Preacher's Peace (19 page)

In the darkness, illuminated only by a single candle, Jennie faced a terrifying apparition. Percy McDill had burst into her tent, and now moved toward her, his face twisted by lust and anger into a grotesque mask. The candle's reflection in his dark eyes gave Jennie the illusion of staring into the very fires of hell. She stepped backward, but found little room to maneuver in the confines of the tent.

Jennie screamed.

* * *

Outside, Art heard a woman's scream. It came from a nearby tent. It startled him—not because of the cry itself, but because he thought he recognized the voice of the woman who screamed. But it couldn't be ... it couldn't be who he thought it was. Could it?

Running in the direction of the commotion, Art wondered what Jennie would be doing out here. It couldn't be her, could it? She was in St. Louis. And yet, something about the scream touched his very soul. He hurried toward the tent.

* * *

McDill lunged, clamping his dirty hand over her mouth. Jennie bit his hand and he ripped it away, howling like a wounded animal. She screamed again. Outside the tent she could hear people moving around, and she hoped someone would come to help her. She fought back, pummeling his chest and face with her hands, but he was so big and strong that it had no effect.

“You bitch!” he sneered, cradling his wounded hand. “I was gonna pay you, whore that you are, but now I'm not—I'm gonna take it for free.”

“Stay away,” she warned. “For your own good, mister. I don't want to hurt you.”

“Ha! You don't want to hurt me?” he said with a lopsided, drunken grin. “Tell me, bitch, how you plannin' on hurtin' me?”

She couldn't stand the smell of him, and his ugly leer. Yet she realized that she had to be careful, that she couldn't rile him even more—or else he was liable to kill her. She had known men like him for her entire life.

She gathered what composure she could, and brushed a fall of hair back from her face. She forced herself to smile at him.

“Look, you're right, whoring is my business. But I was just getting ready for bed and I must look a mess. Why don't you go away now, give me a chance to get ready, then you can come back later,” she said.

“No way, little lady, I'm here and here I am. You'll get to like me when you know me better. I promise.”

Jennie doubted that she would ever be able to bear the sight of this man, let alone like him. He was grotesque, and it didn't matter that he was drunk. She had met this kind before, and he reminded her of her old master, among others.

“But you'll like me better if you give me a chance to get ready for you,” Jennie said, making one last attempt to get through to him.

“I like you fine just the way you are,” he said, starting toward her again.

Jennie felt the world closing in on her and smelled blood in the air; she could only hope it wasn't her own. Again she screamed for help.

At that moment the tent flaps opened, and it was as if God himself had heard her plea. The one man in the world whom she truly loved stepped inside. It was Art, the man she had known as a boy, the man who was a part of her life even when they were not together. She had heard the stories of him over the last several weeks, how he had beaten off a bear attack, then wandered through the wilderness, surviving on berries, roots, and whatever he could kill with just a knife. She had also heard of his escape from the Indians, and of the new name the Indians had given him.

“Art!” she cried.

McDill turned to see the man he hated most in the world—the man he had thought was dead—moving at him swiftly and angrily. He ducked to avoid Art's first swing, and came up with a hard punch of his own, taking Art off guard, smashing into his chin. He laughed as the younger man staggered backward.

“Well, now, if it ain't my ole' pal Art,” McDill said. “Only I hear tell the Indians call you Preacher now. Is that right? Are you goin' to preach to me, Preacher? Are you going to save my soul?” He laughed.

Art got to one knee, and shook his head, trying to clear away the cobwebs of the hammerlike blow. He stared up at McDill, and at the hideous leering grin on his face.

McDill held his hand out and curled his fingers, tauntingly inviting Art toward him.

“Well, come on, Preacher,” he said. “You don't have a pistol under the table now, do you? Oh, wait, I forgot. It was a fork, wasn't it?” The leering grin left his face, to be replaced by an angry scowl. “Come on, you son of a bitch. I'm going to beat you to a pulp.”

