Preacher and the Mountain Caesar (5 page)

* * *

Preacher spent an uneasy night. It just weren't natural, but them two brat-kids insisted on sleepin' all huddled together like peas in a pod. Swore they didn't do anything naughty, only that they couldn't sleep any other way. Weren't right at their age. Though from his observations, they seemed a good mite younger actin' than their ages would account for. Boys of twelve were usually on the edge of being
serious.

This Terrance, or Terry as his sister called him, seemed no more grown up than an eight-year-old. It worried Preacher. Was they both touched in the head a little? Could be, what with all their talk of violence, robbin' an' killin'. Huh! What was he doin' wastin' his time frettin' over the lives of a couple of woods waifs? It didn't sit right. He had set out for Trout Creek Pass to jaw with others about strangers comin' into the High Lonesome. Couldn't take time to stew over a couple of candidates for an institution for wayward children. Take what they had done just this afternoon.

It wasn't warm enough for a man to take a decent bath, what with this late snowfall and the coming of fall. Yet, when they had stopped for their nooning, those two scamps had flung off their clothes and jumped into the creek buck naked. For a swim! Not a hurried bath, mind, just to play. Enough to drive a man to the crazy house. Preacher had yanked them out, one by one, and wiped them dry with an old flannel shirt. Gave them a good talking to, he thought. At least until he heard their giggles behind his back.
What was a body to do?

* * *

Hunkered down in the brush, Philadelphia Braddock hid on the edge of a stand of golden aspen and watched the strange men from the valley search for him. He was good, one of the best, and he knew it. Braddock had left a confusing trail that should keep these amateurs meandering through the Big Empty country for a good long time. And they would never catch a glimpse of him.

A good thing, too. His shoulder hurt like the fires of hell. In a fight he would have to rely on pistols. He remembered the spear cast that had wounded him. It had been from a distance that made a pistol shot an iffy matter. It made him shiver to think about it. Ah! There they went. Hounding off on another false scent. Must be light-headed from all this blood loss. And maybe infection, though he didn't want to think of that. Thing was, those fellers all seemed to be in some sort of uniform.

And they acted like soldiers. But whose? He'd never seen the likes in all his born days. Not live ones, anyhow. He had to get back to Bent's Fort and tell someone what he had stumbled onto.

Through the haze of fatigue and weakness, Philadelphia Braddock recalled that Trout Creek Pass lay a lot closer. That would have to do, he decided. He couldn't hold out much longer than that. Quietly he eased back into the aspens, their brittle yellow leaves giving off a dry bone rattle as they quaked in the slight breeze.

With a maze of zigzags over the next hour, Philadelphia Braddock left the last of the thoroughly confused soldiers far behind. When he lined out on the trail south out of Wyoming Territory, headed for Trout Creek Pass, he had time to reflect on the men he had seen.
Funny
, he mused,
they looked like them fellers I seen in paintings of the Crucifixion of Christ.

He held that thought until he made night camp and refreshed himself on broiled rabbit. He could sure use some bison. Man feeds himself regular on bison heals right fast.

5

Thin ribbons of white smoke rose above the saddle that separated Preacher and his young charges from the trading post in Trout Creek Pass. Preacher had never been so weary of a self-imposed duty as this one. Had this pair been grown up, their bones would be picked clean by buzzards and coyotes by now. Being as how they were children, he felt obliged to spare them and bring them to folks who would see to their proper upbringing.

Although, he had to admit, it might be too late. It was written in the Bible that a child must be made straight in his ways by the age of seven or he was lost to righteousness. It was a hard thing to think of little nippers of eight, nine, ten or eleven roasting forever in hell because they had not been brought up right the first seven years of their lives. That was deeper theology than Preacher had delved into for a long while. He shook the images from his mind and plodded on. Terry and Vickie sat astride the pack saddle frame on a not-too-willing horse.

“When we gonna get there?” Terry asked.

“Yeah. We've never beened there before,” Vickie chirped.

“You've never
been
there,” Preacher corrected the girl.

She made a face. “That's what I said.”

Preacher calculated the angle of the sun. “We'll be there by mid-afternoon. Those are the noonin' cook fires, an' ol' Kevin Murphy's smokehouse you see beyond the rise. He makes the bestest smoked hams. An' his bacon will melt in your mouth.”

“Ugh!” Terry blurted. “I wouldn't like that. I like to
chew
mine. Is it spoilt or something?”

“Just a figger of speech. Means that his bacon is delicious. Now, you two quit pullin' my leg. I've got a sudden, bodacious thirst a-buildin', an' I figger to tend to it soon as I get you all settled in.”

“Where are we gonna stay?” Vickie demanded.

“I been over all that before. You'll go to whoever will take you in.”

Fear showed in both their faces. “You won't split us up, will you?” Terry asked nervously.

It was the first time Preacher had seen such emotions displayed by either, except for when he'd broken up their attack on his person. “I'll try not. No tellin'.”

“We won't go to different folks.” Terry grew stubborn.

“If you send us, we'll run away.” Vickie cut her eyes to her brother for confirmation. He nodded solemnly.

