Preacher's Fury. William W. Johnstone

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СКАЧАТЬ his mouth.

      “I don’t know about callin’ us apostles,” he said. “They weren’t rich, from what I remember of my ma readin’ to me from the Good Book a long, long time ago, and I intend to be a rich man.”

      “The prospect of passing a camel through the eye of a needle doesn’t trouble you, eh?”

      “Not one damn bit,” Deaver said, “and it probably wouldn’t even if I knew what in blazes you were talking about.”

      That brought a laugh from St. John. The jug went around the circle again, and then the Englishman said, “Very well, down to business.”

      He led the way to the stack of crates and threw back the canvas so that one of the long wooden boxes was revealed. With a snap of his fingers and a sharp “Brutus!”, St. John had the man who was evidently his lieutenant use a heavy-bladed knife to pry up the lid nailed onto the crate.

      A number of long, oilcloth-wrapped shapes lay in the box. Brutus picked up one of them and unwrapped it, revealing a long-barreled flintlock rifle. All the brasswork on the weapon gleamed with newness.

      St. John took the rifle from Brutus and passed it to Deaver, saying, “The finest rifle of its kind to be found anywhere in the world, my friend. Direct from the factory in England to this backwoods Eden.”

      Deaver examined the flintlock closely. Its mechanism appeared to be in perfect working order. It might have never been fired.

      “How’d you get your hands on ’em?” he asked.

      “I don’t believe that information was included in our arrangement.” St. John gave an eloquent shrug. “However, I don’t mind saying that there are always means by which to make certain a shipment of goods goes astray and never arrives at its intended destination. In this case, that destination would be a British army garrison in Ontario. A little bribery, the judicious use of blackmail … arrangements can be made, you understand.”

      “Sure,” Deaver said with a nod. He handed the rifle to Manning. “What do you think, Caleb?”

      Manning looked the flintlock over.

      “Mighty fine weapon,” he declared. “Does it shoot true?”

      “See for yourself,” St. John invited. “You’re welcome to load and fire it.”

      Manning looked at Deaver, who thought about it for a second and then nodded. Manning used his own powderhorn and a ball from his shot pouch to charge the rifle.

      When it was ready to fire, Manning lifted it to his shoulder. He hesitated, then swung the barrel around swiftly until it was lined on St. John’s chest.

      “How about I see just how well it works on a real target?” he asked with a savage grin.

      Odell St. John didn’t seem worried.

      “If you did, you’d be dead a split-second later yourself,” he said coolly. “Brutus is standing behind you with an axe in his hands. It would be interesting to see how far your head flies after he cleaves it off your shoulders.”

      “Stop it, you crazy bastards,” Deaver grated angrily. “Caleb, point that thing somewhere else. St. John, tell your man to back off.”

      St. John made a languid motion as Manning lowered the flintlock.

      “Sorry,” Manning muttered. “I didn’t mean nothin’ by it. I was just havin’ some sport.”

      “Give me that,” Deaver snapped. He took the rifle out of Manning’s hands, turned, and aimed at a tree branch on the other side of the creek. The tree was a good fifty yards from him. He drew in a breath, held it, and squeezed the trigger.

      The rifle boomed, and the branch at which Deaver had aimed went flying, cut off cleanly. Deaver squinted as the powdersmoke stung his eyes a little.

      He gave the rifle back to St. John and said, “It shoots true, all right. And the rest are all the same?”

      “One hundred rifles, brand-new, just as we agreed six months ago in St. Louis,” the Englishman said. “And here’s the really intriguing bit … I can lay my hands on more of them, if you like. As many as you want.”

      That offer convinced Deaver more than ever that St. John was lying about stealing those rifles. The man was working for the British government. The English had been carrying a real grudge ever since ol’ George Washington and his friends had booted them out more than fifty years earlier.

      They had raised hell in the former colonies on numerous occasions since then, sometimes openly, like back in 1812, but often in secret. More than once they had tried to disrupt the fur trapping business and make things hot enough on the frontier that the Americans would pull back.

      Deaver figured this was just more of the same. St. John had to know these guns would wind up in the hands of the Indians. That was exactly what the Englishman wanted.

      “Well,” St. John went on, “do we have a deal?”

      “I want to take a look at every gun,” Deaver said. “You’ve got powder and shot, too?”

      St. John looked a little annoyed, but he forced a smile onto his face and nodded.

      “Of course. And you’re welcome to examine the merchandise. Actually, I’ve thrown in some extras: two dozen jugs of whiskey for our coppery-hued friends.”

      Deaver couldn’t help but chuckle when he thought about how much havoc a bunch of liquored-up redskins with brand-new rifles could wreak. There wouldn’t be a fur trapper between here and halfway to Bent’s Fort who was safe. It could turn into a bloodbath, all right.

      But it would put plenty of money in his pockets, or at least it would once he sold all the furs that the Indians would trade him for these guns.

      “If everything is the way you say it is, St. John, then yeah, you’ve got a deal.”

      The Englishman grinned at him, took the open jug away from one of the other men, and lifted it.

      “Then here’s to a long and prosperous partnership, my friend!”

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