varmint’s beezer. This fella wasn’t the only one who could fight hard and mean. Preacher let him have a left and then a right, lambasting him and driving him backward. The mountain man didn’t ease off now that he had seized the advantage, either. He followed, slugging hard and swift with both fists.
The man crumpled. He might be made of granite, but he had finally been worn down by Preacher’s iron fists.
As the man lay there bleeding on the floor, the breath rasping and wheezing through his swollen and misshapen nose, Preacher swung around. He had been too busy to keep up with how Lorenzo and Audie were doing against their opponents. He hoped his friends were all right.
They were more than all right, Preacher saw. They had emerged from the battle triumphant. Audie, in fact, was standing with one foot on the chest of an unconscious man, dusting his hands off against each other in obvious satisfaction.
A few feet away, Lorenzo leaned against a table and grinned. His hat had been knocked off and he had a few scrapes on his face, but he seemed to be fine otherwise.
“What a fine display of pugilistic excellence!” Audie said.
“Is he sayin’ we whupped ’em good?” Lorenzo asked.
Nighthawk stood nearby with arms folded. He nodded and said gravely, “Ummm.”
Preacher had lost his hat during the fight. He looked around, saw it lying on the floor, and picked it up. The broad-brimmed, brown felt headgear was pretty shapeless to start with, but it was even more crumpled now because it looked like it had been stepped on a few times. Preacher punched it back to the way it was supposed to be and settled it on his head.
Pete stalked out from behind the counter and came along the aisle toward them. He stopped, planted his fists on his hips, and said, “Somebody will have to pay for these damages, ja?”
Preacher swept a hand toward the unconscious men.
“They started it. I reckon you can check their pockets.”
Pete jerked his shelf-like jaw at the man Preacher had knocked out and asked, “Do you know who that is?”
“Nope, and I don’t care.”
“His name is Willie Deaver. That one is Caleb Manning.” Pete pointed at the long-haired man Audie had knocked out to start the ruckus. “I do not know the names of the other men, but they are the same sort as Deaver and Manning. Bad men. You would be wise to leave before they wake up, Preacher.”
The mountain man bristled.
“I ain’t in the habit of runnin’ away from trouble. Fact is, the last thing I run away from was my folks’ farm, and that was a hell of a long time ago.”
“You would not be fleeing,” Pete said. “You would be saving my place from even more damage.”
Preacher shrugged.
“Fine. Lorenzo and me didn’t plan to stay the night here, anyway. We just wanted to pick up some supplies.”
“I will give you a good price if you tell me what you need, so you can load them up and leave.”
Preacher looked at Audie and Nighthawk.
“What about you fellas? Are we all ridin’ together and headin’ for Bent Leg’s village?”
“That strikes me as a more than agreeable course of action,” Audie said. Nighthawk just nodded.
“All right, Pete,” Preacher said. “We need flour, salt, dried apples, beans, maybe a little coffee and molasses if you got it, and some salt jowl.”
Pete nodded and said, “I will put everything in a bag.”
“We’ll go saddle our horses,” Audie said. “Come on, Nighthawk.”
Ten minutes later, the four men were ready to ride out. Preacher had settled up with Pete for the supplies.
“Much obliged,” Preacher said after he’d swung up into the saddle on Horse’s back. “Too bad about the trouble.”
Pete waved that off as he stood on the trading post’s porch. He glanced back over his shoulder. Deaver, Manning, and the other three men were still out cold, but they would probably be coming around soon.
“Men like that, trouble always follows them,” he said. “You should watch your back, Preacher.”
“I always do,” Preacher said with a smile. He lifted a hand. “So long, Pete.”
“Guten tag, mein freund,” Audie called.
“You talk that Dutch lingo?” Lorenzo asked as they rode toward the gate.
“Ein bischen,” Audie answered.
“No, I ain’t bitchin’,” Lorenzo said with a frown. “I don’t care what you talk.”
“Nein, nein.”
“Ten,” Lorenzo said. “That’s what comes next. What’re we countin’, anyway?”
“You might as well give up,” Preacher told him. “He’ll pick at you all day if you let him.” He turned in the saddle and let out a piercing whistle. Dog came running from somewhere in the compound. “Sorry if you didn’t get to do as much visitin’ as you’d like,” Preacher told the big cur. “But we got places to go.”
They rode out of the stockade, putting the trading post behind them and heading north toward a range of snow-capped mountains. A cool breeze blew in Preacher’s face. It smelled good.
CHAPTER 3
Blind Pete leaned on the counter as he laboriously entered numbers in the ledger book that lay open before him. He chewed at the graying blond mustache that drooped over his mouth. He had learned to cipher as a young boy in Dusseldorf, but it had never come easy to him.
Despite what Preacher had said, Pete hadn’t taken any coins from the pockets of Deaver, Manning, and the other men to pay for the damages caused by the brawl. If Deaver had woken up to find someone rifling his pockets, there would be hell to pay. Besides, there really hadn’t been that much damage.
Pete made sure to have a loaded shotgun lying on the counter in front of him when the men regained consciousness. As they came around, groaning and cursing, Pete had told them, “Preacher and the others are gone. There will be no more trouble here, ja?”
Caleb Manning had looked like he wanted to take out his anger on the proprietor, but Deaver had stopped him.
“Let it go,” Deaver said. “It ain’t Pete’s fault that Preacher and his friends jumped us. If there’s a score to settle, it’s with them.”
That reasonable attitude had surprised Pete, but he welcomed it. He was even more surprised a few minutes later when Deaver laid a five-dollar gold piece on the counter and said, “That’s for the whiskey we drank and the trouble we caused. Are we square, Pete?”
Pete’s first impulse was to pick up the coin