His head cleared, Art leaped up again and charged at McDill. He buried his head in McDill's midsection, and both men went crashing to the ground.

Art scrambled to his feet and grabbed McDill by the collar, then dragged him outside. He wanted to take this confrontation away from Jennie. By now a crowd, drawn by the screams and the commotion, had gathered just outside. They surrounded the two men, who were locked in a deadly confrontation.

Among the people there were Matthews, Montgomery, and Hoffman, the big Hessian. They couldn't believe what they were seeing. Here was their leader, returned as if from the dead. They were overjoyed to see him, but not in these circumstances. He was locked in mortal combat with the larger, loathsome McDill.

The crowd cheered for Art and jeered McDill. Art, still exhausted from his long ride, and not yet fully recovered from all his injuries, stood still to catch his breath. That allowed McDill to get to his feet, and the big man charged like a bull. Art stepped out of the way, and McDill went hurtling into the crowd.

Laughing at his awkwardness, the men in the crowd caught McDill and pushed him back into the circle of combat. The two men faced each other again, and Art punched him as hard as he could. McDill doubled over. Art landed a strong right to McDill's jaw, straightening him out and sending him back on his heels. Art massaged the hand that had struck the blow.

Caviness was watching with the others in the crowd. He wanted to go to the aid of his friend, but he dared not, for fear of retribution from the others. McDill was on his own now. Caviness melted away into the growing darkness. Even as the fight was going on behind him, he saddled his horse. If Art won, he might come after Caviness. If McDill won, he would want to know why Caviness didn't help him. Under the circumstances, Caviness knew that this was no place for him to be.

“Art,” Jennie said, coming out of her tent then.

Art turned toward Jennie, then held his hand out, as if telling her to stay away. “Jennie, stay back, keep out of the way!” he cautioned.

As Art looked away from McDill for just that quick second, McDill pulled his long-bladed hunting knife from its sheath and lunged at Art, the knife pointed at his guts. Now, enraged and humiliated by the beating he was taking from this younger and smaller man, McDill was more animal than human.

Jennie saw McDill and called out to Art: “Look out! He has a knife!”

Art turned just in time to see the blade flash in the flickering light of the nearby fires. He reared back to avoid the killing knife, then circled his enemy barehanded. Someone from the crowd tossed him a stick. Art used it as a defensive weapon, swinging it at McDill to keep him at bay. With one swing, McDill's knife chopped the stick in half.

“What are you goin' to do now, Preacher?” McDill taunted, holding the knife out in front of him, moving the point back and forth slightly, like the head of a coiled snake. “You think that little stick is going to stop me? I'll whittle it down to a toothpick, then I'll carve you up.”

Then Art realized he had no choice, he must fight this madman on his terms—no rules, any weapon at hand, and to the death. He drew his own knife, the same knife that had seen him through the past two months from the killing of Wak Tha Go, to the killing of the grizzly she-bear, and through his wandering and captivity. The same knife that had been returned to him by the Indians, when they granted him his freedom.

Art held the knife up, showing it to Percy McDill, saying without a word that he intended to kill the man who had threatened Jennie, who had left him for dead, who had lied and cheated his way through a worthless life. Well, that life was about to end.

Suddenly it seemed as if McDill had sobered up. The taunting, leering grin left his face and he became deadly serious and focused. With a steady hand he held his own knife up, challenging his opponent, his face now a mask of calm determination.

“I should've killed you when I had the chance. You'd better start preachin' your own funeral, Preacher,” McDill said. “It's time for you to die.”

Now, for the first time, Art grinned. It was neither taunting nor leering. Instead, it was confident, and it completely unnerved McDill. “I don't think so, McDill,” Art said easily. “I think you are the one who is going to die.”

“I'm going to kill you, and that damned mutt of yours,” McDill said with false bravado, trying now to bolster his own courage.

Out of the corner of his eye, Art could see Dog, standing near Hoffman on the edge of the watching crowd. If it hadn't been for the wolf-dog, McDill probably would have slit his throat and left him for dead some two months earlier.

