Bedell looked at what was left of his gang. The brothers, Slug and Pug, and the two French trappers turned outlaws, Villiers and Pierre. So this was the end of it, Bedell thought. All my fine plans, hopes, and dreams, smashed to naught by a damn ignorant, savage mountain man. He watched as Villiers straightened up from warming his hands over the little fire.
“This is it for me,” the man announced. “I ain’t runnin’ no more. I been in these mountains for most of my life. And if I’m to die, it’ll be right here.”
Pierre nodded his head. “I’m with you. I’m tired of bein’ chased.”
Slug looked at Pug and the brothers slowly nodded their heads. “We’ll stand with you,” Pug spoke for both of them.
“I’m leaving,” Bedell said, standing up and walking toward his horse. “I’ll not just give up and let that wretched bastard kill me.” He swung into the saddle and rode off, taking one packhorse with him.
“Good riddance,” Villiers said, watching the man ride away to the east.
“I never did like that man,” Slug said. “I ain’t got no use for nobody who thinks he’s better than me.”
“Look at him now,” Pierre said. “Dirty, ragged, and scared.” He laughed aloud as Bedell vanished from view. “Think about it, boys. We had, all told, about a hundred men. And this is what’s left. Squattin’ over a fire in the Absarokas, waitin’ to shoot it out with a human wolf. I…” He stopped as the howl of a timber wolf cut the cold air. Pierre shivered. “There he is, boys.”
And he was very close.
Pug looked up, his eyes wide with fear. “Can we make a deal with him?”
Villiers laughed bitterly. “Deal? With Preacher? Forget it. Load up full, boys. Now we really get to see the elephant.”
Slug stood up in time to catch an arrow directly in the center of his chest. His hands clutched at the arrow for a few seconds, then he fell over backward.
“No!” his brother screamed, snatching up his rifle and firing it blindly at the timber.
“Damn fool!” Pierre shouted. “Get down.”
But the admonition was too late. Preacher’s second arrow took Pug in the neck and dropped him, the bloody point sticking out the other side.
The two renegade trappers exchanged glances. “Can we talk, Preacher?” Villiers shouted.
Silence greeted his question.
“Damnit, man, I didn’t kill your horse!” Pierre yelled.
A funny-looking arrow came whizzing out of the timber.
“What the hell is that thing?” Villiers asked. “What’s that tied to the end of it?”
“It’s a fire arrow,” Pierre said. “Oh, shit!” he hollered. “It ain’t either. It’s a…”
The bag of black powder exploded. The explosion didn’t do a lot of damage, but it did scare the crap out of the men as it showered them with dirt and burning bits of cloth that Preacher had stuffed in with the powder. Both men instinctively jumped up, slapping at themselves and hollering. It was to be their last jump before slipping into hell. They both realized their mistake too late.
Preacher shot them both.
Villiers opened his eyes. He wasn’t in a lot of pain, but he knew he was hard hit. He cut his eyes over to Pierre. He was dead, sitting with his back to a boulder, a bullet hole in the center of his forehead. He slowly moved his head. Preacher was sitting by the fire, drinking the last of their coffee and staring at him.
“How bad am I, Preacher?”
“Lung-shot. I dusted you from side to side. You want some coffee?”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
Preacher put the cup in his hand.
“It don’t hurt none, mon ami.”
“Mayhaps it won’t. You ain’t got long.”
“We played out our string with the wrong man, didn’t we?” He took a sip of coffee and slipped his left hand behind his sash.
Preacher smiled. “I tossed away that little pistol of yours, Villiers. Yeah, you shoulda stayed with trappin’. Bedell was a bad choice.”
“That’s a good little derringer pistol, Preacher. That’s an Ethan Allen.”
Preacher nodded.
“Gettin’ dark, Preacher.”
“I’ll tell the boys you died well.”
“Merci. Did the others die well?”
“Not many of them.”
“That does not come as any surprise to me. They were riffraf.”
“Got any kin, Villiers?”
“Non. But thank you for asking.” Villiers began coughing hard. He spit out blood.
Preacher waited and then asked, “Vic Bedell cut and run, did he?”
Villiers caught his breath and nodded his head. “Oui. He was a coward. But you watch him, Preacher. Cowards are dangerous when cornered.”
“I know.”
The coffee cup had overturned, the hot coffee scalding Villiers’ hand. The man seemed not to notice. Preacher reached over and took the cup. Villiers didn’t notice that, either.
“I’m glad it was you who did the deed, Preacher. I’m really glad it…”
Villiers fell back and died.
Preacher did not bury any of the men. They would not have expected that courtesy and he damn sure didn’t offer it.
He’d seen Bedell’s tracks and had guessed accurately that Bedell would try for the east. “Run all you want to, Bedell,” Preacher said. “I’m right behind you.”
6
Preacher lost the trail.
He tracked him to Rock Creek, and then the trail went cold. He just couldn’t believe it. Preacher hadn’t lost a trail in years. He sat on Thunder and did some fancy cussin’, turnin’ the air fairly blue. But he still knew Bedell was headin’ straight east, so that’s the direction Preacher took. It was getting cold. Preacher headed south and west, making about twenty-five to thirty miles a day. By the time winter struck its first hard blow, he was out of the high country and onto the plains, heading east. Not that it wasn’t cold on the plains, for it damn sure was. But nothin’ like bein’ caught ten thousand feet up and the temperature seventy below zero and the winds screamin’ at better than fifty miles an hour.
Preacher stopped at an Indian village and swapped his spare packhorses for a new set of buckskins, and they was fancy ones, too. He’d save them to wear when he hit the civilized middle of the nation. A couple of days out of the village, some young bucks come along lookin’ for a fight. There was four of them, and they wanted to impress the girls. Preacher spoke to them in sign language and they relaxed when they learned who he was and what he was doing. Preacher continued on without incident.
He rode across Missouri in the middle of winter, and he marveled at the nice roads. Why, they was even graded ever’ now and then to smooth them out. Folks back here sure lived an easy life.
And St. Louis liked to have plumb startled him out of his ’skins. The place was boomin’. People ever’where and both the gentlemen and their ladies walked around all gussied up and fancy lookin’.
Didn’t take Preacher long to get his fill of that place. Some folks was beginnin’ to look down their snooty noses at him. By talking with tavern owners that knew him from the past, and trappers who were now in other businesses, Preacher learned that Bedell had come through. He had conned money out of some people and headed on east. One of Preacher’s old friends told him on the quiet that he’d heard that Bedell was heading for the southern part of Ohio.
“Totin’ guns is rapidly becomin’ a thing of the past once you cross the Mississippi, Preacher,” a friend told him. “Law and order is the thing now.”
“They leave me alone and I’ll damm shore leave them alone,” was Preacher’s reply.
He pressed on, determined to find Bedell.