CHAPTER 21
The first thing Preacher was aware of
was light, bright and searing against his eyelids. Then pain came
flooding in along with the radiance.
But he was alive, and while that
surprised him at first, a moment later he began to remember how
Garity had said he wanted Preacher kept alive.
That beat the alternative, Preacher
supposed, but under the circumstances he wasn’t sure how long it
was going to last. He hurt like hell, from head to toe, and the
heat that enveloped him felt like it was about to cook him. He was
frying in his own juices.
He tried to force his eyes open but
couldn’t do it. The light was just too bright. Preacher knew it had
to be the sun beating down on him. No campfire had ever been
painfully brilliant.
Gradually he became aware that he was
lying on his back with his arms stretched out on either side of
him. His legs were painfully extended, too, and couldn’t move. Once
he had realized that, it wasn’t much of a stretch to figure out he
had been staked out on the ground.
He turned his head a little, though he
hadn’t really been aware of doing it. Something moved between him
and the sun, blocking the bright light and searing
heat.
“You’re awake, are you, Preacher?” a
mocking voice asked.
Garity. Preacher recognized the man’s
tone. Since Garity knew he had regained consciousness, there was no
point in trying to conceal the fact.
Preacher managed to open his eyes and
found himself staring up at Garity, although he couldn’t see the
man as anything except a black silhouette with the sun behind his
head, radiating redly around it.
“I was beginnin’ to think the boys were
too rough on you, even though I told ’em to take it easy,” Garity
went on. “I’m glad to see you’re still alive. I want your dyin’ to
take a long time.”
Preacher didn’t say anything. His lips
were blistered, and his mouth felt like it had a wool sock in it.
After a moment, he realized that sock was his tongue.
Garity turned his head and said to
someone else, “Bring her over here.”
Preacher’s heart sank. The only “her”
he knew of out there was Casey. He had hoped she had gotten away.
Evidently that wasn’t the case.
It was confirmed a few seconds later
when she said, “Oh, my God, Preacher, I’m sorry. When I saw you
weren’t behind me, I . . . I turned back to see what had happened.
I should have kept going.”
He managed to husk, “Y-yeah . . . I
reckon . . . you should have . . .”
“It wouldn’t have mattered,” Garity
said. “As soon as I realized you were gone, I would’ve come after
you and found you, darlin’. You’re gonna be with me all the way to
Santa Fe.” He paused. “I know a fella who owns a whorehouse there.
He’ll pay me a tidy sum for a pretty little yeller-haired gal like
you.”
“Go to hell,” Casey spat at him.
“You’ll have to kill me first.”
“That’s mighty big talk for a gal who
can’t do a damned thing to back it up.” Garity laughed. “You might
as well face it. From here on out, you do what I say.” He shifted
so the fierce sunlight slammed into Preacher’s eyes again. “And
right now I say you’re gonna stand there and watch while Preacher
dies, no matter how long it takes. And it’s gonna take a
long time.”
“You bastard!” Casey’s hands were still
tied in front of her, but her feet were loose. She lunged at Garity
and raised her hands as she tried to claw at his face. Preacher
couldn’t see it, but he could hear enough to guess what was going
on.
Garity shoved her away with a laugh.
“Hang on to her, boys,” he ordered. “Make sure she keeps her eyes
open.”
“Let me go!” Casey cried. “Let me go,
damn you!”
The men ignored her. She started to
sob.
Preacher wanted to tell her it was all
right, but he couldn’t find the strength to form the
words.
Despite the ordeal he was being forced
to endure, his brain was still working, and one thought was crystal
clear: Garity hadn’t said anything about Roland Bartlett and the
other men from the wagon train.
That could mean Garity didn’t know
about them. If he wasn’t aware Roland and the others were nearby,
there might still be a chance to turn the tables on
him.
That meant waiting for Roland to do
something. Obviously hours had passed since the battle at the camp.
Daylight had come again. From the angle of the sun shining down
into his face Preacher guessed that the morning was fairly well
advanced. Roland and the other men were close enough to have heard
the shooting going on the night before. Yet they hadn’t come to
find out what was going on.
Preacher’s already cracked and bleeding
lips cracked a little more as he smiled faintly. He had told Roland
to stay put. By God, it looked like the boy was going to do as he
was told!
“Preacher . . .” Casey said
tentatively. “Preacher, what are you smiling about?”
