The impact of the unexpected blow knocked Preacher against the driver’s box on the front of the wagon. The back of his head banged painfully against the boards. A loud, angry voice bellowed, “Get the hell away from Miz Donnelly, you no-good polecat!”

The punch was so hard it blurred Preacher’s vision for a second. As his eyesight cleared, he saw Mike Moran standing in front of him, both hamlike hands clenched into fists now. The tall, burly guide sounded mad, but his face still looked like it was carved out of stone.

“Mr. Moran, what in the world are you doing?” Lorraine cried. “There was no reason for you to hit Preacher.”

“I seen him grab your hand and try to kiss you, ma’am,” Moran said. His voice was loud enough to carry to everyone who had heard his first shout and started to gather around the Donnelly wagon to see what the ruckus was all about. “I seen him makin’ advances to you, plain as day.”

Lorraine gasped. “That’s not true.”

“I seen it with my own eyes,” Moran grated, then without warning he lunged forward, clapped his massive hands on Preacher’s shoulders, and flung him away from the wagon. Preacher’s feet left the ground for a second before he came crashing back to earth in a rolling impact that sent a twinge of pain jabbing through his left arm.

“Don’t! This isn’t necessary—”

Preacher looked up and saw Lorraine tugging at Moran’s arm as the man stalked forward, obviously intent on continuing the fight. Although it hadn’t been much of a fight so far, Preacher thought. Moran had taken him by surprise, something that didn’t happen very often, and Preacher couldn’t help but wonder if it was because he’d been distracted by being so close to Lorraine Donnelly. Then that pile driver punch had addled him for a minute.

But his brain was clearing now. Anger blew away the fog that had clogged his thinking.

Moran jerked free of Lorraine as Preacher started to get up. “I’m gonna stomp you into the ground, mister,” the guide said. “Anybody who’d molest a married woman deserves it.”

Even though Preacher was mad, he was thinking clearly enough to realize something. Ever since this started, Moran had been bellowing like a bull about how Preacher had acted improperly toward Lorraine. The guide was trying to turn the rest of the immigrants against him, Preacher thought.

He suddenly wondered if Buckhalter had something to do with this.

He could ponder on that later. Right now, Moran still loomed over him. Preacher had only made it up on one knee, and Moran had a big foot drawn back, ready to kick him in the face.

Preacher was ready when that booted clodhopper came at him, though. His hands shot up. He grabbed Moran’s ankle, stopping the kick before it could cave in his jaw. Then he heaved upward and put the strength of his legs into it as he surged to his feet.

Moran yelped in surprise and alarm as he felt himself going over backward. Unable to stop himself, he crashed down on his back like a falling tree.

Out of the gathering crowd, Pete Stallworth rushed with an enraged expression on his broad face. “You can’t do that to a friend of mine!” he yelled as he swung a punch at Preacher’s head.

Preacher didn’t want to fight Stallworth, or Moran, for that matter. He jerked his head aside so that Stallworth’s fist whipped harmlessly past his face and grabbed the man’s arm. Using Stallworth’s own momentum against him, Preacher swung him around and rammed him into the side of the Donnelly wagon. Stallworth bounced off, and when Preacher let go of him, he stumbled and fell.

Moran was getting back up by now, though. He charged Preacher, arms flailing. A lot of the bystanders were shouting now, some of them yelling encouragement to Moran since they had heard his accusations against Preacher and believed them, others asking questions. Lorraine was still trying to stop the fight, but since Moran ignored her, Preacher had no choice but to do so as well. He wasn’t going to just stand there and let Moran whale on him without fighting back.

Problem was, Moran outweighed him and had a longer reach, plus Preacher had to be careful about reinjuring that left arm. He couldn’t risk slamming punches into Moran’s face or body with that hand. The impact might damage the healing bone.

