarcastically. “About five hundred miles south or five hundred miles north.”

Just inside the Medicine Bow range, Preacher was waiting, his bow ready for a silent kill.

Sutherlin swung into the saddle. “Take the point, Meeker. Let's go.”

Meeker, wanted for rape and murder in several states back East. He nodded his head and took the lead.

Ward fell in behind him. Ward, wanted for killing his wife and children back in Vermont.

The third man in the rogues' column was Mueller, also a murderer and rapist ... and those where his good points.

Next was Clubb, wanted for robbery, rape, murder, and numerous other infractions.

Doc Judd was a real doctor; unfortunately, he also got a great deal of joy out of poisoning patients. Twelve of them before the law got wise back East and put him on the run.

Moffett was a con man, thief, and rapist.

Lester had done it all and was wanted in nearly every state in the Union for one thing or another. He was as ruthless as Sutherlin.

Big Max liked to beat people to death with his fist. And had, several times. Men, women, and children.

Beans Speer was a back shooter and would kill anyone for the right price.

Isaac was a knife man who liked to kill ... slowly.

The other men Sutherlin had picked up along the way were Sharp and Bankston. Both murderers.

Thirteen brigands riding into the wilderness after one man. Each of them supremely confident he would be the one to kill Preacher and be a thousand dollars richer.

Had they had just one opportunity to take a look at what remained of the gangs of Malachi, Dirk, and Son, they might have changed their minds and ridden back East.

* * *

Bankston brought up the rear of the column, and Preacher waited until the others were around the bend in the trail and out of sight before he struck. From a distance of about twenty feet, he put an arrow all the way through the murderer. The arrow cut the spine and Bankston fell soundlessly from his saddle. Preacher jumped down from the rocks, grabbed the horse's reins, and calmed the jumpy animal, and then slung Bankston across the saddle. He led the horse into the rocks and waited, both hands filled with those deadly pistols.

But Sutherlin smelled something queer and refused to take the bait. Preacher could hear them talking and could pick out most of the conversation.

“Preacher got him,” Lester said. “Listen to the boss and don't go 'round that bend. Let's get the hell gone from here 'fore he picks off another one of us.”

“I got an idea.”

“What is it, Isaac?”

“We know he's here, so let's settle it now. Fan out and take him. We got him twelve to one. Some of us will get kilt, for sure, but we can take him out here and now.”

Yes sirree, Preacher thought. You folks just come right on and do that little thing. I didn't figure on none of you bein' that damn ignorant.

Sutherlin thought about that for a moment, being careful to stand with his men all around him as human shields. Finally he nodded his head in agreement. “Lester, you and Beans and Clubb stay here with me. We'll get in those rocks over there. The rest of you men fan out and hunt this bastard down. Let's get it over and done with.”

Preacher slipped back and into the brush, kneeling down and waiting. That he would soon be surrounded didn't bother him one whit. He'd been surrounded before, by men much more skilled in combat than this bunch of white trash.

Preacher had holstered his pistols and once more taken up his bow, notching an arrow. He was in good cover and blended in. He had noted days before that these men were not skilled in brush warfare. They might be experts in dark alleyways and the streets of towns, but they were careless in the wilderness. And that was gonna get them killed.

One of Sutherlin's bunch passed so close to Preacher that he could smell the body odor of the thug. Moving only his eyes, Preacher watched as the man vanished behind rocks. Ward slipped through the rocks and brush, trying to be quiet about it. He was no woodsman.

Preacher put a arrow into the man's chest. The instant the arrow flew, Preacher was moving, changing locations. Ward was kicking his legs as he lay on the ground, his mouth working with no sound coming out. But he was making quite a racket with his boots.

“Ward!” a man called. “Hush up all that damn noise. What the hell's the matter with you?”

Ward let out a fearful shriek, drummed his boot heels on the ground, and died.

“He's in amongst us!” Sharp cried out. “Be careful. Ward's down and dead.”

Preacher let fly another arrow and Doc Judd turned just as it was loosed. The arrow missed and careened off a boulder, sending Doc belly down on the ground. “Over here!” Doc yelled. “Be careful. The man's a damn ghost.”

Preacher stayed where he was, knowing movement attracted more attention than noise. Why none of the men hadn't found his horses was a mystery to him.

“This is no good!” Sutherlin shouted out. “Gather around and let's get out of here. Come on, men.”

Preacher let them go. He had pressed his luck to the maximum this day and knew it. He remained motionless and listened to them ride off. The body of Ward lay where he had kicked out his last. Sutherlin and company had made no attempts to tend to the dead.

“Sorry bunch of bastards,” Preacher muttered, standing up and walking over to the dead man. He looked down at him. It wasn't sympathy; he was trying to figure out how to best retrieve his arrow. It was a good arrow. Rolling the man over on one side, Preacher saw that when he fell, he had broken the arrow. Preacher dragged the man to a depression and kicked some dirt and rocks over him.

“You want him, Lord,” Preacher briefly eulogized, “You got him. Here he is. Amen.”

