Even though it was too dark to see very well, Preacher sensed that all three of them were staring at him. Uncle Dan broke the surprised silence by saying, “Back to St. Looey? What in the blue blazes for?”

“Horse, for one thing,” Preacher replied. “He’s still in the stable behind Beaumont’s house, I reckon. That big fella and me been trail partners for long enough that I can’t just abandon him. For another thing, if I’m gonna be fightin’ a whole army, I want my rifle and my other pistol, and they’re in the servant’s quarters at Beaumont’s.”

“How in the world do you intend to do that?” Jessie asked. “You can’t expect Shad to let you just waltz in and take those things.”

“I don’t,” Preacher said. “But I’m a pretty fair hand at sneakin’ in and out of places.”

“You’ll need to be better’n a fair hand,” Uncle Dan said. “You’ll get yourself killed, that’s what you’ll do.”

Preacher shook his head. “I got to try. Simple as that. I’ll take one of the pack horses and ride back to town.”

Casey stood up and came over to him. She laid a hand on his arm and said, “That sounds awfully risky to me. Can’t you stay here with us? I don’t want anything to happen to you. You can get another horse and some guns somewhere else, can’t you?”

“You’re wastin’ your time, darlin’,” Uncle Dan said. “I never seen anybody get Preacher to change his mind once he’s got it made up. He’s just about the stubbornest ol’ cuss you’ll ever see.”

“That’s because I’m right more often than not,” Preacher said.

Jessie got to her feet and came over to Preacher, standing on his other side. She put a hand on his arm as well and said, “Are you sure that Cassandra and I can’t change your mind, Preacher? We could give you plenty of good reasons to stay here tonight.”

Uncle Dan let out a low whistle. Preacher had to laugh at the old-timer’s reaction.

“You gals make it mighty temptin’,” he said, “but like Uncle Dan said, my mind’s made up. I’ll be back by mornin’, and then we’ll figure out what to do next.”

“Best sing out when you get close to camp,” the old-timer advised. “My nerves is gonna be a mite on edge knowin’ that Beaumont’s out there with a powerful grudge against you three.”

Preacher untied one of the pack horses. He didn’t have a saddle and he wouldn’t take Uncle Dan’s, but he had grown up riding bareback and knew he wouldn’t have any trouble doing so now. The horse wasn’t used to having a rider and was a little skittish at first, but Preacher had fashioned a hackamore out of rope and soon had the animal under control.

He said so long to Uncle Dan and the two women and rode out of the trees. He had a powder horn, shot pouch, one pistol, and his knife. It would have been nice to be better armed as he ventured back into the lion’s den, but a man had to make do with what he had.

As he rode, he thought about what he planned to do. First he would go to Beaumont’s house and size up the situation. He might have to create some sort of distraction in order to get into the barn where Horse was and then into the servant’s quarters to get his rifle and his other gear. One way or another, though, he would get the things he was after and then head back to Uncle Dan’s camp, hopefully without anybody on his trail.

There was a village of friendly Mandan Indians a ways up the Missouri. Preacher had been on good terms with them for a number of years. He thought he might send Uncle Dan and the two women to that village. Beaumont wouldn’t think to look for them there, and the Indians would help protect Preacher’s friends.

Once he didn’t have to worry about them anymore, then he could turn his attention to finishing the chore that had brought him east from the mountains in the first place. He was confident that he could always ride into St. Louis and get close enough to Beaumont to put a bullet in the bastard before anyone could stop him, but that would probably get him a date with the hangman, as well. And while he didn’t mind dying if that’s what it took to square accounts with Beaumont, Preacher didn’t particularly want to give up his life just yet. He’d prefer to survive the confrontation.

The best thing to do would be to lead Beaumont and his men on a chase that might extend all the way to the mountains. Preacher knew that if he could do that, he would have the advantage, no matter how many hired killers Beaumont brought with him. Preacher would stack his own skills up against any of them.

The lights of the settlement glittered in front of him. He circled to the south to come at it from that direction.

Preacher fully expected Beaumont to have guards posted at his house. Now that Beaumont knew the threat against him had originated within his own organization, he wouldn’t trust anybody. He’d be on the alert for another attack. And knowing now that Preacher had been posing as Jim Donnelly, Beaumont might expect him to show up to get Horse. Of course, that was exactly what Preacher intended to do.

He left the pack horse tied loosely in some trees about half a mile south of town. If he got back later to reclaim the animal, that would be fine. If not, the horse wouldn’t have much trouble getting free later on and undoubtedly would wander into town where someone would find it and give it a home. Preacher was willing to lose the pack horse in return for his gray stallion, if it came to that.

Sticking to the shadows, he approached Beaumont’s house on foot. Dogs barked here and there, and wagons rattled past occasionally in the streets. This sedate residential neighborhood was too far from downtown and the riverfront for any of the raucous sounds originating in those areas to penetrate. To all appearances, it was a quiet, peaceful night in these parts.

Preacher’s instincts told him that wasn’t the case. Somewhere out there were armed men who wanted him dead.

He came at the barn from the rear, moving slowly and carefully. When he was about fifty yards from the building, he stopped and let his senses reach out into the night. He listened for a cough or any other faint sound a guard might make. His eyes searched the shadows for any trace of movement. He sniffed the air like a wild animal trying to find the scent of an enemy, which in this case might be the lingering tobacco odor from a pipe.

After a few minutes, he was rewarded by a tiny scraping noise that came from the shadows near the rear door of the barn. That was a sentry changing position, he thought. As Preacher moved closer, he heard the man clear his throat. The guard was being quiet—for a city fella. To a man like Preacher, though, who had slipped in and out of Blackfoot camps on numerous occasions, the sentry might as well have been holding a lantern and a sign announcing his presence.