Preacher lost hold of it for a moment. “Dang, can't you blessit tadpoles ever make things easy for a feller? I can't guarantee anythin' because I don't know what situation we're gonna come into. Put a rein on them jaws until we get there.”

Terry and Vickie resumed a sullen, sulking silence. Terry's pink underlip protruded in a pout. Preacher snorted in disgust.

* * *

Preacher reached the trading post at a quarter past two that afternoon. “Tall” Johnson, as opposed to his cousin and partner, “Shorty” Johnson, greeted Preacher from the roofed-over porch of the saloon half of the frontier general store.

“Preacher, you old dog. I heard that you were holed up for the winter.” His eyes widened when he took in the children. “You a fambly man now, Preach?”

“Not for any longer than I can help it, Tall,” Preacher grumbled. “You wouldn't happen to be in the mood to play father, would you?”

Tall Johnson wheezed out his laughter. “Shorty would never hear of it. He sees kids as somethin' like warts. A feller needs to cut them off his hide as soon as possible. Besides, brats needs wimmin. An' we ain't got no wimmin. Decent ones, that is. Just a couple of Utes.”

Preacher faked a disapproving glower. “Utes is ugly, Tall.”

“Not this pair. Now, you just take that back, Preacher, or you buy the first drink.”

Preacher's eyes sparkled with mischief. “I'll not take it back, an' I'll be proud to buy you the first drink. Soon's I get shut of these youngins.”

Tall Johnson made his point markedly clear. “A feller could die of thirst before that happened.”

Preacher chuckled. “Chew a pebble, Tall.”

He dismounted and helped the children down. He took them with him into the trading post side of the large, stout log building, which had been built like the corner tower of a fort, the windows narrow, with thick shutters into which firing loops had been cut.

Ruben Duffey, the bartender, greeted him warmly. “Hog-raw, if it ain't Preacher. What you got there?” he asked. “Sure, it's a couple of partners you left out in the rain to shrink?”

“Nope. They's kid-chillins right enough.”

“Seems I might know them, don't I? Lemme get a closer look?” Duffey studied Terry and Vickie a moment, and his full lips turned down in distaste. “I was right, Preacher. Ye've got yourself a pair of genuine juvenile criminals on your hands, don't ye know? Sure an' it's a better thing if ye bring them with me. I've got the right place for them. Come along then, won't ye?”

Preacher led the youngsters in Ruben's path, out through the back hallway, past a storeroom. Outside, the smiling Irishman directed them to a small storage building with a low door and no windows. He opened up and made a grand gesture with a sweeping arm to usher them inside.

“Faith now, an' we'll just lock those heathen devils' spawn in here for a while. Could be we might get enough men together later on to decide their fate, don't ye know?”

“They are that bad, Ruben?”

“Aye, every bit of it an' more, I'm sayin'.”

They walked back inside, and were joined by Tall Johnson. Ruben poured whiskey for the three of them; then he told Preacher the real story behind Terrance and Victoria. His tale, in his lilting Irish brogue, took the listening men back three years.

“There was this family, there was. Name of Tucker. Sure an' they was dressed like rag-a-muffins. Don't ye know, I, like most folks, saw somethin' strange about them right off, we did. A whole passel of kids they had, an' nerry a whole brain among 'em, there wasn't. There was something even more strange about them, wouldn't ye know? This Tucker and his mizus looked enough alike to be brother and sister. Sure an' they could be, for all I know. They squatted around the post for a few days; then they hauled out to a canyon some thirty miles northeast of here.

“That's when things started happenin'.” Ruben leaned close and spoke in a confidential manner. “Sure an' things started disappearin'. A man would lose his shovel, or a pig, or maybe a couple pair of long johns a-dryin' on a bush. Then a prospector turned up dead. One day, ol' Looney Ashton come in for a nip of the dew. He swore an' be damned that two nights before, out around his digs, he saw that two-headed pair sneakin' off with a brace of mules that belonged to Hiram Bittner. It was the full moon an' he saw them right clear.”

“Stranger things have happened,” Preacher said dryly.

“No stranger than this tale gets. Ya see, the two little nippers were stark naked.”

Silence held for a moment. Then a cherry-cheeked Preacher added verification to Ruben's story. “They do like to get out of their clothes a lot. I found that out on the way here.”

Ruben raised both hands. “So there it is, isn't it?” He took note of the empty pewter mugs and poured more whiskey. “Whose payin' for these?”

Preacher and Tall turned to each other. “Preacher.” “Tall.”

“Ah, saints preserve us, I'll buy, 'cause it's good to see you again, Preacher, it is.”

Ruben dropped coins into the wooden till under the bar and went on to tell how the little depredations, and an occasional killing, went on right up to the present. He concluded with a suggestion. “So, if ye'll tell me what dastardly act you caught this pair performing, maybe it is we can drag the whole family in and dispatch them.”

Silence lengthened while Preacher thought over all he had heard. Try as he might, he could not visualize these two as so profoundly evil as Ruben painted them. He had brought the children here to find them a good home, with stepparents who would raise them properlike. He could not turn his back on that promise in good conscience.