* * *

Now the chase was on and Preacher was at his best. He had them all running scared and knew it. He let them run for a full twenty-four hours before he made his next move. That night, he circled their camp, howling like a wolf, grunting like a bear, and coughing like a great panther. He was so convincing that a bear actually did come to investigate and Preacher damn near ruined his brand new longhandles when he turned around and the bear reared up not ten feet from him in the darkness.

Preacher hit the air and vacated the area. “Work, feet,” he mumbled in a dead run, dodging trees and boulders and leaving the bear far behind. The bear had decided that Preacher was not worth the effort of pursuit – the camp held much more interesting smells.

“Holy shit!” Doc Judd screamed, catching sight of the great bear, a huge male grizzly. Doc lifted his rifle and the weapon misfired, momentarily blinding the man with powder burns. Doc threw the rifle at the bear and took off as the entire encampment went running in all directions. It scared the bear about as bad as the men and the griz took off in a lope, getting the hell away from that screaming wall of noise.

Sutherlin ran into a tree and knocked himself out. Lester ran right off the edge of an embarkment and went rolling ass over elbows to the rocky ground below. Moffett. climbed a tree. Mueller tried to climb the same tree and Moffett thought it was the bear and kicked the man in the head. Mueller hit the ground, unconscious.

A good mile away, Preacher stopped to catch his breath. The faint screaming of the badly frightened men drifted to him and he smiled. He made his way back to his horses and rode for a couple of miles before bedding down for the night.

Preacher trailed along behind the men for several miles, then popped up alongside them further along, but stayed well out of rifle range. He waved and shouted and made terribly obscene gestures toward the men, trying to get one of them to lose his temper and come after him. But no one would take the bait.

“Steady, men,” Sutherlin cautioned his band of cutthroats and thugs. “Just ignore him. We'll have our chance.”

Just before leaving the Medicine Bow range, Preacher pulled ahead of the men and cut north, taking them – if they chose to follow his trail – into the high country. Dutifully, they tagged along behind him, with Preacher thinking this just had to be some of the dumbest men he had ever encountered. And he had met some real dumbos in his time. He decided to find out just what the hell was going on.

That night he Injuned up to their camp and lay for a time, his eyes picking out the guards. The bunch had wised up right smart, and had taken to choosing their campsites with a lot more care. Preacher moved only several inches at a time. At the end of two hours, he was within hearing distance of the men. They were all gathered around a fire, which was definitely not smart at all. Look into the flames and it destroys a man's night vision. They were just real lucky there were no hostiles about. Or that no Indians had located their camp, Preacher corrected, for hostiles were always about.

“This is no good,” Lester said, pouring himself another cup of coffee. “The man is just leading us wherever he wishes. He's making fools of us, boss.”

“I don't like this country out here,” Clubb said, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders against the chill of the night. “It's almost as if we have dropped off the edge of the world. It's so damn
empty!”

“You would rather go back and face a hangman's noose, perhaps?” Mueller asked.

Clubb shook his head and had nothing else to say on the matter.

“Lester is right, of course,” Sutherlin said. “But I am sure that this Preacher person knows all about us and our operation. If he lives, we will not be safe anywhere. I wish I knew where Malachi and his bunch were hiding out. Or if they're still alive. I fear that many are not. And I also think that there are new warrants out on all of us back in the States. So you see, gentlemen, Preacher has to die. For if he doesn't, we have no place left to run.”

“I long to see California,” Meeker said, “where it's warm all the time, and have soft-eyed Spanish women. I like to force myself on Spanish women. I love to hear them scream when I take them. I hate this damn country here. I would certainly not relish the thought of being buried here in this cold and inhospitable clime.”

Worthless, no-count son of a bitch, Preacher thought. Then he lifted a pistol and put a ball right through the rapist's belly.

Meeker fell backward without a sound, screaming as his back touched the cold ground that he hated.

Preacher cocked the second hammer and blew a hole into Sharp's belly. Then, while the camp was in turmoil, Preacher slipped away into the darkness.

The outlaws were firing at shadows, blasting away into the dead of night in their frightened panic. But Preacher had dropped into a natural depression in the earth and no bullets touched him as he ran back in the direction of his horses. He'd given the brigands quite enough to think on this evening.

When Preacher reached the camp the next morning, about an hour after dawn, the outlaws were gone and the ashes of their fires were cold.

Meeker lay on his back where he had fallen, and the gut-shot outlaw was not long for this world. His comrades had not even taken the time to dress his hideous wound. But they had taken the time to take his heavy coat and his boots. He watched Preacher through pain-filled eyes as the mountain man set about making a fire.

“Nice bunch of folks you took up with,” Preacher remarked. “They sure cared a lot for you, didn't they?”

“Water seeks its own level,” the wounded man said weakly.

“I reckon.” Preacher tossed the man a rag of a blanket someone had left behind.

“Thank you.”

“I'd do more for a wounded animal,” Preacher said shortly. “You got a hole in your belly, but I 'spect a little coffee ain't gonna keep the dark angel waitin' too long for you to pass.”