Forty Guns West (21 page)

6

The man-hunters left ten guards at the camp, chosen by drawing lots, and the rest pulled out just after dawn. They were all angry to the core but most had tempered their wild anger down to a hot bed of coals. Bones had prevailed upon them to cool down: don't go after Preacher unless they had a clear head.

Preacher had laid down sign, albeit not too obvious, for he knew there were some real woodsmen in the bunch, and was waiting. He figured they'd come up on him sometime about mid-morning. He had chosen his spot with caution, taking pains to ensure himself several ways out. And he had made up his mind that if he got even the smallest opportunity, he was going to put a ball or two into some of those blue-blooded snooty-nosed gentry. Right in the butt, if he could. 'Cause that's what they'd become to Preacher: a royal pain in the butt.

Preacher was under no illusions. He knew he was in terrible danger. He knew that the slightest miscalculation on his part, and he'd be dead. Or worse, taken alive for torture. If anyone were watching, it would seem that he was taking this manhunt much like a game. They would be very wrong in that assumption. Preacher worked out in his mind every move in advance. He was confident, but only because he'd lived and survived by his wits and skill ever since he was a young boy.

Preacher waited.

Bones had spread his group out into teams, a good tracker with each team. He alone felt in his gut that Preacher was up to something. But he'd asked the trackers if the sign was too obvious and to a man they had agreed it was not.

“He ain't doin' this a-purpose,” one had said.

“It's just that he ain't as good as he thinks he is,” another one had opined.

But Bones still had his doubts. By now he had reached the conclusion that Preacher really wasn't as good as people said he was—he was
better!

“I'm going over there to scout!” Prince Juan Zapata shouted, pointing toward a rise just at the edge of the valley, before the earth began to swell into mountains.

Before Bones could yell for him not to leave the group, the rich, spoiled Spaniard had spurred his mount and was gone at a gallop.

“Fool!” Bones muttered.

Juan topped the rise and dismounted to stretch his legs. He looked all around, and then bent over to pick a flower to place in his hat. Preacher's rifle boomed and the Prince took a heavy caliber ball right in one fleshy cheek of his royal butt.

Zapata jumped about three feet into the air and commenced to squalling loud enough to wake the dead.

Preacher had not been sure he could even make the shot because of the long distance, but he held high and was right on target. It surprised the hell out of the mountain man. Because of the distance, the ball had lost much of its power when it impacted with Zapata's regal ass, but it still had enough zip to imbed deeply in his rear end.

Preacher never in his life saw so many people leave so many saddles in that short a time.

“Sure a bunch of skittish folks,” he muttered, reloading the fancy hand-made rifle that had once belonged to one of the Frenchmen. He tried not to remember which one it was. “Fine shootin' rifle. Be a damn shame to shoot a feller with his own rifle,” he said with a grin.

He watched as the men began moving through the grass to the aid of the still-squalling Prince. Preacher took a chance that he might hit something and sighted it just ahead and above the head of a growing snake-like path in the tall valley grass. He gently squeezed off a round.

A man jumped up and grabbed at one leg. Preacher grinned. Looked like another one of those fancy-pants folks.

“My leg!” Duke Burton Sullivan screamed. “He shot me in the leg!” he yelled as he fell down to the ground.

“Smart, Preacher,” Bones muttered, his face pressed against the coolness of earth. “Now I know why you done what you did last night. Fill up the hospital and we have to keep the missionaries alive to treat the wounded. You no-good, miserable ...” He cussed for a moment, then added, “For an ignorant mountain man as I was told you was, you sure have a headful of smarts.”

For reasons known only to him, Bates foolishly jumped up and made a run for the wounded Prince and Duke. He came close to making it.

“We'll sure give it a try,” Preacher muttered, pulling his rifle to his shoulder.

The fancy hunting rifle banged and Bates had a leg knocked out from under him. He did a flip and hit the ground, hollering to the high heavens.

“Now that was a lucky shot,” Bones muttered.

“You got lucky on that one, boy,” Preacher muttered. “Let's get gone from here.”

