He had only gone about half a mile when he heard popping sounds in the distance. Preacher’s keen ears instantly recognized the sounds as gunshots.

And they were coming from the direction Uncle Dan and the two women had gone a short time earlier.

Preacher hauled back on the reins and turned around in the saddle to gaze off toward the Missouri River. Beside him, Dog stared in that direction as well, ears pricked forward. A low, throaty growl came from the dog.

Fear made Preacher’s heart slug heavily in his chest. Not fear for himself. The life of peril and adventure he led had long since pushed him past the point that he worried much about his own fate. He knew that in all likelihood, one of these days he would die with a gun or a knife in his hand, battling against some son of a bitch who needed killing—and he could live with that knowledge.

He had never learned how not to worry about the people he cared for, though, and right now, Uncle Dan, Jessie, and Casey were at the top of that list.

The shooting continued for almost a minute, then an ominous silence took its place. Preacher wheeled Horse around and dug his heels into the stallion’s flanks.

“Trail, Horse!” he called. “Come on, Dog!”

Horse leaped ahead into a gallop. Dog bounded along, keeping up as best he could.

Preacher rode hard toward the river, and as he did so, worry gnawed at his guts. He hadn’t expected his friends to run into any trouble. Of course, they were far enough from town that the possibility of encountering a Pawnee or Cheyenne war party existed, and bands of white renegades sometimes roamed through these parts, too.

The threat that loomed the largest, though, was Shad Beaumont. He had more reason to hate Preacher and want to strike at him through his friends than anyone else. Preacher wasn’t sure how Beaumont could have found them, though.

The time it took him to reach the river and then turn northwestward stretched out interminably, although Preacher knew logically it was only a few minutes. He scanned the morning sky, looking for dust that would betray the presence of riders. He had heard quite a few shots, which meant several people had been involved in the battle.

Maybe the shots hadn’t had anything to do with Uncle Dan and the two women, he told himself. He couldn’t quite bring himself to believe that, though. The tight, cold ball in his guts wouldn’t let him.

He topped one of the rolling hills and spotted something up ahead. A second later as he galloped toward it, he recognized it as Jessie’s buggy, which now lay overturned on its side. The horse that was hitched to the vehicle was still in its traces, lying on its side, motionless. A saddle horse was a couple of hundred yards away, moving around skittishly. Preacher recognized it as Uncle Dan’s mount.

His heart plummeted as he recognized those things. Now there was no hope that the trouble hadn’t involved his friends. The evidence that it had was right before his eyes.

But he didn’t see Uncle Dan or either of the two women anywhere. It was possible they had been taken prisoner and carried off somewhere. Preacher didn’t slow Horse as he raced toward the wrecked buggy. Wherever the men who had done this had gone, he would track them down. He made that vow to himself.

A rifle suddenly boomed from some brush to the left of the overturned vehicle. Preacher saw the puff of powder smoke from the bushes. The ball didn’t come anywhere near him, though, whining off harmlessly instead. Whoever was holed up in there wasn’t a very good shot. Using his knees to guide the stallion, Preacher veered Horse so that the buggy provided some cover for them. Rifle in hand, he leaped from the saddle while Horse was still moving and landed behind the buggy. He crouched and aimed over the top of the vehicle at the brush.

“Whoever you are, best throw out your guns and come out after ’em with your hands up!” he shouted.

He wasn’t sure what response he was expecting, but the one he got sure wasn’t it. A weak voice called, “Preacher? Is that you?”

“Uncle Dan!” Preacher exclaimed. He straightened and ran out from behind the buggy. A few fast, long-legged strides brought him to the bushes. He parted them, paying no attention to the way the branches clawed at his buckskins, and plunged into the thicket. He spotted Uncle Dan lying on the ground and went to his knees beside the old-timer.