Preacher ducked under Moran’s wild blows and stepped in close. He hooked a right into the guide’s belly. The punch was so hard that Preacher’s fist sunk into Moran’s gut almost to the wrist. Moran bent forward, the breath gusting out of his mouth. Preacher came up and drove his right elbow under Moran’s chin. That jolted Moran’s head back. Like using a hammer to drive a nail, Preacher pounded the side of his right hand into Moran’s nose. Blood spurted. Moran howled in pain and stumbled backward.

He tripped over Stallworth’s legs and went down again. Stallworth still seemed to be stunned from his collision with the wagon. With both of his opponents down for the moment, Preacher reached for one of the pistols at his waist, intending to make sure this fight was over.

That was when Uncle Dan yelled, “Look out, Preacher!”

From the corner of his eye, Preacher spotted Buckhalter pointing a pistol at him. Preacher twisted aside as Buckhalter pulled the trigger. Smoke and flame spouted from the weapon’s muzzle. Preacher heard the low-pitched hum of the heavy ball as it went past his ear, then the thud as it struck one of the sideboards of the Donnelly wagon.

“Hold it right there, mister!” Uncle Dan said. “You best not reach for another pistol. I’ll blow a hole in your noggin if you do!”

Breathing a little heavily, Preacher saw that Uncle Dan had drawn his own pistol and now had Buckhalter covered from behind. He was pretty sure that Buckhalter’s shot hadn’t hurt anybody, but he looked around quickly to make certain. He wanted to see with his own eyes that Lorraine Donnelly was all right.

She appeared to be, although she was pale and seemed shocked by the violence that had broken out with no warning. Preacher asked quietly, “That shot didn’t hit you, did it?”

She shook her head and said, “I . . . I’m fine.”

“Uh . . . Preacher?” That was Uncle Dan’s voice. “We got a mite of a problem here.”

Preacher turned his attention back to his friend and traveling companion and saw that several of the men from the wagon train had pistols and rifles leveled at Uncle Dan. That was a reasonable enough reaction, Preacher supposed. He and Uncle Dan were strangers, after all, and the way these folks saw it, the two of them had come into camp and started attacking members of the wagon train.

“Everybody just take it easy,” he said. “There don’t need to be any more shootin’.”

“That’s right,” Ned Donnelly said as he pushed his way through the crowd. “Everyone, put your guns down! Lower your guns, please!”

With obvious reluctance, the men from the wagon train followed his orders. Preacher said, “I reckon you can put your gun down, too, Uncle Dan.”

“But this polecat’s liable to have another pistol hid out somewheres on him,” the old-timer protested.

Donnelly said, “If he does, he won’t use it.” He moved so that he was between Preacher and Buckhalter. “I give you my word on that.”

Buckhalter’s face was flushed with anger above his jutting beard. “I was just trying to save my friends!” he said. He pointed a finger at Preacher. “That man attacked them! If you ask me, Donnelly, he’s the real savage around here . . . and you invited him into our midst!”

“Take it easy—” Donnelly began.

“Why don’t you ask Moran what he saw Preacher doing to your wife?”

With a frown, Donnelly turned sharply toward Preacher. “What’s he talking about? I heard a lot of yelling, but I was on the other side of the camp and couldn’t understand any of it.”

Before Preacher could say anything, Lorraine hurried forward and put a hand on her husband’s arm. “It’s nothing, Ned,” she told him. “This is all just a terrible misunderstanding.”

Moran sat up, holding a hand over his broken nose as it continued to leak crimson. “I saw him pawin’ your wife, Donnelly!” he declared. “Saw it with my own two eyes!”

The whole thing was clear to Preacher now. Buckhalter had set it up. Moran had been waiting for some excuse to pick a fight, and when Preacher and Lorraine had gone over to the wagon to have a look at that brake lever, either Moran had recognized the opportunity or Buckhalter had and told the guide to start the ruckus. Then Buckhalter would step in at the right moment, shoot Preacher, and claim that he had been reaching for a pistol. That way, Buckhalter could say that he had killed Preacher in order to protect Moran.

Yeah, something was rotten here. Preacher didn’t know what it was, but Buckhalter had to be at the center of it, and Moran was mixed up in it, too. Possibly Stallworth as well, although he might have jumped into the fight simply because Moran was his friend.