After five minutes or so had passed, Bones crawled to his knees. He sensed, more than knew, that Preacher had done his work and was gone. “All right, people. Let's gather up the wounded and get them to the gospel-shouters.”

Bones looked over at Zapata, lying on his belly. “He can't ride, so some of you rig up a travios.”

“This sorta knocks our plans in the head, don't it, Bones?” Van Eaton spoke softly.

“Yeah.”

“And I was lookin' forward to dallyin' some with them women over yonder. I like 'em with some meat on their bones. That there Hanna hottens up my blood something fierce.”

“Go find a cold crick and jump in it,” Bones suggested.

“Hell, I took a bath last month!”

When the dejected and bloodied bunch of man-hunters reached the site of the make-shift hospital in the middle of the wilderness, they were quick to note that not only were the missionary men armed, and armed well, so were the wounded. Even the women had shotguns strategically placed. Took Bones about one second to understand that if they made a try for the women, a lot of men were going to die, for several of the wounded were more than fit to travel. That meant they were staying behind deliberately to act as guards.

Bones cut his eyes to Van Eaton. His right hand man had picked up on it, too. He nodded his head slightly

“I must have medical treatment!” Prince Zapata yelled. “I demand it.”

“Put him over there,” Otto said, pointing and trying to hide his smile. “I'll see to his wound.”

“I demand you stop that smiling at me!” Zapata shouted. “I am seriously wounded.”

“You don't demand anything from me,” Otto bluntly told him. And I never heard of anyone who died from being shot in der butt.”

Bones, Van Eaton, and those who helped bring the wounded to the make-shift hospital took their leave and being careful to stay in the center of the long valley, made their way back to camp. It was a weary and dejected bunch of man-hunters. Even the shoulders of the nobility slumped a bit as they rode. Nothing had turned out the way they planned. But the thought of calling off the hunt was nowhere in their minds.

For the others, over coffee and hot food, the talk was, surprisingly, not of quitting, but of what to do next.

“Corner him and burn him out,” Pyle suggested.

“Corner him?” Flores looked at the man. “How? Most of the time we don't even see him.”

“I wish we had some cannons,” Falcon wished aloud. “We could blow him out of the mountains.”

No one chose to respond to that. But a few of the men did smile at the ridiculousness of the remark.

“I got an idea,” Sam Provost said. “Let's do to him like he done to us. Let's insult him and make him mad. Then he'll lose his temper and do something stupid.”

“He'd see through that charade,” Jon Louviere said. “Whoever told you Preacher was a stupid man was very badly misinformed. He is very intelligent and cunning. Which makes this game all the more exciting.”

Van Eaton looked at the man. “Game? This is a game to you?”

“But of course.”

“Man,” Van Eaton said, shaking his head, “I can't figure none of you all. We got people dead all over these mountains. That Preacher has put lead in near'bouts all of us at one time or the other. He's destroyed our camps, burned our supplies, stampeded our horses, ambushed us, caused rockslides, thrown snakes at us, made fools of us, and he ain't even got nicked one time. And you think it's a game?”

Bones poured more coffee and sat back down. “It's done got personal to me now. The money aside, it's a matter of honor. If we don't corner Preacher and bring his head back in that there jug, we're all done as bounty-hunters. We'll never be able to get another job. News of this will get out. You can just bet that them that quit and headed back east has done told the story to anyone who'll listen. Folks is laughin' at us all over the place. I can't have that. I won't tolerate it. I ain't leavin' these mountains 'til Preacher is dead and we got his head. I'll die first.”

Bones had finally expressed what had been in the minds of the rest of the men; the constant thought that silently nagged and dug at their pride. One man was making fools of them all. That just wouldn't do. To a man, they couldn't allow it. The hunt had to go on. The men didn't have a choice, or so they thought.

“We got to leave the valley and take to the mountains,” Tatman spoke up, raw hatred for Preacher burning in his eyes. “We got to stop thinkin' like this was back east and start thinkin' like a mountain man.”

“By jove!” Sir Elmore piped up. “I think you've got it!”