Several dark splotches of blood on Uncle Dan’s buckskins told Preacher that he’d been shot through and through. It was a wonder the old man was still alive. Carefully, Preacher lifted him so that he was sitting up halfway. Uncle Dan’s hat was gone, and his long white hair was tangled around his head. Blood had trickled from his mouth, leaving a crimson trail in the snowy beard.

“Well, I’m . . . shot all to hell, Preacher,” he managed to say.

“It ain’t that bad—” Preacher began.

“The hell . . . it ain’t. I’m a goner, and we . . . both know it.”

Preacher didn’t waste time arguing. He got right to the point of what he needed to know.

“What happened?”

“Some fellas . . . jumped us. They come up . . . behind us. We tried to outrun ’em, but their horses was too fast. Couldn’t . . . get away.” The old man’s weathered face twisted in a grimace. “I’m plumb sorry, Preacher! I put up . . . as good a fight as I could . . . and so’d them gals . . . but they was too many . . .”

“Beaumont,” Preacher grated.

Uncle Dan licked dry lips. “Yeah. He was the boss of ’em. And there was a fella with him . . . Miss Jessie called him . . . Cleve. Said he was . . . a double-crossin’ . . . son of a bitch.”

A fire of hatred and fury sprang up within Preacher. Jessie had been worried about Cleve that very morning, and then the gambler had gone and betrayed her. Cleve knew where their camp was. He must have heard about Jessie’s plot against Beaumont being revealed and had gone straight to Beaumont to sell him that information. That would not only enrich Cleve, it would help keep Beaumont from suspecting his connection with Jessie, too.

Cleve had made it clear from the first that he had joined forces with Jessie for money and power, so it didn’t come as any surprise that he had switched sides as soon as it was better for him to do so. Preacher understood that, but it didn’t make him hate Cleve any less.

Those thoughts flashed through Preacher’s head while Uncle Dan paused to take a deep, ragged breath that made the old-timer wince in pain.

“Things’re all busted up . . . inside me,” Uncle Dan went on. “I took a bad tumble from my hoss . . . just about the time the buggy . . . turned over. I managed to . . . crawl into this here thicket . . . and throw some lead at the sons o’ bitches . . . but I was already hurt and they winged me a few times . . . to boot. Reckon they figured . . . I was done for . . . and they was right.” A grim chuckle came from him. “I must’ve . . . passed out for a little spell. Came to and heard a horse . . . I wasn’t thinkin’ too straight . . . I shoved my rifle out and squeezed off a shot. That was you comin’, weren’t it, Preacher? I didn’t . . . hit you?”

“Nope, don’t worry about that,” Preacher assured him. “I’m fine. Now, I need to get you out of these bushes—”

“Don’t . . . waste the time on me. You best get after . . . Beaumont. After they . . . stopped shootin’ . . . he yelled at me . . . said if I was still alive to tell you . . . that he’ll be waitin’ for you . . . at his place . . . if’n you want to see . . . Jessie and Casey alive again.”

The old-timer’s voice was getting weaker. It was barely above a whisper now. Preacher had to lean close to make out all the words.

“You . . . find Beaumont . . . and save them gals. And when you . . . settle the score . . . with Beaumont . . . you’ll be settlin’ up . . . for me and Pete, too . . .”

Uncle Dan’s breath went out of him in a long sigh. The light in his eyes faded at the same time. Preacher knew that his friend was crossing the divide. Hoping that Uncle Dan could still hear him, he rasped, “I’ll see you on the other side one of these days, old-timer.”

Then he gently closed the lifeless, staring eyes.

Preacher sat there for a minute with his own eyes closed, then drew in a deep breath. He lowered Uncle Dan carefully to the ground and left the thicket. One of the wheels on the buggy had shattered when it overturned. He looked at the broken spokes and picked out one that he thought could be used as a shovel. Then he got a blanket from his pack and went back into the brush to wrap the old-timer’s body in it.

