Forty Guns West by William W. Johnstone Read Free Book Online Page B

walked off to help move the tons of rock.
    â€œBrutish lout!” Sir Elmore said.
    * * *
    â€œThis here’s Big Sandy Crick, boy,” Preacher said, reining up and stepping down. “We’ll make camp here.”
    They had been riding steady from before dawn to nearly dark for several days. Preacher figured they were at least a week ahead of the man-hunters and could finally afford to relax and rest the horses.
    â€œHow far to the big mountains, Preacher?” Eddie asked, as he gathered up dry wood for a smokeless fire without having to be told. Preacher was as proud of the boy as if he were of his own blood.
    â€œFive days easy ridin’.”
    â€œPreacher?” Eddie’s tone was soft.
    â€œYeah, boy?”
    â€œI know you been thinking I’m all better and such, but I know the truth. I ain’t gonna make it, Preacher. There are too many scars on my lungs. And the sickness affected my heart, too. It’s weak. Right now, with me all tanned and such, it’s like the quiet before the storm. But I can’t get no better.”
    â€œBoy . . .”
    â€œNo, Preacher.” Eddie shook his head and smiled. “I know. Believe me, I do. But I’m not afraid of dying. Really, I’m not. I’ve been baptized. And I believe in heaven. So let’s you and me just have a real good time for as long as it lasts, all right?”
    Preacher looked long into the boy’s eyes and saw the truth there. He sighed and said, “All right, Eddie. We’ll have a high ol’ time until who flung the chunk. I got cold mountain lakes for you to see and catch big trout out of. I got waterfalls and wild rushin’ streams for you to witness. And meadows bustin’ with flowers of all colors. We’ll have us a summer of fun, you and me. But mayhaps you be wrong about yourself, boy.”
    But Eddie only smiled sadly.
    * * *
    Bones and company buried their dead and tended to their wounded and the reporters noted it all in their journals. They carefully coded their words in case Bones or some of his men who could read might get their hands on the journals, for they were not being kind to Bones or any of the other men with him. The reporters now realized, after listening to some of the men talk, that Preacher was no desperado, and the shooting back in Ohio had been a fair one. The thousands of dollars now on Preacher’s head was not an officially sanctioned reward, but money put up by friends and family of Elam Parks. And the reporters now were having doubts that any of them would live to tell of this terrible travesty of justice. For, to a man, they believed Bones and his men intended to kill them, and the so-called noblemen who were on this blood sport.
    The reporters began to make friends with one of the men who had come along for the adventure of it, a man from St. Louis who was having a lot of second thoughts about this trip. His name was Jim Slattery.
    On the evening before they were to resume the hunt, Jim came to the reporters’ fire and squatted down, pouring himself a cup of coffee. In a soft voice, he said, “I figure in about a week, we gonna be about sixty-seven miles north and some east of Bent’s Fort. I’m fixin’ to leave this den of thieves and murderers and head there. Y’all want to come with me?”
    â€œI’ve heard of that place,” the Boston reporter said. “We could perhaps hire an escort back east from there.”
    â€œI’m sure you could,” Jim agreed. “They’s supply wagons rollin’ in and out all the time, so I was told. Boys, I got me a real bad feelin’ about the company we’re in. I think them foreigners are in for a rude surprise. If Bones and his bunch has their way, I don’t believe none of them hoity-toity barons and dukes and counts and the like is gonna come out of this alive. But they’re a nasty lot themselves, so I don’t hold out a lot of sympathy