“Maybe so,” Bones said. “Maybe so. It's worth a try. We'll leave ten men behind to guard the horses and the camp, and we'll strike out on foot. We'll each take supplies for three days and fan out in the mountains.” He looked at Tatman. “Good thinkin', Tatman. Real good thinkin'.”

* * *

“What are them igits doin' now?” Preacher muttered, peering at the men through his pirate glass. “Looks like a bunch of ants scurryin' about down there.” He studied the activity for a moment longer, then put away his glass and shook his head. “They're comin' after me on foot. They done lost what little sense they had left. They're comin' right at me, in my country, on foot. Lord have mercy!”

With a smile that would have caused a savage alarm, Preacher picked up his rifle and moved out. Now he'd show them how this game was really played. “Ants to a honey trap,” Preacher muttered.

Tom Evans was the first to discover how far out of his class he was. Something smashed against the back of his head, dropping him into darkness. When he came slowly swimming out of unconsciousness, he thought for sure he was dead. He might as well have been. Preacher, and he was certain it was Preacher who'd hit him with something, had taken his shot bag and his powder. He'd busted Tom's rifle and pistols and snapped the blade off his fine knife. He had peeled him right down to the buff, and had even taken his boots. “Halp! Tom hollered.” Somebody come halp me.”

About a half a mile away, Homer Moore was waking up. He had a fearsome headache and a big lump on the side of his head that hurt like the devil when he gingerly fingered it. And he didn't have a stitch on. He looked wildly around him. His weapons were gone, as were his clothes. He was as defenseless as the day he'd been born. “Oh, Lord!” Homer said.

Cliff Wright heard a noise behind him and turned. He caught a rifle butt under his chin that knocked him cold. When he came around, he was hanging upside down from a tree limb by his bare ankles. Like the others, he had been left bare-butt nekked and could see where his weapons had been rendered useless by somebody. Preacher, he was sure. Cliff started hollering for help. He didn't know how he was gonna live this down. Come to think of it, he didn't know how he was going to get down. “Halp! Halp!” he yelled.

Tatman came charging through the brush and Preacher busted the man's right knee with the butt of Homer's rifle. He smashed the knee to pieces and Tatman was out of the game for a long time. The big man passed out from the pain. When he awakened, his weapons were gone. He began crawling for safety, moaning and cussing and dragging his knee-broken leg.

Derby Peel turned around about three times and got himself lost as a goose in the dense forest and underbrush. He panicked and began running and yelling. He fell into a ravine, landed on his rifle, busted the stock of his rifle and broke several of his own ribs in the process. He passed out from the pain in his side and chest.

The men were so widely separated, and the country so rough and heavily timbered and thick with brush, the cries of the totally embarrassed men could not be heard. It was only by accident that Derby Peel was found, lifted out of the ravine, and toted off to the missionary's hospital.

“The ignorant fool fell into the ravine and landed on his rifle,” Lige remarked. “How damn clumsy can you get?” He turned around just as Preacher hurled a fist-sized rock that caught the big man in the center of his forehead and knocked him sprawling to the ground.

Jeremy King, one of Lige's bunch, whirled around, lifting his rifle. Preacher blew a hole in his chest and Jeremy landed on his back, dead eyes open and staring at nothing.

The woods erupted in wild gunfire, but Preacher had dropped to the ground an instant after he fired and the balls hit nothing except air, leaves, branches, and thudded harmlessly into the timber.

Tom Evans and Homer Moore, who had been wandering about trying to find their clothes, chose that time to blunder into the clearing ... bare butt shining.

“My God!” Fred Lasalle blurted. “Them boys ain't got no clothes on.”

“I always did wonder 'bout them two,” Bob Jones said.

“What's all the shootin' about?” Tom asked.

“Git down, you fools!” Stan Law hollered. “It's Preacher up yonder.”

“Don't get over here next to me,” Bob warned.

Their worries were needless, for Preacher was a good quarter of a mile away, running through the timber. He spotted movement ahead and stopped, bellying down on the ground. He smiled when he recognized Van Eaton as one of the men.