Free Forty Guns West by William W. Johnstone Page A

of the low.
    Preacher fought back with some effort an urge to rise up and blast these men into eternity. But doing that would only wound the tip of the snake’s tail. He wanted Bones, Van Eaton, and those fancy-dressed men. And he wanted just one man from this bunch to question. And if he didn’t want to talk to Preacher, Preacher knew a way to loosen his tongue—he’d just turn him over to the Utes.
    Preacher lay under cover until dusk. Then he got his chance to grab one of Bones’s men. A man he’d heard call John Pray wandered over to the area, alone, and started to drop his trousers. Preacher coshed him with a leather pouch filled with dirt and the man hit the ground unconscious. Preacher tossed the man over one shoulder and quickly took off.
    When John Pray awoke he fully expected to get whacked on the head, like had happened three times already that night during the ride from camp. His head hurt something fierce. But no blow came. He tried to move his hands, but they were tied behind his back and his back was hard up against a tree. He looked across a hat-sized fire into the hard and cold eyes of a man dressed all in buckskins.
    â€œYou be Preacher?” John croaked out the question.
    â€œI be Preacher.”
    â€œAre you gonna torture me?”
    â€œIf I have to. And believe me, John Pray, I will.”
    John believed him. Oh, how he believed him. “What do you want to know?”
    â€œEverything. Front to bottom and side to side. You tell me ever’thing you know about this gang that’s chasin’ me and the boy, and I’ll cut you loose. And that’s a promise. You can either hook up again with Bones, or clear out. It’s up to you. Start talkin’, John Pray.”
    John Pray was a brigand and a scalawag, but he was no fool. He opened up and talked for a full ten minutes, nonstop. So complete was his confession, Preacher didn’t have to ask him a thing.
    When John Pray fell silent, Preacher hauled out his Bowie and cut him free. Preacher gestured toward the coffee pot. “Help yourself.”
    â€œMighty nice of you,” John said sarcastically. “Considerin’ that you’re sendin’ me to my death.”
    â€œI ain’t sendin’ you nowheres, John Pray.”
    John sipped and smiled. “You know damn well I can’t go back to Bones. They’d know I talked and kill me for sure. I ain’t got no hoss and no guns. The savages will kill me ’fore I get ten miles from here.”
    Preacher picked up John Pray’s brace of pistols, shot and powder, and knife. He tossed them to him. “I took the liberty of unloadin’ them pistols. You got ample shot and powder. ’Bout ten miles from here, anglin’ south, they’s a crick. Follow it down to Ute Pass. Stay southeast ’til you come to another crick. That’s Rock Crick. Follow that and you’ll come to a settlement. Mex and Injun women and mountain men that’s done takin’ up plowin’ and plantin’. You got money in your purse ’cause I seen it. They’ll sell you a horse. Bent’s Fort is due east of there. Keep ridin’ and don’t never come back to these mountains. If I ever see you again, I’ll kill you, John Pray. Now, git gone!”
    John Pray was gone in a heartbeat, not even looking back. Preacher immediately doused his fire and took up Thunder’s reins and was gone in the other direction, putting miles between the man-hunter and himself before he settled down for the remainder of the night in a cold camp.
    At dawn, Preacher gathered dry wood and built a tiny fire under the overhang of branches and boiled water for coffee. He was so angry he had to struggle to keep his emotions in check. A bunch of goddamn foreigners were planning to use him like some wild animal to hunt down ... for sport. Preacher had a dirty opinion of people who hunted animals for sport and trophy and not for food.