Preacher's Pursuit. William W. Johnstone

big towheaded fella named Sanderson was the leader of the bunch. With him were a short, stocky man who sported a bristly mustache, a white-bearded, long-haired old-timer, and a couple of heavy-faced gents who looked like Dutchmen. Preacher didn’t know their names, but he knew where they ran their trap lines and avoided them. A man didn’t poach on another fella’s territory unless it was by accident.

      Now, as Preacher sat there and tried to think up something else to say to Laura Mallory, the old-timer pulled out a fiddle and began to play, sawing the bow across the strings with more energy and enthusiasm than talent. The raucous notes filled the trading post and made everyone look around.

      Laura smiled and clapped her hands together softly. “Music!” she exclaimed. “Do you know how long it’s been since I heard any music, Preacher?”

      “No, ma’am, but I’d say you’re bein’ a mite generous to call that music. Sounds more to me like somebody tied two cats’ tails together and dropped ’em on either side of a fence.”

      “Oh, it does not,” she said with a merry laugh. “I think it sounds just fine. Fine enough, in fact, that I’d like to dance.” She stood up and held out a hand to him. “Would you be kind enough as to dance with me, good sir?”

      Preacher’s eyes widened in surprise. He had done some dancing before—there was always a lot of celebratin’ that went on at a Rendezvous, including stomping around in rough approximations of the sort of dances that folks did back East—but he had never done anything like that with a woman as beautiful as Laura Mallory in his arms.

      “Please, Preacher,” she said when he hesitated. “It would almost make me feel like I was back home again.”

      No way in hell could he turn down a plea like that. He stood up, took hold of her hand—being careful not to squeeze it too hard—and said, “It’d be a plumb honor, ma’am.”

      She moved closer to him. “If you’re going to take me in your arms and whirl me around the floor,” she said, “I think you should stop calling me ma’am and just call me Laura.”

      Preacher swallowed hard. “All right, ma’am. I’ll try.”

      He held her left hand with his right and slipped his left arm around her waist, being careful not to hold her too close. She wasn’t much closer than arm’s length, in fact. She rested her right hand on his shoulder, and he seemed to feel the warmth of her touch through his buckskin shirt. He definitely felt it in the hand he grasped. Their fingers twined together intimately. He took a deep breath—which reminded him that, Lord, she smelled good!—and began moving his feet in a rough waltz.

      Whatever you do, he told himself, don’t stomp on her toes.

      There wasn’t much room for dancing, but they made a fair job of it. Laura followed his steps, although Preacher sensed that she was holding back and could probably dance a whole heap better than he could. The Dutchmen had started clapping in time with the old fiddle player, and as Preacher and Laura turned in the waltz, he saw that everybody in the trading post was watching them. That sort of scrutiny made him uncomfortable, but he tried to ignore it.

      Clyde Mallory’s eyes had narrowed as he looked on while his sister and Preacher danced, and Preacher wondered if he disapproved. He didn’t want to get on Mallory’s bad side, but he had to admit that he was enjoying this dance with Laura.

      The big trapper called Sanderson stood up and shuffled toward them, an intent look on his face. Preacher saw him coming and wondered what the man wanted.

      It didn’t take him long to find out.

      Sanderson reached out and tapped Preacher roughly on the shoulder. “I’m cuttin’ in on this dance, Preacher,” he declared as Preacher and Laura came to a stop in their waltz. “That’s my Uncle Dan providin’ the music, so I reckon it’s only fair that I get to dance with the lady, too.”

      Preacher hadn’t known that the old-timer was Sanderson’s uncle, and he didn’t much care either. He didn’t want to let go of Laura. However, it was her decision, so Preacher told her, “Whatever you want to do, ma’am.”

      She smiled at Sanderson and said, “I’m sorry, sir, but I’m dancing with Preacher right now. Perhaps another time.”

      Sanderson wasn’t taking no for an answer. He said, “The hell with that,” and reached out to take hold of Laura’s arm. He pulled her away from Preacher. The fiddle playing came to an abrupt halt with a screech of the bow across the strings.

      Preacher let go of Laura because he didn’t want her to get hurt by being tugged back and forth between him and Sanderson. But that didn’t mean he was giving in. He growled, “Let go o’ the lady, Sanderson…right now.”

      “She’s dancin’ with me now,” Sanderson said. “Back off, Preacher.”

      With that, he jerked Laura against him and held her so tightly that she gasped.

      “Play that fiddle, Uncle Dan!” Sanderson ordered.

      The bow wailed on the strings, but only for a second. Preacher reached out, grabbed Sanderson’s shoulder, hauled the man around, and crashed a fist into the middle of his face. Blood spurted as Sanderson’s nose pulped under the blow’s impact.

      Laura let out a scream as Sanderson staggered away, crimson welling over the bottom half of his face. He caught himself, glared at Preacher, and launched himself forward with a furious roar. He tackled Preacher and both men went down, crashing into chairs and barrels.

      Sanderson came flying backward as Preacher hit him again. Preacher scrambled to his feet just as the short man who’d been sitting at the table with Sanderson and the others yelled, “Get ’im!”

      The two big Dutchmen lumbered toward Preacher, fists clenched. Their eagerness for a fight brought animation to their usually stolid faces. The little man was right behind them, egging them on. And Sanderson was climbing back up, his bloody face twisted by lines of rage.

      Looked like the odds were going to be three or four to one, Preacher thought. He had faced worse. He stood there grinning and lifted one hand, crooking it mockingly.

      “If you figure on whuppin’ me, boys, then come ahead,” he invited. “It’s your job, and you’ve got it to do.”

      “Damn right we’ll do it,” Sanderson rasped. “You think you’re the big he-wolf around here, but we’re gonna whip you seven ways from Sunday!”

      “You mean after you get through talkin’ me to death?”

      The four men came toward Preacher slowly now, closing in on him. Laura Mallory had fled to the counter, where Deborah Hart had her arms around her, trying to comfort her. Corliss and Jerome watched the confrontation, but didn’t make a move to interfere. As the proprietors of this trading post, they had to stay neutral in the occasional brawl. Preacher understood that, even though the cousins owed a considerable debt to him for getting them here alive.

      He didn’t want any help. He always fought his own battles, and he wasn’t inclined to change that now.

      “Wait!”

      The sharp-voiced command came from Clyde Mallory. The Englishman strode forward, putting himself between Preacher and the four men. He ignored his sister’s plea to be careful and planted himself there with his fists on his hips.

      “I say, this is hardly fair. You outnumber this man by four to one.”

      “Stay out of it, mister,” Sanderson warned. “It ain’t none o’ your business.”

      “On the contrary,” Mallory said, “that was my sister you were mauling, sir. It’s very much my affair. An affair of honor.”

      And with that, he reached up and slapped Sanderson across the face.