The young mountain man put aside all thoughts other than one: McDill must die for his crimes. Trying to hurt Jennie was the last evil thing this son of a bitch would ever do.

The two men circled each other like gladiators in a Roman arena. The crowd became silent. Even Jennie, who watched in horror, could neither speak nor cry out. Dog stood at alert. He could've attacked McDill, but somehow seemed to sense that this was something Art needed to do by himself.

McDill moved first. He swung his blade at Art, missing his face by only a few inches. Art felt the wind of the swift knife blade and jerked his head back. In almost the same movement, he swung his own knife low and hard, aiming for McDill's belly. He missed.

The big man then punched Art on the side of his head.

Art was stunned, and for a second couldn't see anything. He backed away quickly to avoid the oncoming McDill, then stepped to one side. As McDill shot past him, Art stabbed with his knife blade and felt it slip into McDill's midsection.

He pushed the knife in as far as it could go, then held it there. The two men stood together, absolutely motionless, for a long moment. Art felt McDill's warm blood spilling over his knife and onto his hand.

Howling like a stuck pig, McDill pulled himself off the knife. He stepped back several feet, then came back toward Art. But before he could even lift his own knife, he gasped, dropped his knife, and put his hand to his wound. Blood filled his cupped palms, then began oozing from his mouth as well. His eyes turned up in their sockets, showing the bloodshot whites.

From her position by the front of her tent, Jennie looked at McDill's eyes. They had caught the reflection of the campfires and, once more, she had the illusion of staring into the pit of hell. She shuddered, and wrapped her arms around herself as she realized that, within minutes, McDill would be there.

“Damn . . . you . . .” McDill managed to gurgle through the blood and spit that filled his mouth. “Damn ...”

Art took one step toward the dying man, then stopped. McDill's big body shuddered, then collapsed in a heap on the ground. Beneath him the blood pooled darkly from his leaking wound.

Jennie ran up, threw her arms around Art, and kissed him. He stood there unmoving, unable to take his eyes off the crumpled heap that had once been a man.

His own men now came forward: Montgomery, Matthews, and Hoffman. Dog followed warily, his nostrils filled with the blood scent from the dead man.

“Well, Boss, good to see you again,” Matthews said. The others clapped him on the back. There were tears in their eyes.

Jennie said, “Yes, so good. You're alive. You saved my life. If you hadn't been here—I don't know what might have happened.”

Still, Art said nothing. His body and mind were spent. He didn't feel good about killing McDill, even though the man was a bastard and nothing but trouble for everyone around him. He had never enjoyed killing for the sake of killing, but only killed as a last resort. In this case, it had been a necessary last resort—no question.

Finally, he spoke: “I'm glad that you're all alive and well. Where did Caviness go?”

“I think we will never see him again,” Hoffman said with his heavy German accent. “I saw him sneak away like a dog.”

“Careful when you say that,” Art said, nodding toward Dog, who cocked his head at the big Hessian.

They all laughed. Dog even wagged his tail, sensing that they were talking about him.

“Let's clean up this mess and bury it,” Art said.

“I tell you, Art, that's more than he would have done for you,” Montgomery observed.

“Call me Preacher,” Art said.

“Preacher? Yeah, I heard you'd picked up a new moniker. That's what you want to be called, huh?”

“Yeah,” Preacher said. “That's what I want to be called.”

Later that night Jennie washed off the blood and trail dust that clung to the man who would now, and forever more, be called Preacher. She coaxed him to eat some supper, then to sleep off the aches and pains of his long ordeal. She lay beside him until he fell asleep.

The next morning Preacher set out early, before Jennie awoke. Dog followed him to the edge of the settlement. Preacher rode toward the ford. He would cross the Missouri and ride back to St. Louis to report to William Ashley as he had promised to do. It seemed a long time ago since that last trip to St. Louis. A lot had happened, and he felt like a different man now. It was good that he had a new name to go with this new man. Maybe he had grown up. He was still young, but he had been through more in the last few months than most men would go through in a lifetime.