Free Preacher's Journey by William W. Johnstone Page B

Gasping, he rolled away and came up on his hands and knees, then staggered to his feet. He rubbed his sore throat where Watson’s fingers had dug into it.
    A few feet away, Watson struggled up as well. By now the other men had drawn back, giving the combatants some room. The blanket was wadded up, and the cards and pebbles were scattered. Clearly, the game was over for the night.
    With angry shouts, the two men came together and started slugging it out, fists flying and thudding into flesh and bone. Again, Watson’s greater experience helped him. His punches were short and compact but had all of his strength behind them. Peter gradually had to give ground. As he backed up, Watson’s foot suddenly shot out, hooked behind Peter’s ankle, and jerked. Peter went over backward.
    Watson reached into his coat and pulled out a knife. With a savage grin on his face, he lunged at Peter, the blade poised to strike down into the younger man’s chest.
    The Hawken in Preacher’s hand roared as he fired without seeming to aim. The heavy lead ball struck Watson’s knife hand, shattering bone and shredding flesh. The knife went flying harmlessly into the air. Watson screamed and fell to his knees, clutching the wounded, blood-spouting member to his chest.
    â€œYou shot him!” Hawley shouted accusingly. “You said we ought to stay out of it!”
    â€œThat was when it was just fists,” Preacher said. “Watson made it a heap different when he pulled that pigsticker.”
    Watson glared up at him from his knees. “You bastard! You’ve ruined me!”
    â€œYou’re lucky I didn’t kill you,” Preacher said coldly.
    â€œWe ain’t gonna forget this,” Hawley warned.
    Preacher nodded and said, “I sure as hell hope not. Tend to your friend.”
    Hawley got up and went to Watson’s side. He helped Watson to his feet and led him over by the cliff. Working quickly, Hawley bound up the wounded hand with a strip of cloth he cut off Watson’s shirt. Both of them sent frequent, hate-filled glances toward Preacher and the Galloways.
    Angela hurried over to Peter as he climbed shakily to his feet. “Are you all right?” she wanted to know.
    He nodded. “I’m fine.” Amazingly enough, the look he gave Preacher was resentful. “I could have handled him. I was doing all right.”
    If that was what the damn fool wanted to believe, Preacher wasn’t going to waste breath or energy arguing with him. Preacher knew, though, that Peter Galloway would have been dead in another few seconds if he hadn’t shot Watson.
    The shouting and the gunshot had roused everyone else in the camp. The kids looked out from the wagon where they were sleeping, full of questions and wide-eyed with fear. Once Angela was satisfied that her husband was all right, she went to reassure the youngsters that everything was fine and tell them to crawl back into their bedrolls and go back to sleep.
    Meanwhile, Roger Galloway climbed down from his wagon and came over to join the others. He had a pistol in his hand. “What is it?” he asked anxiously. “Is it the Indians? Are we under attack?”
    â€œNope,” Preacher said.
    Simon said, “Peter got in a fight with one of those mountain men.”
    â€œA fight?” Roger repeated. “About what?”
    â€œThe man said I was cheating at cards,” Jonathan explained, “but I never did. You know I wouldn’t do that, Roger.”
    â€œOf course not.” Roger looked at his brother and asked the same question Angela had. “Peter, are you all right?”
    â€œI’m fine,” Peter said again, more disgustedly this time. “We should have known not to trust those ruffians.” He cast a meaningful glance Preacher’s way.
    Preacher figured that if any cheating had been going on, more than likely Hawley and Watson had been doing it. He had reserved judgment on the