Free Preacher's Peace by William W. Johnstone

impressed.”
    â€œMr. Ashley, do you know a man by the name of Seamus O’Connor?”
    â€œSeamus O’Connor? It doesn’t ring a bell with me.”
    â€œHe owned a place called the Irish Tavern. I used to have friends who spent time there: a man named Tony, another named James O’Leary.”
    â€œAh, yes, I remember them. O’Leary was a big strapping fellow. And the other—Tony, you say? They worked for Ed Gordon down at the wagon-freight yard.”
    â€œYes!” Art said, smiling broadly. “That’s them. Do you know where I can find them?”
    Ashley shook his head sadly. “They’re dead, son. Both of them.”
    â€œWhat? How?”
    â€œThey were unloading a riverboat when the boiler exploded. Killed Gordon and six of his men, including your two friends Tony and James.”
    â€œOh.”
    â€œSorry to have to be the one to tell you.”
    â€œThat’s all right,” Art said. “Those things happen.” He held up the silver coins. “Thanks for the advance.”
    With Dog alongside, Art left the store and walked on up Market Street, looking for the Irish Tavern. It was no more. In its place was something called the Joseph LaBarge Tavern. Art was standing in front of it, looking it over, when he heard a woman’s voice call out from just inside the building.
    â€œNo, please, don’t! It was an accident!”
    â€œYou bitch! I’ll teach you to be clumsy around me!” a harsh voice said. The voice was followed by a smacking sound and as Art looked up, he saw a young woman propelled backward through the open front door. She fell on the porch, and a large, gross-looking man stomped out of the saloon behind her.
    â€œPlease,” the young woman begged. “I didn’t mean to spill the beer on you.” She tried to get up, but as she did so, the big ugly man hit her again, knocking her back down onto the porch. She rolled over onto her hands and knees and tried to escape him that way, but he followed after her and kicked her. She cried out in pain.
    Art stepped up onto the porch behind the man.
    â€œI’ll learn you to spill beer on me, you worthless whore. I’ll kick your ass clear into Illinois,” the man growled at the young woman, who was still cowering on the wooden planks of the porch.
    â€œSir?” Art said from just behind the man.
    â€œWhat do you . . .” the man started to ask, but he was unable to finish his question because as soon as he turned toward Art, the young mountain man brought the butt of his rifle up in a smashing blow to the man’s face. The blow knocked out two of the man’s teeth, broke his nose, and sent a stream of blood gushing down across his mouth and into his beard. If he hadn’t been ugly before, he certainly was now. His eyes rolled up into his head, and he dropped heavily to the porch.
    The young woman, now on her knees, looked on in shock and fear as Art reached his hand for her.
    â€œMa’am, may I help you up?” he asked.
    The woman made no effort to take his hand.
    â€œDon’t be afraid. No one’s going to hurt you anymore,” Art said. His hand was still extended toward her.
    Hesitantly, the woman took his hand, and Art pulled her to her feet.
    â€œI—I didn’t mean to spill the beer,” she said. “But he grabbed me as I walked by. I was startled. I couldn’t help it. I tried to explain and apologize, but he wouldn’t listen.”
    â€œMa’am, you don’t owe an explanation or an apology to anyone,” Art said reassuringly. “Least of all to a pig like him. Why don’t you come back inside and sit down until you feel better.”
    â€œThank you,” the young woman said.
    Art led her back toward the front door of the saloon, which was still open, and now crowded with many patrons who, drawn by the commotion out front, had come to the door to see what was going on. They