Preachers purge, p.1
Preacher's Purge, page 1
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THE FIRST MOUNTAIN MAN
PREACHER’S PURGE
WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE AND J.A. JOHNSTONE
PINNACLE BOOKS
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
HISTORICAL NOTE
Teaser chapter
PINNACLE BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2023 by J.A. Johnstone
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE: Following the death of William W. Johnstone, the Johnstone family is working with a carefully selected writer to organize and complete Mr. Johnstone’s outlines and many unfinished manuscripts to create additional novels in all of his series like The Last Gunfighter, Mountain Man, and Eagles, among others. This novel was inspired by Mr. Johnstone’s superb storytelling.
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
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ISBN: 978-0-7860-4986-8
ISBN-13: 978-0-7860-4993-6 (eBook)
CHAPTER 1
“Them soldier boys are studyin’ on us mighty hard, an’ in an unfriendly manner, Preacher. So hard an’ unfriendly my neck hair’s standin’ on end.”
“I know it.” Preacher sopped up the dregs of his stew with his last biscuit and devoured it.
The seven blue-uniformed soldiers his friend Lorenzo referred to had already caught Preacher’s attention with their furtive glances and cold intensity. The tension had been building, and Preacher supposed he knew why that might be.
The soldiers sat around their table in the back corner of the Scalded Beaver Tavern. There were seven of them now, all wearing blue uniforms and all hard-looking men who looked like they’d been on both sides of the mountain. They drank heavily, but they’d been drinking before they came in. A couple of them had stumbled pretty good.
The time was just an hour or two past dark, and the meal was sitting well with Preacher. Or it had been. Most decent folk were back in their homes and only the night owls, gamblers, and those who had a taste for alcohol and soiled doves were out and about.
At another table on the other side of the tavern, a small group of men peered at a map and talked quietly among themselves. In their own way, the men seemed just as intense as the watchful soldiers. Preacher didn’t know if these men would be considered “decent,” but the men didn’t pay attention to much outside themselves.
One of them wore a tall, brown D’Orsay hat. Although the hat had been obviously cared for, the distinctive curved brim was wilted in a couple places and showed a few scuffed spots. The hat had been through some tough times. Preacher supposed the young man sitting under it had too because he had a knocked-about look that showed in his rough clothing and wind-burned face.
An air of desperation clung to the man and his group that wouldn’t be found in most folks in Fort Pierre.
The mountain man looked away from the group and focused on the soldiers. Their grumbling had gotten hotter and louder. Those men weren’t decent or quiet men. The scars and haphazard attention to their uniforms advertised that.
They were trouble. Or were soon to be trouble.
Preacher wouldn’t claim to be decent, but he could be a bad man for those who had wronged him or others he decided to protect. He didn’t hesitate when push came to shove, or when it was time to root, hog, or die. Tonight, he had no wish for aggravation.
He chased the last swallow of stew with a sip of beer and glanced over again at the group Lorenzo had called his attention to.
“They came in about an hour ago and have been watchin’ us ever since,” Preacher agreed. “I think they’re workin’ their nerve up to somethin’.”
Across the table from Preacher, Tall Dog cut another bite of his steak with one of the knives he carried. The young Crow warrior was a walking armory, and that was only one of the things Preacher respected about him.
Like Preacher and Tall Dog, Lorenzo wore buckskin pants and a shirt, all of them recently made and in good shape. He carried two pistols shoved through the sash at his waist. His Hawken rifle leaned against the wall close to hand just as Preacher’s did.
“We could go ask what they find so interesting about us,” Tall Dog suggested. “I would be happy to do that.”
He popped the bite of steak into his mouth and chewed like he had all the time in the world.
Preacher pushed his empty plate away. “No. I don’t want to go on the prod. The major over the army here doesn’t much cotton to folks disturbin’ the peace. We’ll lie low and give ’em leeway to figure out their own path. They can’t surprise us. If those varmints are dead-set on confrontin’ us, they’ll come back later when we ain’t expectin’ it.”
Lorenzo grinned mirthlessly. His skin was dark, but his hair was going gray these days, not black like it had been when Preacher had first met him years back. He was slimmer now than he’d been, wiry and tough. Time was creeping up on him and had worn away at any spare flesh he’d carried. Until he and Preacher had gotten reunited a couple months ago at a Crow camp on the Snake River, Lorenzo had been talking about seeking the easy life. Boredom had settled in pretty quickly and he’d wandered West again.