“I dunno, Ruben. I'm thinkin' they can be shown the error of their ways and, given a good home, turn out all right.”

“Don'cha tell me ye've turned soft-hearted, Preacher, don't ye?”

“Ruben, if you weren't such a little-bitty feller, an' all frail-like, I'd break you in half for sayin' that. I'm the same man I've always been. It's only that I've got to know them over the past two, nearly three days. They can be sweet-tempered enough and obey right smartly, if a firm hand is applied.”

“To their bottoms, I presume, I do.” Ruben poured another drink. For all of Preacher's disparagement, Ruben stood six-two in his stocking feet and had the body of a double beer barrel.

“I have yet to do that. Though when they come at me to rob me, I shook 'em until their teeth rattled. That seemed to get their attention.”

“I wonder why?” Tall Johnson spoke for the first time. “You were serious, then, when you asked me about bein' a poppa?”

“Not really. I know how you and Shorty live. Not a place for kids. No offense intended.”

“None taken. There's a feller over a couple of valleys, runs horses. I hear he's been wantin' to take in a couple of yonkers to help work on the place. If that's any help.”

“He have a woman to wife?”

“Sure does. And three kids of his own.”

“Sounds fine. I might look into it, failing I find any closer.”

* * *

A sudden shout and curse in French from the cook at the hostelry brought the old drinking friends out of their cups and onto their boots. Preacher, wise in the ways of his captives, reached the back door first. He got there in time to see the cook on his rump, legs splayed and upraised, a pot of as-yet unheated potato soup soaking him from floppy stocking cap to the toes of his moccasins. Beyond him was the open door to the store shed—and the rapidly disappearing backs of Terry and Vickie.

“You had the right of it, Ruben. They's nothin' but trouble,” he shouted as he set off afoot in swift pursuit.

Being no stranger to running—Preacher had engaged in many a foot race against Arapaho and Shoshoni braves—the rugged mountain man soon managed to close ground on his quarry. Terry lost more precious space with frequent, worried glances over his shoulder. With longer, stronger legs and more endurance, Preacher far out-classed the youngsters. Then providence gave the children a much-needed break in the form of several habitués of the trading post.

“Hoo-haa! Lookie there. Ain't that ol' Preacher playin' the nursemaid?”

“Shore be. Don't he look cute a-high-steppin' it like that?”

“Shut them yaps, Ty Beecham, an' you, Hoss Furgison. Them kids is my responsibility.”

“Strike me dead. Preacher's done become plumb domesticated.” Tyrone Beecham rubbed salt in Preacher's wounded pride. “Nextest thing we know, he'll take to wearin' an apron and skirts.”

That did it. Preacher slammed to a stop and whirled to confront his detractors. No man, unless he was a tad light in the upstairs, ever suggested that a denizen of the High Lonesome might have sissy inclinations. To question a fellow's manhood most often called for a shooting. Preacher did not want to kill these old friends, and sometime partners, but Beecham had stepped over the bounds. The least that would satisfy now was a good knuckle drubbing.

And Preacher was just the man to deliver it. He stepped in without a word and popped Beecham flush in the mouth. Surprise registered in the dark, nearly black eyes of Tyrone Beecham as he rocked back on his boot heels. He swung a wild, looping left at Preacher's head, which, much to Beecham's regret, missed.

Because Preacher did not. He followed his lip-mashing punch with a right-left-right combination to Beecham's exposed rib cage. Each blow brought an accompanying grunt, expelled by the rapidly depleting air in Beecham's lungs. Droplets of red foam flew from Beecham's mangled mouth. His head wobbled with each blow. Right about then, his friend, Hoss Furgison, decided to join in.

He came at Preacher from the mountain man's blind side. Raw knuckles rapped against Preacher's skull, behind his left ear. Sound and sparkles erupted inside, and Preacher stumbled before he delivered a final right directly over Beecham's heart. Then he spun, his left arm already in motion, and drove his back fist into Hoss Furgison's nose.

Blood spurted, although nothing had been broken. Preacher continued his punishment with a right uppercut that cropped Furgison's surprised jaw closed. Furgison stomped on Preacher's right instep. Preacher gritted his teeth and ignored the pain. He still didn't want to hurt these two badly, only drive home the lesson that there was still a lot of spit and vinegar in this old coon. Everyone witnessing their battle had seen two-on-one plenty of times, sometimes even four or five. Most had seen Preacher handle those odds with ease. It didn't take long for the betting to begin.

“I got a cartwheel says Preacher pounds them both onto their boots,” Tall Johnson declared.

An old-timer next to him elbowed Tall in the ribs. “I got me a nugget that assays as one and a quarter ounce pure says those younger fellers will plain bust his bum for him.”

Thirty-five dollars, Tall thought. A reg'lar fortune. Temptation, and his confidence in Preacher, overcame his usual prudence and his near-empty purse. “You're on, old man.”

Preacher made to dodge between his opponents, then stopped abruptly and reached out to snag the fronts of their shirts. He thrust himself backward on powerful legs and slammed his arms together at the same time. A coonskin cap went flying from the top of Ty Beecham's head as the two noggins clocked together. It was time for them to see stars and hear birds sing.