Absaroka Ambush (26 page)

Preacher stayed close to Dave's businesses for several days. He kept to himself and away from Chris Bedell. But after seeing the man only one time, he knew it was Vic's brother. The family resemblance was strong and undeniable.

Chris Bedell kept to his room most of the time, leaving only to check for mail in town every day, and to take his meals, which he did sitting alone in the tavern part of the business. No doubt about it, according to Preacher's mind: the man was waiting for his brother.

Thunder was getting plenty of rest, food, and care, and Preacher was getting downright lazy, with no Indians to have to watch out for, or grizzlies or pumas. Damn place was just downright borin'.

On the fifth day of Preacher's stay at the roadhouse, slimy Vic Bedell showed up. Preacher watched from the loft of the livery stable and smiled as the stagecoach stopped and Vic stepped out. His valise was tossed down to him and the stage rattled off. Chris Bedell hurried out and shook his brother's hand and then the two of them disappeared into the large building.

Preacher was sort of at a loss as to what to do next. He didn't want to bring no grief down on Ol' Dave's head, so whatever he did would have to be done away from the tavern. So that meant he had some more waiting to do. He'd already told Dave that he might leave real abruptlike, so Dave wouldn't get alarmed if Preacher just didn't show up for mealtime one day.

Preacher waited.

About an hour after the Bedell brothers had disappeared into the hotel, Dave came strolling out to the barn carrying a bundle and set about fiddlin' with some bridles.

When he knew they were alone, he called, “The brothers has arranged to buy two horses from a local man. They'll be leavin' first thing in the morning. They're headin' east. They's some dark woods about half a day's ride from here. Runs for miles. Used to be highwaymen's favorite place to force a stage driver to stand and deliver. Here's food for you. It was good seein' you again, Preacher. Give my best to all the boys back in the high country.”

Dave walked away and entered his business by the back door. He did not look back. Fifteen minutes later, Preacher had saddled up, packed up, and was gone.

The woods Dave had told him about were dark and dank, eastern woods, not like the timber in the high country. But they'd be perfect for what Preacher had in mind. He wasn't sure what he was going to do with Vic's brother. But he was equally certain the man knew all about Vic's dirty dealings. So to Preacher's mind, that made him just as black-hearted as Vic.

It was bitter cold, but despite that, Preacher's fire was a small one, just enough to heat food and boil coffee. Preacher was used to the cold and did not wish to draw any attention to his presence by a lot of smoke.

He had picked his ambush point with care and was waiting there at dawn. He still didn't know exactly how he was goin' to pull this off. But he knew that it would come to him. He figured it would be about noon 'fore the Be-dells reached the woods. Preacher settled in. One thing he had was patience.

Wagons rumbled by, and one stagecoach heading west passed Preacher. Several horsemen rode past, but they rode swiftly, for the woods were not a very inviting place. They seemed somehow evil to Preacher.

“A right fittin' place for Bedell to meet his end,” Preacher muttered.

When the sun was directly overhead, Preacher heard the sounds of horses. He peeked out of the brush and pulled his pistols. Vic and Chris Bedell were walking their horses through the timber. When they reached the ambush point, Preacher stepped out and leveled his pistols.

“End of the trail, Vic,” he said. “Dismount. The both of you.”

“What?” Chris Bedell blurted, clearly frightened at the sight of Preacher.

Vic just sat his saddle and cussed Preacher.

Preacher cocked his pistols and Vic and his brother fell silent. “Dismount or I kill you both right here.”

“The mountain man you spoke of?” Chris asked.

Vic was so angry he could not speak. He merely nodded his head.

“I am a man of some means, sir,” Chris Bedell said. “A thousand dollars to you if you'll go and leave us. I think that is a fair offer.”

“You know what your brother done?” Preacher asked.

“Yes. But killing him won't bring those women back. Take the money, man, and leave us be. I must warn you, sir, I am a man of importance in this state. Harming me would ensure a noose around your neck.”