“Now that you know they’re lookin’ at us lookin’ at them,” Lorenzo said, “any chance of you not expectin’ them?”
Preacher grinned back. “Nope. But I’m not going to look at them too hard. I’d rather get this over with now if anything’s gonna come of it. Before they talk themselves out of it doing something now.”
“You afraid of scarin’ them off?”
“There are seven of them. Seems like if they were really feelin’ froggy, they’d have jumped by now. I’d rather see it comin’ than be lookin’ over my shoulder the whole time we’re here.”
Lorenzo pulled a face. “You’re bored, spoilin’ for a fight, an’ we only got in late last evenin’.”
“After all the excitement recoverin’ those rifles and fightin’ Diller and his men, the trip back to Fort Pierre was just a mosey. A fracas in this tavern might take the edge off of bein’ back in civilization.”
“All of these people constantly around has that effect on someone used to living in the mountains,” Tall Dog said. “Their presence is most . . . irritating. I find myself weary of it as well.”
Lorenzo shook his head. “My oh my, but the bloom fades quick, don’t it? An’ here you was all excited to see a big town.”
“I still want to see it,” the young Crow warrior said. “I have heard many stories about large places such as this one. I just do not find the exper
“This ain’t even big.” Lorenzo snorted. “Fort Pierre don’t hold a candle to the likes of St. Louis. An’ if you really have a hankerin’ to see somethin’ of civilization an’ society, why you should get yourself on down to New Orleans. Now that there is a big city, but it’s got food the likes of which you ain’t ever seen. Take you weeks to sample it all, an’ there’s a lot more to see.”
“I think I shall have to limit my exposure to small portions,” Tall Dog admitted ruefully. “I did not get much sleep last night.”
“Them beds is soft,” Lorenzo observed. “I found mine mighty welcome after campin’ out along the trail gettin’ here.”
“The bed is too soft,” Tall Dog said. “I slept on the floor, but all the noise from the tavern on the first floor and out in the street kept me awake.”
The broad-shouldered young man was tall with dark blond hair shaved to the scalp on the sides and left long enough on top to make a braid that hung down his back. His heavily bronzed skin marked him as an Indian, and that made him an outcast in several places within the fort.
He wore a sword with a looped hilt sheathed in a scabbard down his back. A short dark blond beard covered his strong chin. He’d gotten the hair color and the steel-gray eyes from his Swedish father. His bronze skin and polite ways came from his Crow mother. She was soft-spoken and had insisted on good behavior from her only son. His Christian name was Bjorn Gunnarsson, but he generally introduced himself as Tall Dog, a Crow warrior, because that was more believable.
When Preacher had headed north from the Crow village beside the Snake River, Tall Dog had, with the blessing of his parents, accompanied the mountain man to return the lost rifles they’d taken back from the rogue Army captain Diller. The young Crow warrior had wanted to see more of the white man’s world, though his father Olaf had promised him the visit would be disenchanting because he’d had enough of it himself.
Still, a young man tended to wander. Preacher knew that for a fact. He’d left home early himself because the mountains had captured his heart and imagination with their mystery and majesty. He’d never regretted going into the wilderness.
“If a bed is troublin’ you,” Lorenzo declared, “I can’t promise you’re gonna get on much better with anythin’ else you’re gonna find here.”
Tall Dog considered his empty plate. “The food is good.”
“Are you certain?”
The Crow warrior regarded Lorenzo suspiciously before answering. “I am.”
“I only ask ’cause it took you two plates’ worth to make up your mind. From the way you wolfed it down, I figured you never bothered to taste any of it.”
“Well,” Tall Dog said, “from my continued observation, which was necessary, I now know that the food here is both good and plentiful.”
Lorenzo shot a sour look at Preacher, who laughed aloud because the older man knew he’d been one-upped.
“Why don’t you make yourself useful an’ get us another round of beers,” Lorenzo suggested to Preacher.
“I can do that,” Preacher replied. “Need to stretch my legs anyway.”
“I’ll watch your rifle.”
