Preacher's Fury. William W. Johnstone

around in the corral. Preacher studied them, thinking that he might recognize a mount he knew. None of the animals seemed familiar to him, though.

      But that didn’t mean much. He had been away from the mountains for a while, and in that time, trappers he knew could have changed horses. Some friends of his might be inside the trading post, even if he didn’t see their horses in the corral.

      Some of his enemies might be in there, too. Preacher was just as interested in that possibility.

      But he never went in anywhere without being careful about it. Blind Pete’s would be no different.

      Preacher didn’t intend to spend the night here, so he and Lorenzo rode to the hitch rack in front of the main building instead of the corral and dismounted. The mountain man looped Horse’s reins around the rack and tied the pack animals there as well.

      He had just stepped up onto the porch when he heard a deep, powerful voice he recognized coming through the open door.

      “Now thou hast but one bare hour to live, and then thou must be damned perpetually! Stand still, you ever-moving spheres of Heaven, that time may cease, and midnight never come.”

      Lorenzo frowned in confusion and asked, “What’s that fella goin’ on about?”

      “Not much tellin’,” Preacher said with a grin. “He’s always got somethin’ to say, though.”

      “You know him?”

      “Yep. Fancies hisself a orator.”

      Lorenzo shook his head. Preacher didn’t say anything else. It would all become clear to his companion soon. The two of them stepped into the trading post.

      The main room was a big, low-ceilinged chamber. To the right were a bar and several tables, to the left shelves and crates and barrels full of merchandise with a counter at the far end of the room. The floor was made of rough puncheons hewn from split logs. Planks sitting on barrels formed the bar, and the tables and benches were as rough as the floor, which meant a fella had to be careful when he sat in order to avoid getting splinters in his behind.

      One of the benches had been pulled into an open area of floor. The man who had been spouting words as Preacher and Lorenzo entered stood on the bench with one arm lifted over his head in a dramatic stance.

      He was only about three and a half feet tall, but his brawny shoulders and full beard testified that he was a man full-growed, or as full-growed as he was going to get, anyway. His eyes widened at the sight of the tall, lean figure in the doorway, and he exclaimed, “Preacher!”

      “Good to see you again, Audie,” Preacher said with a nod.

      Nimbly, the little man hopped down from the bench and hurried toward the newcomers. He held out a hand and shook gravely with Preacher.

      With his other hand, he jerked a thumb toward a blanket-wrapped shape sitting in a corner.

      “I’m afraid my recitation from Dr. Faustus has put Nighthawk to sleep. The unenlightened fellow never has had much appreciation for the works of Marlowe. He’s more partial to the Immortal Bard, although of course there are some scholars who make the claim that Marlowe actually penned those words attributed to the actor from Stratford-on-Avon. But I’m positive that he’ll be quite pleased to see you when he awakens. Nighthawk, I mean, not Bill Shake-a-lance.”

      Preacher grinned over at Lorenzo, who stood there openmouthed in awe.

      “Yeah, he does like to go on a mite,” Preacher said. “Audie, meet Lorenzo. Him and me been travelin’ together for a spell.”

      Audie grabbed the stunned Lorenzo’s hand and pumped it heartily.

      “The honor is mine, sir. Any boon companion of Preacher’s is a boon companion of mine.”

      “Uh, sure,” Lorenzo said. “Pleased to meet you, too.”

      “The Crow over yonder in the blanket is Nighthawk,” Preacher went on. “He don’t say much, so he sorta balances Audie out when it comes to talkin’.”

      “We’re a fine pair indeed,” Audie agreed. “You’re not wintering in St. Louis this year, Preacher?”

      The mountain man grimaced and shook his head.

      “I’ve had enough of that damned St. Looie to last me for a long time,” he said. “I might just spend the rest of my life in these here mountains.”

      “There are much worse places to be, that’s indisputable. Nighthawk and I have been giving some thought to spending the winter with Chief Bent Leg and his band of Assiniboine. Perhaps you and Lorenzo would care to join us.”

      “That ain’t a bad idea.” Preacher turned to Lorenzo and went on, “Ol’ Bent Leg’s a pretty good fella, and his people are friendly to the whites.”

      “You maybe got so used to bein’ around me, Preacher, that you don’t notice no more, but I ain’t exactly white,” Lorenzo pointed out.

      “To the Assiniboine you are, or might as well be. That’s one thing about the tribes … To their way of thinkin’, there’s them, and then there’s everybody else. The names of the tribes usually translate to ‘The People’ or ‘The Real People’ or ‘The True People.’ Some of ’em are more tolerant of us lower classes than others. Like Nighthawk’s people, the Crow, generally get along with most other folks except for the Blackfeet. Those two bunches don’t cotton to each other at all.”

      “Umm,” Nighthawk said from the corner without looking up.

      Audie started toward one of the tables and motioned for Preacher and Lorenzo to follow him.

      “I think we could all use a libation—” he began.

      That was when a man at one of the other tables stood up and said in a loud, angry voice, “Hey, Little Bit, you can’t just stop in the middle of a poem like that. You need to finish up your recitin’, damn your midget hide.”

      Preacher stiffened and said, “Aw, hell,” under his breath.

      “What’s wrong?” Lorenzo asked.

      “I don’t know who that fella is, but now he’s gone and done it.”

      “Done what?”

      Preacher recalled something he had heard Audie quote once. He said, “He done cried havoc, and let slip the dogs o’ war.”

      CHAPTER 2

      Audie stopped short and stood very still as he looked at the man who had spoken to him. The man was tall and rawboned, with a lantern-jawed face and long, dark brown hair that fell lank and greasy down the back of his neck. He wore a broad-brimmed black hat, a linsey-woolsey shirt, a patched and faded frock coat, and whipcord trousers tucked into tall black boots. The butt of a pistol jutted out from where it was tucked behind his belt on the left side.

      Five other men were at the table where the man had been sitting. Some were in buckskins, some in town clothes that had seen better days. But they were all armed and all looked tough and ornery.

      Audie finally said, “Were you speaking to me, sir?”

      “You’re the only damn sawed-off runt in this place, ain’t you?” the man said. “Shoot, don’t take offense, Little Bit. I liked your poem. I wanta hear the rest of it.”

      “I’m glad you have an appreciation for the finer things in life, sir. Unfortunately, that doesn’t negate the fact that you’re an ass.”

      The man frowned in surprise and anger and said, “What’d you call me?”

      Preacher glanced into the corner at Nighthawk. The Crow hadn’t moved and still appeared to be half-asleep, but Preacher saw how Nighthawk’s eyes were slitted in close observation of what was going on. If trouble broke out, Nighthawk was ready to move.

      And trouble seemed inevitable, because Audie