“Nothin’,” he told her. Roland was
their only hope. If that wasn’t enough to make a man smile, he
didn’t know what was.
After a few minutes, he asked, “Casey,
where are we?”
“Shut up,” one of the men left to guard
her said. “Garity didn’t say nothin’ about lettin’ the two of you
talk.”
“He didn’t say we couldn’t, either,”
Casey argued. “Preacher’s dying anyway. What difference does it
make if he knows where he is?”
The men didn’t answer for a moment,
then one of them said, “I don’t reckon it makes a damn bit of
difference. Go ahead, tell him.”
“We’re the same place we were last
night,” Casey said. “Garity decided not to move the wagons just
yet. He said he could afford to wait”—she choked up for a
second—“to wait until you were dead.”
“What about . . . them
Injuns?”
“They’re all dead except for a few who
got away.”
“I wonder . . . if it was that same
bunch . . . of Comanch’.”
“It must have been,” she said. “They
could have been following us, waiting for a chance to settle the
score for what happened before. They might not have known that
Garity stole the wagons. They must have thought Mr. Bartlett was
still in charge.”
Casey’s statement agreed with the vague
theory that had formed in Preacher’s mind. The caravan had been
jinxed from the start. Trailed by the Indians, trailed by Garity’s
outlaws, trailed by that damned bear . . .
Maybe he was the one who was jinxed, he
thought. He had always had a way of attracting trouble, ever since
he had left the family farm as a youngster and headed west. Maybe
it hadn’t been so lucky for the Bartletts and the others that he
and Lorenzo and Casey had thrown in with them after
all.
Leeman Bartlett hadn’t been lucky, that
was for sure. He had met a gruesome death, and several of the other
men from the caravan had crossed the divide as well.
“Hoodoo,” Preacher murmured. “I’m a
hoodoo . . .”
“What are you saying, Preacher?” Casey
asked. “I couldn’t understand you.”
“Nothin’,” he breathed as he kept his
eyes screwed tightly shut against the sunlight. “Nothin’ at all . .
.”
The minutes were like hours, the hours
like years. To Preacher it felt like he had been baking out there
for all eternity. Given the sort of life he had led, all the men he
had killed, he figured there was a good chance he would wind up
shaking hands with the Devil when he died, but that day felt like
he was getting a head start on Hell.
To make matters worse, ants found those
blood-crusted wounds on his shoulder and arm and started chewing on
them. Preacher felt the cords standing out in his neck as he
strained and struggled to keep the cries of pain bottled up inside
him. He didn’t want to give Garity that much
satisfaction.
At one point, Casey burst out, “For
God’s sake, can’t you see how bad he’s suffering? At least let me
brush those ants off him.”
“Garity wants him to suffer,” one of
the guards replied. “As a matter of fact, Dumars, why don’t you
fetch him? I got a hunch he’d like to see this.”
“Can you watch the woman on your own?”
the man called Dumars asked.
The other guard chuckled. “I hope to
smile I can. I can watch her just fine. A little scar never
bothered me none.”
Preacher heard the footsteps as Dumars
walked off. He came back a few minutes later with Garity, who let
out a booming laugh when he saw the ants swarming on Preacher’s
shoulder and arm.
“Just when you figure things can’t get
any better,” Garity said. “We got us a pretty little honey to keep
us company on the way to Santa Fe, we’re gonna be rich men when we
get there and sell those wagons and all that freight, and we got
Preacher dyin’ to entertain us in the meantime.” He leaned over the
mountain man, blocking the sun from Preacher’s face again. “How do
you like those little critters, Preacher? Makes dyin’ a mite more
interestin’, don’t it?”
Preacher’s eyelids flickered open. He
whispered, “Why don’t you go to—”
Before he could finish the curse, one
of the other men broke in to say, “Somebody’s comin’,
Garity!”
“Who the hell’s that?” Garity
muttered.
“Don’t reckon we have to worry about
him. It’s only one man.”
“Yeah, but he looks familiar,” Garity
said. “I think it’s one of those fellas we took these wagons away
from.”
Preacher couldn’t figure out why one
man would be approaching the outlaw camp. Maybe one of the
bullwhackers who were with Roland had slipped away from the others
and planned on trying to join up with Garity’s bunch.
Garity strode past Preacher. The shadow
he cast was a blessed relief from the searing sun, but it lasted
only a heartbeat and then was gone.
