Preacher's Fury. William W. Johnstone

rich off the fur business were the traders and the business owners back East who made hats and coats from those furs. The trappers, the men who carried out the hard, dangerous jobs and did the actual work that made the whole industry possible, always got paid the least.

      The five of them, who hadn’t known each other starting out, gradually had drifted together and decided that they would be better off taking the spoils of somebody else’s labor rather than grubbing for themselves.

      Since then they had robbed and killed parties of trappers smaller than themselves, raided a couple of wagon trains, and looted a few trading posts. They had cleaned out all the money and gold in Blind Pete’s Place before setting it on fire.

      But that had been an opportunity that presented itself, so Deaver and the others had taken it. They had other plans that would allow them to leave their hand-to-mouth existence behind. They were going to be rich men.

      Of course, some people would have to die in order for that to happen, but Deaver didn’t care about that.

      Plunkett, being an Englishman, was the one who’d put them in contact with Odell St. John, a fellow Britisher, during one of the gang’s periodic trips back to St. Louis. Deaver wasn’t sure exactly what St. John’s game was—maybe he was just out to make some fast money, or maybe he was working for the British government—but again, Deaver didn’t care. The payoff was all that mattered.

      Deaver and his men rode through a thick stand of trees, and when they emerged from the woods they saw a camp beside a small stream. Half a dozen tents were pitched not far from the creek, and the smoke rose from a little crackling fire nearby. Some saddle mounts were penned in a rope corral, along with several large, heavily-built pack animals. A number of crates were stacked on the ground beside the tents and covered with a large piece of canvas. The ends of the crates peeked out so that Deaver could tell what they were.

      Most of the men in the camp wore buckskins or homespun work shirts and corduroy trousers, like Deaver and his companions. One individual, though, stood out from the others. He wore a dark suit, including a swallowtail coat, high-topped black boots, a white shirt, and a cravat. He was bareheaded as he strode forward to meet Deaver. The wind ruffled his brown hair, which matched his close-cropped beard.

      “Mr. Deaver!” the man said. “How utterly splendid to see you again!”

      Deaver grunted and said, “Yeah.” Cy Plunkett sounded like an Englishman and that had never bothered Deaver. Something about Odell St. John’s oily accent rubbed him the wrong way, though.

      “You’re late.”

      Deaver motioned for his men to dismount. He swung down from the saddle before saying, “Ice storm caught us a few days ago. It wasn’t safe to travel until the ice melted off.”

      “I understand. We’ve had a bit of inclement weather up here as well. I told the men that was probably what delayed you.” St. John rubbed his hands together. “But you’re here now, eh, and ready to do business?”

      “That’s right. If we’re satisfied with the quality of the goods you brought with you.”

      “Oh, you will be,” Deaver promised. “There’ll be plenty of time for you to examine the merchandise. First, though, how about a drink?”

      “That sounds mighty good to me,” Manning put in. “It’s been a long, thirsty ride.”

      Deaver frowned. The ride hadn’t been all that thirsty. They had taken several jugs of whiskey from Blind Pete’s, too.

      He didn’t like Manning butting in like that, either. He made the important decisions in this bunch, by God!

      But the men were all licking their lips, and Deaver was a canny enough leader to know that he might be facing a mutiny if he told them to forget about the whiskey. And Caleb Manning was a good man to have on your side, second in viciousness only to Deaver himself, so he’d cut Manning some slack … this time.

      St. John was looking at him, one dark eyebrow arched quizzically. Deaver jerked his head in a curt nod and said, “Sure. A drink will be fine.”

      “Excellent!” St. John turned and called to one of the other men, “Brutus, bring the jug!”

      They all gathered around the fire to pass the jug from man to man. St. John counted and then said, “I see there are thirteen of us here, all told. A somewhat less righteous band of apostles than the original, eh?”

      Deaver took the jug from Manning, tilted it to his mouth, and downed a slug of the fiery corn liquor. He passed it along to Plunkett and wiped the back of his left hand across 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