The woods seemed to grow colder and Preacher felt a dark anger seize him in a hard grip. He thought of Snake, of Charlie and Ned and Ring. Of the bodies of the women, raped and abused and tortured, lyin' cold in the ground. The boys and girls buried in the lonesome. The brave soldiers all dead. Hammer galloped through his mind, wild and free. He just could not believe what the older Bedell was saying. How could anyone cloak over what Vic had done?

“You know all that your brother done and you want to defend him?” Preacher's words were hard-spoken, choked with emotion. “You're as sorry as your no-count brother.”

“We're brothers!” Chris Bedell said. “Blood is thick, mountain man.”

“Not none of yours,” Preacher said. “Bedell blood is tainted. You're both evil.”

Chris Bedell cursed then grabbed for a pistol and Preacher drilled him clean, the ball dead-centering the man in the chest. Chris's horse panicked and the horse charged into the trees. Chris's foot was hung up in the stirrup and horse and man disappeared into the woods. Vic spurred his horse and Preacher dropped his pistols and leaped forward, dragging the man from the saddle.

Preacher did not know how long he took or how many times he struck Vic Bedell, but when he finally let the man fall, Vic Bedell was dead. Preacher had beaten the man to death with his fists. The mountain man stood for a moment by the side of the dark road, his chest heaving. He caught his breath and gathered up his pistols, then dragged Vic's body into the cold timber and dumped him several hundred yards from the road. He stripped saddle and bridle from Vic's horse and turned him loose. Preacher found Chris Bedell—what was left of him after having been dragged for hundreds of yards—and left him where he lay, a bloody heap of rags and torn flesh in a shallow depression. He found Chris's horse and freed the animal of saddle and bridle and whacked him on the rump, sending him galloping off. He took all papers and wallets from the men, not checking the contents.

Preacher erased all signs of his tiny camp and got gone from there. In this weather, the bodies of the Bedell brothers would not begin to stink for days or weeks, or they might never be found. Whatever the case, the deed was done and Preacher put miles behind him before he swung off into timber along a tiny crick and made his lonely camp for the night.

One thing he knew for certain, Victor Bedell's reign of terror was over and done with.

Sitting by his tiny fire that night, Preacher inspected the contents of the wallets he'd taken. He burned all papers that identified the men—Vic had changed his name to Walter Burdette—and counted the money. A lot of money. More paper and gold than Preacher had ever seen. It boggled his mind. But it was dirty money; had blood on it.

On his way east, Preacher stopped at a store and bought clothes to fit the time and locale, carefully stashing his buckskins among his belonging on the packhorse. He stored his pistols with his clothing and carried only his knife on his belt and his Hawken in the saddle boot. And he began dropping off the dirty money along the way, giving it to poor houses and orphanages and churches and down on their luck families who was havin' a tough time of it in this hard winter. Never no huge amount in any one place—not enough to draw any particular attention to him—but stretching it and doling it out a bit here and a bit there.

He neither heard nor read any news about the bodies of the Bedell brothers ever being found. After this long a time, if the bodies had not been found and planted, they would have been gnawed on by varmints and the like, and positive identification would be near impossible.

And Preacher was amazed, awed, and, he had to admit, a bit frightened as he rode deeper and deeper into civilization. He saw a huge train roarin' through the countryside on steel tracks, the damn thing a belchin' smoke and spewin' out sparks and racin' along at a terrible rate of speed. Made a horrible noise, too. Couldn't even think until the thing had passed. Scared his horses something awful. Preacher couldn't imagine how anybody would be comfortable riding that fast. Wasn't a natural thing to his mind. Damned if he'd ever get on one of them things.