“He’s stoppin’, whoever he is,” one of
the other men said.
Garity raised his voice in a shout.
“What do you want, mister?”
“I want to make a trade,” came the
reply, in a voice Preacher recognized.
Roland.
Casey had recognized the young man,
too. “Oh, my God,” she said softly. “Doesn’t he know that he’s
going to get himself killed?”
“What sort of trade?” Garity
yelled.
“I want Preacher and the
girl!”
That brought a laugh from Garity. “What
in hell makes you think you can have ’em?” he asked.
“Like I said, I’ll trade.”
“You got nothin’ left to trade for
’em,” Garity replied scornfully. “We already took all your wagons
and freight.”
“But you don’t have this money belt,”
Roland called back. “Two thousand dollars, Garity! It’s yours if
you send Casey and Preacher out to me! It’s the last of my father’s
life savings, but I don’t care.”
Preacher wondered if Roland was telling
the truth. He hadn’t heard anything about a money belt with two
thousand dollars in it, but on the other hand, neither Roland nor
Leeman Bartlett had had any reason to tell him about it. Roland’s
offer to buy his and Casey’s freedom might be genuine.
On the other hand, Roland could be
running a bluff and trying to pull a trick of some kind. It
probably didn’t matter much either way, Preacher thought. Garity
wasn’t going to turn them loose. He was having too much fun
tormenting Preacher, and he had plans for Casey. He might pretend
to agree, in hopes of luring Roland closer just in case the young
man really did have the money.
“Bring that belt on over here,” Garity
called. “I got to see the money before I make a deal.”
“No!” Roland shouted back instantly.
“Send Preacher and Casey to me. Don’t come after them. I’ll leave
the money where you can find it.”
Garity laughed again. “You damn fool!
You expect me to trust you? You’re one man, and you’re on foot. You
ain’t got a chance.” He turned his head and snapped orders. “Go get
him and bring him to me. Get the horses and run him down, but don’t
kill him!”
“Roland, get out of here!” Casey
screamed. “Go!”
“Too late, girl!” Garity said. “He
ain’t gettin’ away!”
Casey ignored him and screamed again,
“Roland, run!”
Several men on horseback pounded past
the spot where Preacher was staked out. He wished he could see what
was going on. He tried to lift his head but was too
weak.
Casey stumbled forward and dropped to
her knees sobbing, putting her in Preacher’s line of sight. “What’s
. . . happenin’?” he asked her painfully.
“Roland’s trying to . . . to run away,”
she sobbed. “But he’s not going to make it.”
Preacher heard excited whooping from
the men who were chasing Roland on horseback. They regarded it as a
game.
The next moment a sudden flurry of
gunshots erupted. For a second he thought the men were shooting at
Roland, despite Garity’s orders not to kill the young man, but then
Preacher realized the shots were coming from a different
direction.
“What the hell!” Garity
yelled.
Casey twisted around to look. “Wh-what
is it?” Preacher asked her.
A look of hope appeared on Casey’s
face. “It’s the bullwhackers from the wagons,” she told Preacher.
“They’re attacking Garity and his men!”
Preacher realized that Roland’s offer
to buy his and Casey’s freedom had indeed been a trick. Roland had
distracted Garity and his men and caused Garity to split his
forces. The bullwhackers must have crawled around to the other side
of the outlaw camp to launch their attack. It would have taken
hours for them to get into position, but the plan stood at least a
slim chance of working.
“Get back here!” Garity bellowed at the
men who had gone after Roland. He started to run past Preacher,
then stopped abruptly and pulled a pistol from his belt and pointed
it at the mountain man. “This ends here and now, damn
you.”
He wasn’t paying any attention to
Casey. Still on her knees, she twisted and threw herself at
Garity’s legs. The unexpected impact jostled him just enough that
when the pistol in his hand exploded, the ball slammed into the
ground beside Preacher’s ear, throwing dirt in his face rather than
splattering his brains across the sand.
Casey dropped her shoulder and lunged
at Garity’s knees.
“You bitch!” he yelled as he went over
backward. He slashed at Casey’s head with the empty gun but
missed.
Preacher blinked the grit out of his
eyes and turned his head enough to see the deadly struggle going
on. Casey scrambled to Garity’s body and plucked the knife from his
belt. She lifted it and tried to plunge the blade into his chest,
but he rolled aside. The knife buried itself in the ground instead.
