“Am I to take that to mean no?” the centurion asked with a sneer.
“Precisely. It is possible that this wounded man you are looking for saw us first and hid himself. So it may be that we have passed by him on his way, without knowing so. As to this Preacher you are speaking of, there's been no such person.”
“So, if you are going to stick to that, you might as well load up. Maybe the curia's torturers can loosen some tongues.”
“Where are you taking us? I demand to know,” Abercrombie unwisely blustered.
“To New Rome, of course. Y'all are in our country without permission. The First Citizen will likely call you all Gallic spies. Whatever he decides, it's the coliseum for the lot of you.”
At the news of this, wailings and lamentations rose among the faithful.
* * *
By ten o'clock that night, Preacher had it figured out. He waited until midnight, then glided out of his place of concealment. Bent low, walking in moccasins for quiet, he crossed the clearing to the tumble-down cabin. A stench of neglected, spilled food and unwashed bodies leaped out to assault him. His nose wrinkled. The shambles of an outhouse behind the log structure gave evidence of being a total stranger to quick lime.
He had been upwind of the wretched hovel, Preacher recalled as he closed on the rickety front porch. He made not a sound as he crossed the warped, weathered gray boards to the front door. There Preacher paused while he reached for the latch string. Strangely, considering where the cabin was located, it hung outside as a welcoming.
Preacher eased it upward and winced at the slight scraping sound the bar made as it raised. When it came free, Preacher waited tensely, one hand on the butt of a Walker Colt. After half a hundred heartbeats, with no alarm shouted from inside, he eased the door inward. Another mistake in wild country. The hinges should provide added resistance against anyone trying to break in. Sucking in a breath, Preacher edged around the open portal.
He made not the slightest sound as he entered the smelly structure. He eased the door shut behind himself. A long wait to allow his eyes to adjust to the dimness within. Slowly, objects began to define themselves: a counter along one wall, with crude cupboards above; a cast-iron stove, tilted rakishly because of a broken leg; a hearth and fireplace mantle; a large, leather-strung bed beyond a gauzy curtain. Satisfied, Preacher ghosted past the slumbering adults lying together in a tangle of naked arms and legs.
Carefully, he tested the rungs of a ladder that gave access to the loft where, he surmised, the children slept. He gingerly put weight on the first and thrust upward. No squeal betrayed him. Preacher took a second and a third step. Surprising for the slipshod construction in general, the ladder still did not give off a single betraying squeak. In due time, Preacher brought his head above the level of the elevated flooring.
Here and there in the starlit darkness he made out the huddled forms of sleeping children. Beyond their relaxed bodies, he found Terry and Vickie, asleep together as usual, fully clothed, their arms around each other. With that accomplished, he went back down to take care of the adults.
What a ruckus that caused! Perhaps Preacher had not chosen the wisest way of extracting brother and sister from the family bosom. What he picked to do was stand in the middle of the cabin floor, by a large table, and bellow his intentions to the parents.
“All right, folks. I want you to stay tight in that bed. Don't even twitch an eyeball. I've come to take those towheaded youngins outta here to someplace decent.”
In the next instant, the women erupted in a hissing, spitting, nail-clawing cat-fight mode. Bare as the day her mother birthed her, the blond one hurled herself at Preacher with fingers arched into wicked talons. He deflected her with his raised left forearm, but not before she raked his cheek with sharp nails.
“You bastid, keep yer filthy paws off my babies!” she howled.
“They as much mine as yorn, Purity. T'same man fathered them as mine,” the other wailed, closing in on Preacher's right.
Preacher backpedaled and shoved the black-haired vixen away, toward the bed. Silas Tucker had not moved a hair. He sat in the middle of his harem bed with a bemused expression on his ugly face. He laughed at the startled look on Preacher's face.
“You done kicked a hornet's nest, mister,” he declared through his mirth.
Preacher shook his head, determined not to be bested by a pair of fillies. “More'n likely
they
did.”
They rushed him again and Preacher had to duck. A sizzling kick hurtled toward his groin. A hot rod of pain thrust into the outside of one thigh. This could prove more than he bargained for, the mountain man reckoned. Shouts from the loft joined in the pandemonium. Blond curls flying, the mother of Terry and Vickie charged in while Preacher held off the other woman.