A part of Preacher cried out for him to hurry back to St. Louis and head straight for Beaumont’s house, as Uncle Dan had urged him to do. But that was what Beaumont would expect, so Preacher decided to wait. He didn’t think Beaumont would hurt Jessie or Casey right away. They were the bait in the trap Beaumont had set for Preacher, so he couldn’t just kill them outright.

Besides, Uncle Dan deserved to be laid to rest properly.

Preacher lifted the body onto Horse’s back and tied it in place. Then he led the stallion along the river until he found a suitable spot, a high, tree-shaded hill with a good view of the valley and the broad stream flowing through it. Uncle Dan should have been buried in the Rockies, but they were too far away. This would have to do.

Using the broken spoke, Preacher began digging. It was hard work, and as the day grew warmer, sweat sprang out on his face. He kept at it until he had a nice, deep grave.

Then he lowered Uncle Dan’s body into the hole and covered it. When he was finished, he stood beside the grave with his hat in his hand and said, “Lord, you know I ain’t much for speechifyin’, and even though they call me Preacher, You and me never been all that close. But I’ll say this . . . I don’t reckon there’s anybody in this world who appreciates the mountains and the streams and the prairie You made more than I do, and if that counts for anything with You, I’d ask You to look kindly on this old fella who showed up on Your doorstep a while ago. He’s one of the finest men I ever knew, and if You can find a fiddle up there in heaven for him to play, he’ll have the angels dancin’ a jig ’fore You know it. I reckon that’s all I’ve got to say, so I’ll wrap this up the way the real preachers do by sayin’ amen.”

With that, he put his hat on and turned away from the mound of dirt that marked the final resting place of Uncle Dan Sullivan. He took hold of Horse’s reins, swung up into the saddle, and motioned for Dog to follow him as he hitched the stallion into motion. Preacher started at an easy lope toward St. Louis.

There was no need to hurry now. It was all over except for the rest of the killing . . . and that would come later, once night had fallen.

It looked like every lamp in Shad Beaumont’s house was lit. Yellow light glowed from all the windows. From the roof of a building a couple of blocks away, Preacher used the spyglass he had taken from his pack to study the place. He didn’t see anybody moving, but he was confident that Beaumont was in there, and so were Jessie and Casey. Also, he had no doubt that a dozen or more well-armed men were hidden around the house, just waiting for him to show up.

Not that they would kill him if he waltzed up there, he knew. Their orders would be to take him prisoner, not to slay him. Beaumont would want the pleasure of killing him.

Of course, if Preacher attacked openly and forced the men to gun him down, Beaumont probably wouldn’t lose too much sleep over that. He had wanted Preacher dead for a long time, and if that was the way things played out, Beaumont would be able to live with it.

And then, once Preacher was gone, he could take his time with the two women . . .

Preacher had a hunch that Beaumont had watchers posted all around the settlement, waiting for him to show up. When he did, Beaumont’s plan probably called for the sentries to send word to the house that he was on his way.

That was why Preacher hadn’t ridden in openly. He had spent the day building a small raft, barely big enough for him to lie on with his rifle beside him, along with a few other things he had worked on during the day. He’d had to leave Horse and Dog behind, because this was a chore he could only handle by himself. In the dark buckskins he wore, and with his face smeared with mud, he knew that the raft would look like a floating log in the darkness. Before the moon came up, with only starlight washing over the Mississippi, he made his slow way downstream, letting the current carry him.

When he reached the riverfront area, he had steered the tiny raft in among the wharves that jutted out into the water. Being careful to keep his rifle and pistols out of the muck, he had slid off into the mud under one of the wharves and listened intently for several minutes before crawling out into the open. He stayed in the shadows, moving like a shadow himself, a phantom who carried death with him. He was confident that none of Beaumont’s men had seen him.

With the same level of stealth Preacher would have employed sneaking into an Indian village, he made his way through the streets of St. Louis, staying in the deepest, darkest shadows, until he reached a position that commanded a view of Beaumont’s house. That was where he lay now, on the roof of a general store that was closed for the night. He had climbed up here from the alley that ran behind the store.