Preacher took his time about it. Five minutes later, he was within arm’s reach of the man who stood near the barn door with a rifle cradled in his arms. The mountain man had approached in utter silence, and he was confident the guard had no idea he was there. Preacher struck in silence as well, looping his right arm around the man’s neck and jerking him back while using his left hand to pluck the rifle out of the guard’s grasp. The man tried to struggle, but Preacher’s iron grip on his throat all but paralyzed him. Within a minute, the guard lost consciousness and slumped in Preacher’s grasp. Preacher lowered him noiselessly to the ground.

He could have just killed the varmint with a thrust of his knife. Anybody who would work for Shad Beaumont had it coming, as far as Preacher was concerned. But tonight he was more interested in getting what he’d come after.

Horses shifted around inside the barn, stomping their hooves and swishing their tails. That would make things a mite more difficult for Preacher, who figured there were guards inside the barn as well as outside. The noises the horses made would cover up any sounds that might help him locate the guards. But he couldn’t stay out here all night. For one thing, the man he had just choked into unconsciousness would probably come to in ten or fifteen minutes.

Something made Preacher look up. The rear door into the hayloft was closed, but he knew it had only a simple latch on the inside. If he could get up there, he could slide his knife through the gap around the door and lift the latch.

A barrel sat against the rear wall. Preacher reached down, pulled the belt off the man he had knocked out, and climbed onto the barrel. He held onto one end of the belt and tossed it upward toward the beam that protruded from the wall just above the loft door. A block-and-tackle was fastened to the beam so that it could be used to lift bales of hay into the loft. Preacher had to try a couple of times, but using the belt he managed to hook the rope attached to the pulley and draw it down to him.

From there it was a simple matter to climb up to the door and work the latch open, just as he had thought.

A moment later he was inside the deep darkness of the loft, stretched out on the hay. Carefully, he crawled to the edge of the loft and peered over it. No lights burned inside the barn.

Again Preacher relied on his senses and his instincts to tell him where the armed men were. He pinpointed three of them: one just inside the door, one beside the stall where Horse was, and a third man near the ladder that led down from the loft. Preacher’s eyes had adjusted to the darkness so that he was barely able to make out the shape of that man only a few feet beneath him.

Preacher had draped the unconscious guard’s belt over his shoulder when he climbed into the loft. He hadn’t known if he would need it for anything, but he knew better than to discard something that might come in handy. Working in darkness now, he fashioned a loop from one end of the belt. Then he stretched out on his belly at the edge of the loft and studied the guard just below him. The fella wore a cap of some sort, rather than a wide-brimmed hat, which was a stroke of good fortune.

The guard must have been taken completely by surprise when the loop dropped over his head and jerked tight around his neck. He didn’t have time to let out even a squawk. The muscles in Preacher’s arms and shoulders bunched as he lifted the man’s weight off the floor.

Unfortunately, the man dropped his rifle, which thudded to the hard-packed dirt floor. He managed to make a gagging sound, too, as he kicked frantically and clawed at the makeshift noose around his neck. The other two guards ran toward him, one of them calling, “Garrison! What’s wrong?”

Preacher let go of the belt, dropping the man he’d been strangling. An instant later, Preacher leaped off the edge of the loft and plummeted down to crash into one of the guards who had just run up. The collision drove the man to the ground. Preacher’s knees landed on the guard’s midsection and dug deep, knocking all the breath out of his lungs and probably breaking some ribs, too. Using the momentum of his fall, Preacher rolled over and surged back to his feet just in time for the third man to tackle him.

Both of them went down, but Preacher twisted as he fell and managed to land on top. He hammered a fist at the spot where he thought the sentry’s head would be and connected solidly. The man went limp as the blow stunned him. Preacher hit him again, just for good measure.

Then Preacher was back on his feet again. The ruckus hadn’t made much noise, and all three of the guards inside the stable were out of action for the moment. Preacher hurried into Horse’s stall and slapped blanket and saddle on the stallion with swift, efficient movements, even in the darkness.

He led Horse out of the stall and dropped the reins, knowing the animal would stand there patiently. Then Preacher felt around until he found the rifles the guards had dropped. He wouldn’t need to get into the servant’s quarters after all. He took their pistols, too, shoving the weapons behind his belt. He was armed for bear now.

Or for a war.

Preacher went to the double doors at the front of the stable and lifted the bar that held them closed. Then he swung up into the saddle and drew two of the four pistols. Guiding Horse with his knees, he urged the stallion forward. Horse hit the doors and knocked them open, bursting out into the open area between the stable and the back of Beaumont’s house.

Throwing his head back as he rode, Preacher let out the wild howl of a wolf. From the corner of his eye, he spotted a man running toward him. Flame spurted from a rifle muzzle. The ball hummed past Preacher’s head as he wheeled Horse around. He fired a pistol at the guard, the shot knocking the man over backward as it slammed into him.

“Beaumont!” Preacher yelled toward the house. “I’m comin’ for you, Beaumont, you damned coward! I’ll skin you alive!”

Another rifle boomed. Preacher saw the flash and returned the fire, but he didn’t know if he hit the rifleman or not. He jammed the empty pistols behind his belt, grabbed the reins, and whirled Horse away from the house. The stallion leaped into a gallop as Preacher dug in his heels.

More shots rang out, but none of them came close to Preacher. Horse never broke stride as he raced away into the night. Preacher turned his head and let loose with one final crazy howl over his shoulder, then leaned forward in the saddle and let Horse run.

If that didn’t get Beaumont to come after him, he thought, then nothing would.