Her fists pounded ineffectually off the broad, firm back of Preacher while she cursed and spat at him. He felt the wetness of her saliva on his neck, and it rankled some.
“Enough of that,” he bellowed as he backhanded her in the upper chest.
She went tail over tea kettle across the table. Preacher had time to gather only a short breath before the dark one bounced in the air and came at him with fists flying. He ducked, blocked what he could and took a stinger on the already black eye. It smarted more than he would admit. All of a sudden, the other woman had him around the ankles.
She held on for dear life. It deprived Preacher of any means of avoiding the wrath of the one throwing fists and feet at him. It began to look worse with every passing second. Then Silas Tucker roused himself enough to get into the fray. He came at Preacher low and mean, a long, wicked-bladed knife held in one hand.
7
Preacher swatted the blonde aside and cleared a space for a swift kick. His moccasin toe bit into the meaty portion of Silas Tucker's right forearm. The knife went flying. Preacher quickly hurled the furious black-haired gal full into Tucker's chest.
Tucker went flying with a yowl, which quickly turned into a bellow of pain when his bare rump made contact with the still-hot stove. He came off it mouthing a string of curses, and his hand groped blindly for a weapon. He found the short, hooked, cast-iron stove poker and launched himself at Preacher. Evidently the blonde woman had learned her lesson. She hung back and satisfied her outrage by hurling metal cups, plates and other cookery items at the dodging figure of Preacher.
A white-speckled, blue granite cup clipped him as it zinged past Preacher's ear. He jumped to the opposite side, having his moccasin caught up in the tangle of legs and arms of the dark hoyden. Abruptly, he went down in a heap. Black curls swirled over his face as his wily opponent scrambled on top of him. She immediately began to pummel him with her fists.
“Git back, woman,” Silas Tucker bellowed. He came at Preacher with the poker.
Faith Tucker rolled off Preacher in the wrong direction and at the wrong time. The descending poker caught her on the exposed point of her left shoulder. Her shriek of pain ended with a curse; then she added for emphasis, “Idjit, you done broke it.”
Stunned, Silas looked upon his injured sister and dropped the metal rod as though it had been heated in the fire. Preacher used the brief interlude to spring to his feet. A large stew pot filled the entire range of his vision. He ducked and received only a slight graze across the top of his head. That bought valuable seconds for Silas Tucker.
He bolted to the corner of the cabin, by the fireplace. There his hands closed around the smooth, polished hickory handle of a double-bit axe. He hefted it once, grinned stupidly and advanced on Preacher's back, the deadly tool held high, ready to split the mountain man's skull. He learned how stupid he had been a moment later.
A shoutâhe thought it could have come from Terryâwarned Preacher. He spun, took in the menace, now only four feet from him, and drew in one swift, sure motion. The hammer came back on his .44 Walker Colt and then dropped on the primer of a brass cartridge. Fire flashed in the cabin in time with the comforting buck of the six-gun in Preacher's hand. Smoke billowed, but not before Preacher saw the axe fly from Tucker's hands, and a spray of blood from the back of the man's shoulder showered both of his women.
They went berserk. Howling and screaming, they rushed to their wounded male, like females in a pride of lions. They completely ignored Preacher, who turned and headed for the loft. Pandemonium reigned above. Suddenly awakened, the children shrieked, screamed and wailed in confusion and fear. When he loomed up through the opening in the loft floor, Preacher rightly read a warning of fight in some of the older youngsters. Two of them came at him before he gained purchase on the flooring.
Preacher cuffed one of them aside and climbed off the ladder. He lightly felt a stinging blow to his side and yanked a naked, spluttering boy of ten or so off his feet. Preacher gave a disapproving cluck of tongue against teeth as he tossed the lad into three more who advanced on him.
“Enough!” he roared. The command had its effect.
Some of the smaller children clapped hands over their mouths and went round-eyed. Yet another brat challenged him. Growing amused, Preacher batted at the ineffectual blows in the manner of a man swatting mosquitos. His diversion lasted only a moment, until the sturdy boy of about thirteen snapped a kick at Preacher's groin. It connected before he could block, though without striking any vital targets. Preacher popped the youngster high on the cheek in reply and sat him down on his bare butt. The rest drew back in fear.
Preacher advanced toward the dormer alcove where Terry and Vickie had withdrawn. “C'mon, I'm takin' you outta this hell-hole,” he commanded.