Preacher stood and adjusted the gun belt he wore. Even though he’d worn it every day for a few months, it was still a new thing to him. Normally he’d carried his flintlock pistols in a sash at his back. He still carried those there, but the new Colt Paterson revolvers he’d been given by the Texas Rangers rode in holsters on his hips. Those weapons had caught the eye of every man in the fort who knew armament. The repeating pistols were still new out West.
Tall and powerful from years spent living in the mountains and fighting Blackfeet Indians and outlaws, Preacher drew the attention of the men sitting around the Scalded Beaver. Some of them he’d met in passing while doing business at the fort. Others knew him by suspicion and reputation. He had a fresh haircut and shave, courtesy of the local barber, and his mustache was in fine fettle. With winter coming, he’d grow out his beard again soon, but for now being clean-shaven suited him.
The stout, red-bearded bartender was mostly bald on top. What was left of his hair was oiled into place and looked like a dead jellyfish spread out over his pink scalp. He dressed neat, though, with an apron and gartered sleeves. He spoke with a Gaelic lilt.
“You’ll be having another three beers?” the bartender asked. “Or would you be wishing for something a little more powerful?”
“The beer’s good. A man can’t always get good beer.”
“Beer it is, then.”
Preacher glanced at the mirror on the wall behind the counter as the bartender stepped over to the tapped beer keg sitting on the long shelf beneath the mirror.
Three of the soldiers got up from the group at the back of the tavern and approached the bar through the scattered tables. One of the soldiers wore a fringed yellow epaulette on his left shoulder that marked him as a subaltern, probably a lieutenant.
“You got company coming, mate,” the bartender said softly so his voice didn’t carry any farther than Preacher.
“I see them,” the mountain man replied. “No idea what they want.”
Warm excitement filled him. Since the soldiers had come in, he’d weathered the threat they had presented with their covert, at first, attentions, then their downright brash brassiness.
“You know the leftenant?” the bartender asked.
“Nope.”
“That’s Judd Finlay.” The bartender placed a full glass of beer down and reached for another glass. “He can be a bad bloke.”
Preacher nodded. “Thanks for the warnin’.”
The lieutenant was broad and heavy-faced with high cheekbones. His nose sat askew from its proper position. His brown hair was combed back from his high forehead, but a few unruly strands hung down over his bushy brows. His mouth looked small on that wide expanse of face, only a little broader than his nose. Dark brown whiskers covered his square chin. He was about Preacher’s age.
The bartender filled the third glass. “He’s a southpaw. Catches folks off guard with that. Hits hard enough most opponents don’t recover.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
The bartender placed the three glasses of beer in front of Preacher. The mountain man dropped enough coins on the counter to cover the beer, and added a nice tip.
“Thanks, mate.” The bartender disappeared the coins and turned to Finlay and his two cohorts with a practiced smile that revealed nothing of the conversation he’d had with Preacher. “Something I can get for you, Leftenant?”
“Shot of whiskey,” Finlay growled. He tucked into the bar to Preacher’s left only inches away. The man smelled like a brewery. “The good stuff.”
“All right then.” The bartender turned back to the neat rows of bottles. “Coming right up. Shots for your mates, too?”
Preacher picked up the three glasses of beer. Lorenzo and Tall Dog watched him from their table. The four soldiers in the back moved toward the center of the tavern.
“Them, too,” Finlay agreed and nodded to the men. He turned and focused his dark green eyes on Preacher. “Say, ain’t you the one they call Preacher?”
Preacher returned Finlay’s gaze full measure. “I am.”
Finlay ran a finger alongside his crooked nose. “Story goes that you came in talkin’ ill of Captain Diller.”
“You’re talkin’ about the same Captain Diller who robbed Pierre Chouteau’s shipment of rifles a few months ago,” Preacher said evenly and loud enough to be heard around the tavern, “and blamed that robbery on Blackfeet warriors? That the varmint you’re talkin’ about?”
Everyone in the tavern stilled. Conversations stopped. Glasses quietly returned to tabletops. The man in the D’Orsay hat turned to watch with bright interest.
Finlay’s face suffused with blood and he opened his mouth.
Before the man could speak, Preacher continued. Maybe he was on the prod. A little.
“You’re askin’ about the same Captain Diller who also murdered the Army’s replacement for the major in command of the soldiers here? And all the soldiers who rode with him? Is that the Diller you’re talkin’ about?”