He saw some amazing things as he traveled, things that he'd only read about and never dreamt of actual seeing. He saw new inventions and learned that the U.S. Government now had over ten thousand post offices and two hundred thousand miles of postal route. Preacher couldn't figure out just who in the hell would have that much to say to a body that they'd have to write it down and post it clear across the country? He learned that there were over half a million people now living in Indiana. He couldn't even imagine that many people. And he read in a newspaper that Chicago now had over six thousand people living there, and New Orleans had over seventy thousand people all jammed up there. Preacher sure didn't have any desires to visit them places. All crowded up like that a body would be sure to catch some horrible disease.

Even with his store-bought clothes he drew stares. For he did not belong in this part of the country and clothing would not hide that fact. The women cut their eyes to him and the men were a tad on the hostile side. But not too hostile. For the men pegged the hard-eyed and windburned and sun-darkened man as being a man one had best not push. And they were damn sure right about that.

He crossed over into Ohio and stopped at a roadhouse to ask directions. The man was friendly enough and told Preacher that he was only about a two hours ride away from the village where his family lived. The innkeeper knowed them all and said they was right nice people. But he didn't care much for their kids. They was all a tad on the uppity side to suit him.

Preacher didn't tell the innkeeper that he was kin to the old man and woman. Just a friend of the family. He thanked the man and rode on.

Then Preacher got him an idea. He reined up in a copse of woods and damn near froze his privates off changin' back into his buckskins; the new ones that he'd swapped from back on the Plains. My but they was fancy and fit him to a fare-thee-well, they did. He unwrapped his new bright red sash he'd bought back in the city and wound it around his flat and hard-muscled belly, sticking one of his big pistols behind the sash.

By God, he was a mountain man, not no damn pilgrim. These were his clothes, and if anybody didn't like the way he dressed, they could go kiss a duck.

Now, he'd go see his ma and pa.

Preacher got all choked up and sort of misty eyed when he swung down from the saddle in front of the neat little home on the edge of town. There was an old man choppin' kindlin' wood by the side of the house, and some good smells comin' from the house. His ma was bakin' bread. But why was pa havin' to chop wood? Seemed like some of his brothers could come over every day and tend to that. Preacher would have to talk to his brothers about that, and make arrangements of some sort. One way or the other.

Preacher pushed open the gate and stepped inside the small yard, walking around to the side of the house. He stood for a moment, looking at his father. The man grew conscious of eyes on him and straightened up with an effort, to stand staring at the rugged-looking stranger in buckskins.

“Can I help you, stranger?” the old man asked.

Preacher had to clear his throat a time or two before replying to that.
Stranger?
Then Preacher realized that he'd been gone for twenty-odd years. And he had changed.

“You want me to finish up the choppin' and tote that wood in for you, Pa?” he managed to say.

The old man moved closer. “Arthur? Art, boy? Is that really you, son?”

“It's me, Pa.”

The back door opened and a gray-haired lady stepped out. “Who's there, Homer?”

The old man smiled. “The wanderer's come back, Mother. It's our son, Art.”

The lady caught her breath and then quickly dabbed at her eyes with a tiny hanky. Then she was off the porch and into Preacher's arms.

The mountain man had come home.

 

Smoke Jensen was a towering Western hero. Now his
two freewheeling
,
long-lost nephews, Ace and Chance Jensen
,
are blazing a legendary trail of their own.

 

Riverboat gambling is a blast, until hotheaded
Chance finds out just what he won in his final hand
against a Missouri River gambler named Haggarty.
Chance's “prize” is a beautiful Chinese slave girl
named Ling. The twins want to set Ling free
and keep their cash, but at Fort Benton, Ling gives
them the slip, robbing them blind. When they hunt
her down in Rimfire, Montana, she's with
Haggarty, lining up their next mark.

 

 

Ace and Chance want payback. So does hard case
Leo Belmont, who's come all the way from
San Francisco with a grudge and a couple of
kill-crazy hired guns. Belmont wants revenge,
and Ace and Chance are in the way.

 

 

Soon the boys are fighting alongside Ling and
Haggarty. Because it doesn't matter now who's right
and who's wrong—blazing guns and flying lead
are laying down the law ...

 

 

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