Accustomed to mistrusting all adults, Terry responded with defiance. “What if we don't want to go?”
Preacher cocked his head to one side. His expression clearly declared that he would not take a lot of that. “Do I have to hog-tie you, like before, an' drag you outta here? It can be easy or hard, your choice; either way, we gotta move fast. 'Cause them she-cats down there are like to recover from their weepin' an' wailin' over their head he-coon and come after me with a vengeance.”
“One of them is our momma,” Terry said as he continued his challenge.
A flint edge turned Preacher's eyes; and sarcasm, his words. “You got any idee which one?”
Terry had not expected that tack. “Why-why, the yeller-haired one, of course.”
“If you expect to see her go unharmed, then you'd best move fast. There's knives and forks and things down there that can do a feller real harm. I don't intend to stand around an' let her poke any of them into me.”
His head of steam deserted Terry, and his frail chest deflated under the raggedy shirt. “We'll go.”
“Yes, Preacher, we'll go with you anytime,” Vickie added, her cobalt eyes dancing in starlight.
“Now, that's more like it. 'Sides, you'll be better off where I'll be takin' you, better by far than livin' with this sordid riffraff.”
Terry produced a pout. “She's still our maw.”
Enough had come and gone for Preacher long ago. His face clouded, and his words rang in a hollow command. “Git down them stairs. Grab what belongin's is yours, especially any coats.”
“Coats? You flang the only ones we had in the fire,” Terry protested.
Nonplused, Preacher could only shrug. “Rags. They was mostly rags,” he defended his action. “Now, scoot!”
Oblivious to the deep chill, the youngsters scampered barefoot down the ladder. Preacher followed. The thirteen-year-old, still smarting from the punch Preacher had laid on him, shouted after. “Paw's gonna wrang your necks oncest he catches up to y'all.”
Preacher turned his iron gaze over one shoulder. “You tell him to come on, as I reckon it'll be me does the wringin'.”
On the ground floor of the cabin, the women still whooped and hollered over the wounded Silas Tucker. Silently, Preacher wished them the joy of it, then led the way to his horses.
* * *
“I don't
want
to sit still!” Terry Tucker sassed Preacher from atop the packsaddle at midmorning the next day. “It hurts my behind, ridin' like this.”
“You spook that pack-critter an' I'll show you a hurt behind,” Preacher warned.
Terry tried his repertoire of the cutest. “Why can't I ride with you?” he asked coyly.
“Cougar ain't used to carryin' double,” Preacher grumbled.
“He can
learn
.”
“Not now, he cain't, Terry. Not no-how,” Preacher insisted.
Right then, Cougar's ears twitched. The packhorse whuffled. Preacher reined in sharply and listened. His ears, then his nose caught the message. Injuns! Friendly, without a doubt. Else they would not have let the three whites ride in so close. Preacher nodded, raised his right arm and signed the symbol for peace. Then he waited.
Always perceptive, Terry spoke in a mere whisper. “What's wrong?”
Preacher's lips barely moved. “Cain't you smell it? They's Injuns out there.”
Terry's eyes went wide and round. “They gonna scalp us?”
“I don't think so.”
Fear and insecurity shivered through the boy's skinny frame. “You don't
think
so?”
“Take it easy, boy. No sense in gettin' them riled . . . if they ain't already.”
Preacher signed again. This time a familiar figure walked his spotted pony out onto the trail. Preacher raised in the saddle and signed “friend.”
“Ho! Ghost Walker, we meet again.”
“Ho! Bold Pony, it is a good meeting.”
“The hunting is plenty. We stay to fill our travois.” He looked pointedly at the two towheads on the packhorse. “You found them, I see.”
Preacher thought over the ordeal of last night, and the trials of this morning. The kids had taken to being bratty, as usual, right after breakfast. “Yep. More's the pity.”
“You would tell me about it?” Amusement twinkled in the eyes of the Arapaho war chief as he rode in closer. He examined Preacher's face. “The parents were not so pleased with parting with their dear ones?”
Preacher grunted. “Sometimes your eyes are too keen, Bold Pony.”
He went on to relate the visit to the Tucker house. The more colorful his description grew of the brief fight in the cabin, the more Bold Pony laughed and held his sides. Although unaware of why, the amusement of Bold Pony had an effect on the children. Before long, Terry and Vickie broke into fits of giggles with each revelation Preacher made. It put him in a scowling mood.
