“It ain’t possible, I say,” the spokesman insisted. “It just ain’t.”
“Are you callin’ me a liar, you bear-butt ugly son of a bitch?” Preacher asked, his voice suddenly hard and all traces of the smile gone from his lips.
“Take your troubles outside,” Godfrey said from behind the counter.
“Shut up!” one of the men told him. He cut his eyes back to Preacher. “Yeah, I reckon I am callin’ you a liar. Now let’s see what you intend to do about it.”
“Well, I reckon I’ll just have to kill you,” Preacher replied.
And the huge room became as quiet as a tomb.
9
Faith and Eudora stood mesmerized. The counterman stood with both hands palms down on a blanket Claire Goodfellow had started to purchase. Snake and Blackjack were over near the bar, holding cups of whiskey. Steals Pony was outside, talking with several Indians. Rupert stepped to one side, quickly getting out of the line of fire.
“You got it to do,” the lout told Preacher.
“I reckon I can do it,” Preacher replied. “Make your play.”
The brigand grabbed for his pistol, which was tucked behind his belt.
Preacher’s right-hand gun flashed into action and boomed before the brigand could cock his pistol. The heavy ball struck the man in the center of his chest and knocked him back outside. He hit the ground on his back and twitched once as his brain told his body he was dead.
“Never seen a man git a pistol into action so fast.” A trapper broke the silence. “I believe Preacher’s got something goin’ for him, I do.”
“That was certainly a fast-draw,” Godfrey said, craning his neck to see if any blood had gotten spilled on his freshly mopped floor.
“Yeah,” another said. “He’s a regular gunfighter, he is.”
And the term was born.
Preacher cut his eyes to the dead man’s friends. They stood poised, their hands hovering near their pistols. But they were smart enough not to try a grab.
“You kilt Hill,” one finally said.
“I sure did,” Preacher replied. As soon as he had fired the first ball, he had cocked the hammer on another barrel of the awkward-looking pistol. “You boys want to join him?”
“Cain’t say as I do,” the other one of the pair said. “That was his friend you kilt last year, not ours.”
“The hell you say!” his buddy shouted. “You just stand aside.” He glared at Preacher. “I ain’t no fast hand at pistols, but I’ll fight you fair with a blade, Preacher.”
Godfrey lifted a double-barreled shotgun out from under the counter and pointed it at the mouthy brigand. “Outside,” he ordered. “I’ll not have blood all over my merchandise.”
“Suits me,” Preacher said.
“You best think about this, Jackson,” the other friend of the dead Hill said.
“Shet your mouth, Cecil,” Jackson told him. “I ain’t a-feared of this ignorant bastard.”
“Your funeral,” Cecil replied. He looked at Preacher. “I’m out of this.”
“Good enough,” Preacher said, easing the hammer down on his pistol and holstering the weapon. “Outside, Jackson.”
“Oh, sure. You want me to go furst so’s you can shoot me in the back?” Jackson said with a sneer. “No, thanks.”
Preacher smiled and shoved past the man, stepping outside. A large crowd had gathered, most coming running at the sound of the shot. They backed away when Preacher pulled out his long-bladed knife.
“Come on, you misbegotten sot!” Preacher shouted. “Time’s a-wastin’ and I got better things to do.”
“Somebody drag that stinkin’ body out of the doorway,” Godfrey called. “You!” He pointed at Cecil. “There’s a shovel around back. Get it and bury him in the woods.”
Jackson was showing signs of having regretted his challenge. He was slow in walking toward Preacher. Preacher saw it and offered the man a way out.
“This don’t have to be, Jackson. Just get on your pony and ride on out of here.”
“Yeah, it has to be,” Jackson said, baring his blade. “It has to be.”
“I don’t know why,” Preacher said. “But if that’s the way you want it, come on.”
Jackson cursed and sprang at Preacher, his knife held low for a gut-cut. Preacher sidestepped, whirled, brought his razor-sharp blade down, and cut Jackson on the buttock. Jackson yelped in pain and the blood flowed from the deep cut.
Cecil, dragging the body of the dead man toward the woods, heard the cry of pain and shook his head. He was sorry he’d ever gotten mixed up with this bunch. Ever since he’d come west he’d been hearing tales about a mountain man called Preacher. He hadn’t believed them. But he sure did now. Them was the most awfulest lookin’ pistols on Preacher he’d ever seen in his life.
“You cut my ass a-purpose!” Jackson squalled.
“Sure did,” Preacher said, grinning.
Jackson cussed him and took a swipe. Their knives clashed and locked at the cross guards. Preacher smiled at Jackson and hit him in the belly with a hard right fist. The wind whooshed out of the man and his eyes glazed. Using his knife, Preacher tore Jackson’s knife loose from his weakened grip and shoved the man back.
“I don’t really want to kill you, Jackson,” he told the startled man, as he was sheathing his blade. “I just want to beat the snot out of you.” Then, before Jackson could get set, Preacher flattened him with a right to the jaw. Jackson landed on the ground flat on his back, the wind knocked clear from him.
Preacher stepped back and let the man get slowly to his boots. Jackson looked at his brace of pistols on the ground where he’d dropped them. But what really got his attention was the sound of Steals Pony cocking his Hawken.
“Touch those pistols,” the Delaware warned him, “and I will certainly drop you where you stand.”
“Goddamn wild savage!” Jackson cussed him.
Steals Pony laughed openly at the absurdity of the remark.
Jackson turned to face Preacher. He lifted his fists. Preacher raised his fists; there was a strange smile on his tanned face.
“You really think all this is funny, don’t you, Preacher?” Jackson asked, a trickle of blood leaking from one corner of his mouth.
“Well, not really. It’s more sad than funny. You so damn clumsy. But I know who you are, now. You’re Jackson Biggers, ain’t you?”
“That’s right. And you kilt a runnin’ buddy of mine last year.”
“I disremember the time and place ’xactly, but I ’spect he was tryin’ to kill me.”
“So what? You been needin’ killin’ for a long time. I’m sick of hearin’ your pukey name.”
“So come on, Biggers,” Preacher laid down the challenge. “I’ve seen men killed with fists. You think you’re hoss enough to do that?”
Biggers stepped forward and smashed a right to Preacher’s jaw. But Preacher had been expecting something like that. He turned and the blow only landed with about half-power. Still, it was enough to hurt, and Preacher knew the man was no pushover.
Preacher countered with a left and then a right to Jackson Biggers’ belly and face. With blood streaming from his newly busted beak, Biggers backed up, shaking his head to clear away the blood and the birdies and cobwebs.
Preacher pressed him hard, punching fast, landing body blows that he knew were hurting the man. Biggers was slightly taller than Preacher, and outweighed him by twenty or thirty pounds. But Preacher was all bone and hard-packed muscle. His legs were spring-steel strong and Preacher was a runner, nearly always winning the footraces at the rendezvous.
Biggers dropped his guard and Preacher landed a hard right to the jaw that staggered the man. Biggers backed up and Preacher bored in. He landed a left to the belly and a right to the mouth. Biggers spat out teeth and blood and cussed Preacher.
Preacher didn’t waste his breath with words, obscene or otherwise. He just proceeded to beat the crap out of the bigger man. In a few moments, Biggers’ face was a mask of blood and torn skin. His nose was flattened and both his eyes were closing.