Preacher's Fury. William W. Johnstone

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      Pete understood now. Deaver didn’t want to be banned from the trading post, a ban that Pete could enforce with his cannon if he chose to.

      “Ja, of course.”

      “Obliged.” Deaver had turned to his companions and snapped, “Come on. We’re ridin’.”

      Night had fallen now. The trading post’s other customers had gone on their way, except for a couple of trappers who were spending the night in the little rooms at the back of the building. They would be moving on come morning. The gate in the stockade fence was closed and barred, and one of the men who worked for Pete was on guard duty. The other three workers were probably asleep in their quarters in the barn by now.

      The only light in the main room of the trading post was the candle that burned on the counter and cast its flickering light on the ledger. Pete dipped his pen in the inkwell and wrote a few more numbers in his cramped, precise script.

      The front door swung open.

      Pete looked up in surprise. It was rare for him to have customers this late. And the guard in the tower would have blown on the trumpet that was kept up there to announce visitors. Anyone who rode up in the dark would be challenged before they were let into the compound.

      Clearly that hadn’t happened, because two men strode into the trading post and started toward the counter where Pete stood.

      Through the thick spectacles that perched on his nose with a ribbon attaching them to his collar, he recognized the newcomers. Deaver and Manning. Seeing them here again made a cold ball of apprehension form in the pit of Pete’s ample belly.

      “Mein herrs,” Pete greeted them. “I did not expect to see you again so soon.”

      “I’ll bet you didn’t,” Deaver said. His hat was thumbed back so that his thatch of straw-colored hair stuck out from under it. “I realized that we forgot something when we left this afternoon.”

      “Oh? What was that?”

      “We forgot to ask you if you know where Preacher and his friends are goin’.”

      Pete placed both hands flat on the counter and leaned forward slightly. He shook his head from side to side, even though he had heard Preacher say that they were going to the village of Chief Bent Leg of the Assiniboine.

      If he told that to Deaver and Manning, though, they might follow Preacher and the other men and cause more trouble. Pete didn’t want that.

      “They never mentioned where they were going,” he said. “They just bought some supplies from me and rode out.”

      “Did you see which direction they headed?”

      “Nein. No.”

      Deaver smiled and shook his head.

      “Now, see, Pete, I’ve got a problem. I think you might be lyin’ to me.”

      “You have no right to speak to me in such a way,” Pete said with an angry glare.

      “Oh, I’ll talk to you any way I want, you big fat Dutchman.” Deaver flicked a glance at Manning and nodded.

      Pete knew he was in trouble. He started to straighten and reach under the counter for the shotgun he had placed there earlier, but before he could move, Manning whipped out a hunting knife and plunged it down into the back of Pete’s right hand. The point of the blade penetrated cleanly all the way through the hand and buried itself in the wood, pinning Pete to the counter.

      Pete let out a bellow of pain and tried for the shotgun with his other hand. Before he could reach it, Deaver brought out a pistol and fired.

      The heavy lead ball smashed into Pete’s left shoulder, shattering the bone. Pete roared. The agony he felt might have caused him to collapse, but the knife holding his hand on the counter kept him upright.

      “Now, see, you should have convinced me right off that you were tellin’ the truth,” Deaver said. The ugly smile never left his face.

      One of the trappers who was renting a bunk came running into the trading post’s main room, drawn by the yelling and the shot. He carried a flintlock rifle slanted across his chest and wore only a pair of long underwear.

      Before the man could even demand to know what was going on, Manning pulled a pistol with his right hand. He used his left to keep the knife planted firmly in Pete’s hand, which had blood puddling under it. Manning lifted the gun and fired, the dull boom of the shot filling the room.

      The ball punched into the chest of the man who had just run into the room. He staggered back a step, dropped his rifle, and fell to his knees as a bloodstain bloomed vividly on the long underwear. He pitched forward on his face and didn’t move again.

      “My men …” Pete rasped. “They will—”

      “They won’t do a damned thing,” Deaver said. “The rest of the boys have finished cuttin’ their throats by now. You should’ve posted a better guard, Pete. That poor fella up in the tower was wearin’ a bloody grin from ear to ear before he knew what was happenin’ to him.”

      Pete groaned. His employees were dead, and so was one of his customers. He didn’t know where the other trapper was. Probably hiding, hoping these vicious animals would overlook him.

      “I’ll ask you again, and you better not lie to me,” Deaver said. “Where was Preacher goin’?”

      “I don’t—” Pete began.

      Manning leaned on the knife and twisted it. The razor-sharp blade cut deeper in Pete’s hand. Pete couldn’t hold in the scream that welled up his throat.

      His wounded shoulder was bleeding heavily. He felt the hot flow dripping down his arm as it dangled uselessly at his side. He knew he would pass out soon, so if he was going to fight back, it had to be now.

      He suddenly jerked back as hard as he could with his right arm, putting his considerable strength behind it. The knife sliced through muscle and bone and filled Pete with pain worse than any he had ever known existed, but abruptly his hand was free. He had forced the knife to cut its way right out.

      He couldn’t make a fist with that ruined hand, but he could swing his whole arm. He threw himself forward over the counter and crashed his forearm against the side of Manning’s head. The blow knocked Manning into Deaver, and both of them got tangled up for a minute. That gave Pete time to roll off the front of the counter and land on his feet.

      He kicked Manning in the groin and barreled into Deaver, knocking the smaller man off his feet. If he could get outside, Pete thought, he might be able to give Deaver’s men the slip in the darkness. He would probably still bleed to death, but at least he would have a chance to get away.

      He was only halfway to the front door when a pistol roared behind him. Something smashed into the back of his left knee, knocking that leg out from under him. He tumbled to the floor, knocking over some boxes that clattered down around him.

      Pete tried to lift himself, but neither of his arms worked well enough now. Deaver rushed up and kicked him in the jaw. Stunned, Pete rolled onto his back.

      Deaver СКАЧАТЬ