Garity brought an elbow around and caught Casey in the jaw with it.
The blow sent her sprawling.
The roar of gunfire continued. Preacher
groaned in frustration. Every instinct shouted for him to get in
the middle of the fight, but sturdy rawhide thongs bound him to the
stakes driven into the ground. He couldn’t move, no matter how hard
he strained against them.
Only a few feet away, Garity heaved up
onto his knees. He threw himself on Casey and groped at her neck,
obviously intending to strangle the life out of her. Garity’s face
was red with rage. At that moment, he didn’t care how much he could
make by selling her to a whorehouse in Santa Fe. He wanted to kill
her.
Preacher saw Garity’s fingers lock
around Casey’s throat and knew she had only seconds to live. Every
bit of resolve, every ounce of strength he could possibly summon
up, he channeled into his left leg. The life he had lived had
hardened Preacher’s body, but more important than that, it had
given him an iron will. He used that iron will as he heaved against
the stake holding his leg.
And it moved.
Only slightly at first, but Preacher
felt it shift. With a loud groan, he heaved again, and this time,
the stake pulled free.
Preacher forced his muscles to work as
he drew up his leg and then lashed out with it, slamming a kick
with his bare foot into the middle of Garity’s back. It broke his
chokehold on Casey’s throat and knocked him forward over her.
Gasping for air, she had the presence of mind to snatch the pistol
Garity had dropped on the ground. It was empty, but she grasped the
barrel with both hands and swung the pistol like a club, slamming
it into the side of Garity’s head above the ear. Garity collapsed,
half on top of her.
She shoved him aside and struggled out
from under him. She looked like she wanted to keep hitting Garity
with the pistol until his head was smashed to bits, but she dropped
the gun and grabbed the knife. She swung around and started sawing
at Preacher’s bonds.
His hands came free, then his other
leg. His hands were numb from being tied so tightly. He flexed his
fingers as Casey helped him sit up.
“We’ve got to get out of here,” she
said. “Can you stand up?”
Preacher could see the battle continued
around the wagons. Clouds of powdersmoke rolled thickly. The roar
of shots mingled with shouted curses.
With Casey’s help, he struggled to get
to his feet. His legs wouldn’t support him. She cried out as she
strained to keep him upright. “Roland!” she called. “Roland,
help!”
So Roland was still alive. Preacher was
glad to hear that. The men Garity had sent after him must have
turned back to the wagons when the shooting started.
The young man ran up to them and took
hold of Preacher’s other arm. “I’ve got him!” he said. “Casey, are
you all right?”
“I’m fine, but we have to get away,”
she told him.
Concentrating on helping Preacher, they
didn’t see Garity getting to his feet, but the mountain man did. He
rasped, “Look out . . . Garity . . .”
Roland let go of Preacher’s arm,
reaching for the pistol behind his belt as he turned toward Garity.
He was too late. In Garity’s hand was a flintlock derringer he’d
taken from inside his buckskins. He thrust it out in front of him
and pulled the trigger as Casey cried, “No!”
Smoke and flame erupted from the
derringer’s muzzle. Preacher heard the ball thud into flesh, saw
Roland stagger and fall. Casey let go of Preacher and launched
herself at Garity again.
He met her with a vicious backhand that
cracked across her face and sent her spinning off her
feet.
Preacher fought to stay upright. He was
weak and didn’t have a weapon, but he would fight Garity with his
bare hands if that was all he could do. He would fight to the last
breath, too, and it looked like it might come to that. The shooting
around the wagons was beginning to die down. Preacher knew from the
grin that stretched across Garity’s face that the bullwhackers
hadn’t won.
“You’ve caused me a hell of a lot of
trouble, Preacher,” Garity said. The insane rage that had filled
the man earlier had faded. His eyes were filled with a colder, even
more diabolical fury. “But you’ll pay for it,” Garity went on.
“Damned if you won’t.”
Preacher took an unsteady step toward
the man and clenched his fists. “Go ahead and . . . get it over
with,” he rasped.
“Not yet,” Garity said. He looked past
Preacher and nodded.
It was an old trick . . . but it wasn’t
always a trick. Preacher heard a heavy step behind him and tried to
turn, but before he could move something crashed into the back of
his head. For the second time in less than twelve hours, he was
sent plunging into a black oblivion.