Slowly, Preacher moved the spyglass, checking each window in turn, trying to see if he could make out what was going on inside. All the curtains on the ground floor were pulled tightly shut, and the windows themselves were closed.

That wasn’t the case on the second floor. Some of those windows were open for ventilation, and the night breeze stirred the curtains inside the rooms, creating occasional gaps through which Preacher caught glimpses of what was inside.

After almost an hour, he stiffened as he saw what appeared to be a flash of fair hair. Casey? He fixed all his attention on that particular window and waited for another gust of wind to move the curtains. He would wait all night if he had to. He wasn’t going to strike until he was good and ready.

Time went by, and then the curtains parted briefly, and this time he saw a large shape move past the window. Beaumont, he thought. Beaumont was in there with Casey. Preacher didn’t know that for a fact, but his instincts told him it was true.

Jessie was probably in the same room. Beaumont would want to keep them together, so that it would be easier for him to keep an eye on them.

Suddenly, the curtains were thrust open, taking Preacher by surprise. As he squinted through the spyglass, he saw the reason why. Beaumont had moved a couple of straight-back chairs up close to the big window. Jessie and Casey sat in those chairs. From the way their arms were pulled back, Preacher knew their hands were tied behind them. Beaumont was using them as bait, all right, and he was making sure they were right out there where Preacher couldn’t help but see them. Beaumont’s nerves were probably getting tired of the waiting. He wanted to goad Preacher into action.

Preacher’s jaw tightened as he studied the faces of the two women through the glass. His breath rasped between his teeth. He wouldn’t have thought it was possible for him to hate Shad Beaumont any more than he already did, but he discovered now that it was.

Jessie and Casey had been beaten. Preacher saw the blood and the bruises on their faces, and if Beaumont had stepped into view at that moment, Preacher might have put a rifle ball through the bastard’s head and been done with it. He wished he had done that a couple of weeks earlier. Uncle Dan would probably still be alive if he had.

Preacher wasn’t the sort to brood about what might have been, though. Instead, he took action to deal with what was. Now that he knew where Jessie and Casey were being held in the house, he could put his plan into effect. It was risky, no doubt about that, but with the odds stacked against him the way they were, there was no way he could rescue the women without putting them in danger first. As long as they were in Beaumont’s hands, they were doomed to die eventually, anyway.

Preacher climbed down into the alley again. He went to the back door of the emporium and used his knife to bust the lock, which wasn’t very strong. He went inside, and his eyes were accustomed enough to the darkness by now that he was able to find his way around the store and locate the things he needed. He made a bundle out of some burlap, slung it over his shoulder, and climbed up on the roof again, leaving some money on the counter to pay for what he had taken.

He was two blocks away from Beaumont’s house. That was a pretty far distance for what he had in mind, but he was confident the bow he had fashioned during the day would send the arrows that far. He had made half a dozen arrows, not bothering with trying to carve flint heads for them. Now he dumped them out of the makeshift quiver he had used to carry them and tore strips off the bolt of cloth he had taken from the store. He wrapped the strips around the ends of the arrows. Once he had done that, he dipped each cloth-wrapped arrowhead in the keg of pitch he had found in the store as well.

Preacher tore up some brown paper he had brought from below, making a pile of it in a metal bowl that would contain the fire. Then he took out his flint and steel and struck sparks with them, leaning over to blow on the tiny flames and make them leap higher.

Once the fire was burning well enough, he stood up and nocked one of the arrows to the bow. He held the pitch-soaked head of the shaft in the flames until it caught and began to blaze. Then he straightened, drew back the bow, aimed, and let fly.

The burning shaft arced through the darkness. Preacher watched it soar through the air and then curve downward . . . to land on the opposite end of the roof from the room where Jessie and Casey were being held prisoner.