Donnelly looked past his wife and asked coldly, “Is there any truth to what Moran says, Preacher?”

Lorraine moved so that he couldn’t help but look at her. “I just told you there isn’t, Ned. Preacher didn’t do anything improper. I just asked him to take a look at that brake lever on the wagon while we were waiting for you to get back for supper. That’s all.”

Donnelly frowned. “You’re sure?”

“I think I would know, don’t you?”

Donnelly looked past her again. “Preacher . . . ?”

“Your wife’s tellin’ you the truth,” Preacher said. “Nothin’ happened.”

“Well, how was Mike to know that?” Buckhalter blustered. “It’s getting dark. He looked over there and thought he saw something going on. Maybe he jumped to the wrong conclusion—”

“No maybes about it,” Uncle Dan put in.

“That doesn’t change the fact that when he tried to go to Mrs. Donnelly’s assistance, Preacher attacked him!”

Lorraine shook her head. “I’m sorry, Mr. Buckhalter, but Mr. Moran struck the first blow.”

Buckhalter looked like he was on the verge of a fit of apoplexy. “Mike got carried away by his concern for you—”

“That’s enough,” Donnelly said. “I can see now that it was all a misunderstanding, like my wife told me. An unfortunate misunderstanding. We’re just lucky that no one was badly hurt.”

Moran said, “My nose is broke!”

“We have several men with medical training among the company. Your nose will be tended to, Mr. Moran. In the meantime . . .” Donnelly faced the crowd and raised his voice. “Everyone go on back to your wagons. There’s nothing more to see here.”

The other two scouts, Jennings and MacKenzie, helped Moran and Stallworth to their feet as the immigrants began to scatter. The fight had provided them with some excitement, a break from the routine of the journey, but now it was time for supper, and they were hungry after a long day on the trail. Aided by their friends, Moran and Stallworth stumbled away. Buckhalter followed them, casting hostile glances over his shoulder toward Preacher as he did so.

Donnelly turned toward Preacher and began, “I’m sorry about what happened here—”

“Forget it,” Preacher cut in, his voice hard as flint. “I reckon it’d be better if Uncle Dan and me left. We’ll get our horses.”

Donnelly and Lorraine looked surprised, and Uncle Dan appeared to be downright devastated. “Leave before supper? What in tarnation are you thinkin’, son?”

“I’m thinkin’ everybody in this camp believed those lies Moran was yellin’,” Preacher said. “We ain’t welcome here.”

“That’s not true!” Lorraine exclaimed. “It was all just a—”

Preacher held up a hand to stop her. “A misunderstandin’, I know. I’ve heard it said often enough the past few minutes. But that don’t change anything. Buckhalter didn’t want us here from the first, and he’s the wagon master. Be simpler all around if we’re gone. Better for everybody.”

“I don’t know about that,” Donnelly said. “What about those Pawnee?”

“I’ve already told you everything I can tell you to do. You remember what I said, and you’ll be all right. Main thing is to always be ready for trouble.”

He had allowed himself to forget that for a few moments, he reflected, had let down his guard because he was talking to a pretty woman and about to eat a good hot meal. All it had gotten him was a bust in the snoot and more guns pointed at him.

Lorraine stepped forward. “I really wish you wouldn’t go, Preacher.”

“Sorry, ma’am.” He reached up and tugged on the brim of his hat. “We’re much obliged for your hospitality, ain’t we, Uncle Dan?”

“What?” the old-timer said. “Oh. Yeah, I reckon. Much obliged.” Preacher took his arm and started leading him away from the wagon, and as they went, Uncle Dan added under his breath, “But I’d’a been a heap more obliged if’n I’d got on the outside o’ some supper first.”

“Hush up,” Preacher said, equally quietly. “We ain’t goin’ very far.”

Uncle Dan looked over at him, frowning in puzzlement. “What?”

“Buckhalter’s up to somethin’,” Preacher said, his voice grim, “and I damned well intend to find out what it is.”