“But what if Garity didn’t take her to Santa Fe?”
Preacher’s jaw tightened. “Where else would he go? But if he didn’t, as soon as I’m in better shape, I’ll head back to the spot where he grabbed her and pick up their trail.”
“After all that time?” Roland sounded dubious.
“I’ll find ’em,” Preacher said. “If it takes a year, or two, or however long, I’ll find ’em. And then Garity’ll pay for what he done.”
The wagons rolled into Santa Fe’s broad plaza late in the afternoon. With Lorenzo’s help, Preacher climbed down from the vehicle where he had been riding. The mountain man wore boots, whipcord trousers, a linsey-woolsey shirt, and a broad-brimmed brown hat, all of which came from the freight carried by the caravan. His buckskins had been too bloody and shredded to be saved, but he figured he could get another set of them in the settlement . . . once the rest of his business was done.
He was armed with a new knife, two pistols, and a rifle, also new. He had offered to owe Roland for them, but the young man wouldn’t hear of it.
“We’d all be dead now if it weren’t for you, Preacher,” Roland had said. “I’ll never finish paying that debt.”
“You best be careful,” Lorenzo warned as he and Preacher stood beside the wagon. “You may not be too steady on your feet yet.”
“I’ll be fine,” Preacher said.
Roland came over to join them. “Where’s this place you’re going?” he asked Preacher.
The mountain man pointed. “A block down that side street over yonder. It’s called Juanita’s. Ask folks if you can’t find it. They can tell you where to go.”
Roland nodded. “I’ll see you later, then, after I’ve made arrangements for the freight and the wagons.”
“Good luck with that,” Preacher said.
“Don’t worry about that,” Roland said with a smile. “Despite the fact that he didn’t know anything about the frontier, my father was a pretty canny businessman, and I learned from him. I’ll be able to strike a good deal.”
Preacher clapped a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “I’m sure you will. Go do your pa proud.”
He and Lorenzo walked across the plaza, not in any hurry. Preacher felt fairly steady, but he didn’t want to rush things. They went down the side street to a square adobe building where the strains of guitar music drifted out through the open front door. The cool dimness inside felt good when they walked in.
The cantina had a hard-packed dirt floor, a scattering of rough-hewn tables and chairs, and an actual hardwood bar across the back. Old Esteban, who had owned the place, had paid a pretty penny to have the bar brought up from Mexico City ten years earlier. Unfortunately for him, he had come down with a fever and died before it ever arrived. His widow Juanita, who was considerably younger than her late husband, had continued running the cantina.
Preacher had met her a few years later during one of his previous visits to Santa Fe and had heard the story of Esteban and the bar from Juanita while they were in bed together, basking in the afterglow of some vigorous lovemaking. Luckily for Preacher, the earthy, voluptuous widow had been finished with her mourning by the time he came along, and the two of them had hit it off splendidly.
She was behind the bar when Preacher and Lorenzo came in. The air was thick with the smells of pipe smoke and burning hemp, tequila and beer, perfume and unwashed human flesh. Men laughed and talked, and the pretty girls who carried drinks to the tables let out the occasional yelp as the customers got a little too friendly. In the low-cut peasant blouses and long, embroidered skirts, the nubile young women put plenty of lecherous ideas in the minds of the patrons.
Juanita set a bucket of beer on the bar to be delivered to one of the tables, then glanced at the two newcomers. Her head jerked sharply as she looked again. Her eyes widened in recognition, and a big smile appeared on her face as she hurried out from behind the bar and practically ran across the room to greet the mountain man.
“Preacher!” she said as she threw her arms around him. “Dios mio! I almost didn’t recognize you, dressed like a civilized person instead of a wild Indian! What are you doing—” Juanita stopped short and frowned as she looked into Preacher’s gaunt, haggard face. “Preacher, are you all right? You look sick!”
“Nope, I ain’t sick,” he assured her. “Just beat up and wore out. Reckon we could find an empty table and sit down?”
“Of course.” She held on to his arm and led him to one of the tables. As the three of them sat down, she nodded toward Lorenzo and asked, “Who is your amigo?”
“I ain’t his slave, if that’s what you’re thinkin’,” Lorenzo said.
Juanita shook her head. “Preacher is not the sort of man who would keep another in bondage. I can tell the two of you are friends.”
“His name’s Lorenzo,” Preacher said. “He’s kind of a cantankerous old codger, but he’s handy to have around ever’ now and then.”
Lorenzo snorted. “Saved your bacon more’n once, I seem to recall.”
Preacher didn’t argue about that. Instead he turned to Juanita and said, “You’re lookin’ as pretty as ever, darlin’.” His compliments still had the power to make her blush with pleasure, he noted.
She said, “Of course I’m glad to see you, Preacher, but what brings you to Santa Fe?”
“I need a place to stay, Juanita.”
“With me,” she replied instantly. “Do not even think about arguing.”
Preacher chuckled. “I wasn’t intendin’ to. Reckon you can find a bed for Lorenzo, too?”
“Of course. You can both stay as long as you like. At least a month. It will take that long for my cooking to fatten you up and make you healthy again.”
Preacher’s mouth watered a little at the memory of all the savory vittles Juanita had fixed for him in the past. Beans and tortillas, strips of beef, and the peppers . . . Lord, the peppers! There was nothing like them to get a man’s vital juices stirring. Juanita was right. A month of her cooking would put him back on his feet again, good and proper. Washed down with plenty of tequila, of course.
“I can’t tell you how good that sounds, darlin’,” he said, “but there’s something else I need to take care of first.”
She heard the edge in his voice. She frowned again as she said, “Trouble. That’s what you mean.”
“You’re right,” Preacher admitted. “I’m lookin’ for an hombre.”
“A man you intend to kill.”
Juanita’s words were a statement, not a question, but Preacher inclined his head in agreement anyway.
She looked at Lorenzo and asked, “If you’re his friend, have you not told him that he is no shape to be seeking a battle?”
“I reckon you’ve knowed him longer’n I have, ma’am,” Lorenzo said. “You think it does any good to tell Preacher anything?”
She sighed. “Not really. Not once his mind is made up.” She looked at Preacher again. “So tell me, who is this evil man whose life you wish to end?”
“How do you know he’s evil?” Preacher asked.
“Because if he wasn’t, you would not want to kill him. Despite all the rough edges, you are a good man, Arturo.”
Lorenzo looked across the table and raised his eyebrows as he repeated, “Arturo?”
“Never you mind about that,” Preacher snapped. He had told Juanita the name he’d been born with—Arthur—and sometimes she called him Arturo in bed. It was the first time she had used it anywhere else. He went on, “The fella I’m lookin’ for is named Garity. I never heard his first name.”
He went on to describe the outlaw while Juanita nodded slowly. He told her about how Garity and the other thieves had attacked the wagon train twice, how they had tortured him, how Garity had escaped during the battle with the bear and evidently taken Casey with him. Juanita’s eyes widened in amazement as she listened.