Preacher rounded on them to growl. “That's enough of that.” He turned back in appeal to Bold Pony. “You see what I mean? These two have been a pain in the behind from the git-go.” Then he told of their morning's fractiousness.
Bold Pony studied the predicament in which Preacher found himself. At last he answered cautiously, albeit with a hint of laughter in his words. “If my people did not believe that spanking a child is wrong, I'd suggest that you do just that.”
Preacher soberly considered his friend's words. “Well,” he announced at last, a gleam in his eyes, “these warts ain't exactly Arapaho. So, mayhap a willow switch would be just the thing.”
Bold Pony nodded sagely. “I will leave you to your important work. May the sun always rise for you, Preacher.”
“May the wind always be at your back, Bold Pony.”
Without a backward glance, Bold Pony turned his mount and rode off silently. Preacher turned his attention to the youngsters, who had grown deathly pale. He dusted his hands together and kneed Cougar in the direction of a creek bed, where a long, narrow stand of weeping willows beckoned.
Terry read Preacher's intent in a flickering and blurted his appeal, thick with tears. “Oh, no, you ain't gonna do that. Please. You ain't gonna whup us?”
“You broke my only fire trestle, burnt the cornbread, dang near ran off the packhorse, an' shamed me by jibberin' like a pack o' monkeys in front of Bold Pony. Suppose you tell me just why I shouldn't?”
“ 'C-'cause Paw always whups up on us somethin' fierce.”
Determined now, Preacher ignored the boy. At the creek bank, he dismounted and tied off both horses. Then he selected and cut a suitable willow switch. Stripped of its leaves, it made a satisfactory whirr as he flexed it through the air. Face somber, Preacher walked over to the children.
“You first, Missy,” he directed to Vickie.
Reluctantly, she came down from the packsaddle. Her eyes flooded as Preacher knelt and bent her over his knee. He upended the hem of her skirt and exposed a bare bottom. Swiftly, without any show of anger, he delivered four sound whacks. Vickie bit her lip to keep from crying out, but her whimpers tore at Preacher's heart.
Dimly, from memories best left buried, he dredged up images of the few times he'd been thrashed as a boy. Once begun, though, he could not stop in midstream, so's to speak. He set her on her feet and went for Terry.
“Don't touch me,” Terry wailed. “I'll git'cha. I'll git'cha in your sleep,” he threatened to no avail.
Preacher had him in the strong grip of one hand and hauled the slight lad off the packsaddle. The willow switch between the third and little fingers of the other hand, he quickly had the boy's britches down and his wriggling torso over an upraised knee. For only a moment did Preacher hesitate; then six fast, expertly delivered smacks left red spots, but raised not a welt. Returned to his upright position, instead of pulling up his trousers, the silently sobbing boy yanked on his shirt to expose his chest and back.
Angry, fresh red lines, knotted here and there with spots of infection, showed over the welter of earlier scars Preacher had seen in the cave. “See? You're no better than he is, Preacher.” Then Terry broke into a gushing flow of tears. Vickie joined him.
Seeing the terrible punishment meted out by the animal who called himself the boy's father and hearing their pitiful sobs tugged at Preacher's heart. Impulsively, he reached out and hugged them to him. He held them tightly while their blubbering subsided.
“Nahânah, that's all right, yonkers. You ain't hurt that bad this time. An' a feller's got to learn that he does wrong, he's gonna git punishment, swift and sure. It's what distinguishes us from the animals.” Preacher stopped and jerked his head back, a surprised expression on his face. “Listen to me, speakin' words with more syllables than my tongue can tickle over. Next thing you know, I'll be takin' to Bible-thumpin'.”
Out of their anguish came laughter. Preacher continued to press his case. “Understand, I want things to go right for you. I promised I'd find a home for the both of you, with someone who will love and care for the both of you. An' I'm gonna do it.”
Sniffling, Terry and Vickie dried their eyes and padded barefoot back toward the packhorse. Vickie spoke first. “I promise not to give you a hard time anymore, Preacher. Really I won't.”
“Meâme, too, Preacher,” Terry croaked hoarsely. “It's hard. After so many years of bein' bad, it'sâit's a
habit.
”
Preacher answered gruffly, his own throat constricted by a lump of memory. “See that you tend to your p's and q's an' we'll git along just fine.”