Ozark laughed again, an ugly sound devoid of any genuine humor, and added, “Hell, if you help me get my hands on those kids, I might even let you live.”

  Preacher didn’t believe that for a second, not that he would have been tempted by the offer anyway.

  Instead, he said, “Whatever you’re gonna do, you might as well get on with it, because I ain’t tellin’ you anything, old son—except to go to hell.”

  Smiling, Ozark threw the whiskey that was left in the cup into Preacher’s face, blinding him for a second. The boss outlaw dropped the empty cup, stepped in, and slammed a punch to Preacher’s midsection.

  There wasn’t an ounce of fat on the mountain man’s body to start with. Strung up and stretched out like that, he had no protection from the force of the blow. It rocked his guts and made a ball of sickness form in his stomach. His lips drew back from his teeth as he grimaced.

  Ozark set his feet and struck again, hitting Preacher twice more, hooking in left and right fists. The blows jerked Preacher’s body back and forth.

  “I can do this all night, old son,” he said mockingly, “and all day tomorrow, too, if that’s how you want it.”

  Preacher gathered up as much spit as he could. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to splatter on Ozark’s face when the mountain man launched it from his lips.

  Ozark snarled, wiped away the moisture, and hit Preacher again, in the face this time. He threw punch after punch, and after a while, Preacher knew he was still getting hit, but he didn’t really feel it anymore.

  Eventually, Ozark stopped and backed off. Preacher dangled there with his head hanging forward. Blood seeped from his mouth and dripped on the floor in front of his feet. He watched the crimson drops falling in what seemed to be slow motion, down and down and down until they exploded against the boards.

  Ozark was breathing hard from his brutal efforts. The rasp of air in his throat slowed as agonizing moments crept by.

  Finally, he said, “You’re stubborn. I can almost admire that. But not quite. You’re in my way, and I won’t stand for that. Your life is over if I don’t get what I want. And so is hers.”

  The implication of those words made Preacher drag his head up. He saw Ozark motion curtly to somebody else, and a moment later, one of the outlaws came into view with his arm clamped around Annie Collins’s arm. Her face was pale and frightened as he dragged her forward.

  Annie stumbled as Ozark took hold of her other arm and pulled her in front of him. With her back to him so that she faced Preacher, he yanked her against his broad chest and used his other hand to pull a knife from a sheath at his waist.

  He pressed the blade’s keen edge against Annie’s throat and said to Preacher, “She refuses to tell me what I need to know, and I’m tired of fighting with her, just like I’m tired of dealing with you. Tell me how to find those children or I’ll cut her throat. You have until the count of ten …”

  CHAPTER 15

  What Preacher did next surprised Ozark. He could see it in the man’s eyes as he said, “Don’t waste your breath countin’. Go ahead and do it. I never laid eyes on the gal until tonight. She don’t mean nothin’ to me.”

  Annie seemed surprised, too, by Preacher’s apparently callous response. But then a look of gratitude appeared in her eyes as she realized what he was doing. She took it a step further than Preacher, however.

  “Yes, go ahead and kill me,” she urged Ozark. “I don’t have anything to live for anymore.”

  Ozark glared at both of them in frustration. He took the knife away from Annie’s throat and gave her a shove that sent her stumbling away from him. She might have fallen if the other outlaw hadn’t moved quickly. He caught her arm and helped her keep her balance.

  “Take her and lock her up again,” Ozark ordered the man. “Make sure there’s a guard on her at all times and nobody can get to her. Then come back here.”

  “Sure, boss.”

  Jerking roughly on Annie’s arm, the man led her away, out of Preacher’s sight.

  But she called back to him, “Don’t tell him anything, Preacher. I’m begging you!”

  A door slammed somewhere behind him before the mountain man could reply.

  He looked at Ozark and saw that the man’s eyes had widened slightly, as if he were surprised again, and a moment later Preacher realized why.

  “Preacher,” Ozark repeated. “That’s your name?”

  “That’s what folks call me. Ain’t the name I was born with, of course, but I ain’t used that one in so long I sort of disremember what it is.”

  That wasn’t the least bit true. He knew perfectly well that his given name was Arthur. He had been known as Art when he first came west after leaving his family’s farm in Ohio and fell in with the mountain men Clyde Barnes and Pierre Gameau.

  Clyde and Pierre had saved his life and begun his education in all the things he needed to know in order to survive on the untamed frontier. Several years had passed before he picked up the name Preacher, although now it seemed to him as if he had been known by it forever.

  “You’ve heard of me, have you?” he asked Ozark with a faint smile.

  The outlaw’s lips curled into a sneer under the thick, drooping mustache.

  “Yeah, I’ve heard of you,” Ozark replied. “The stories about you claim you’re the deadliest fighting man west of the Mississippi. You’re supposed to be Daniel Boone, Davy Crockett, Jim Bridger, and Mike Fink all rolled into one.”

  Preacher chuckled dryly. “Happens I’ve met all those fellas except ol’ Dan’l, and I wouldn’t make no far-fetched claims like that.”

  “Maybe not, but you still have quite a reputation. When my men brought word to me that three strangers were headed in this direction and had Jonathan Collins’s children with them, it never occurred to me that one of them would turn out to be Preacher.”

  Ozark shook his head and went on, “I should have figured it out, though. I’d heard about how you were known to be friends with a dwarf and a giant Indian, like the ones reported to me. But I just thought you were some old mountain man who failed to realize that the Shining Times are over.”

  “You reckon the Shinin’ Times are over?”

  Another harsh laugh came from Ozark. “They’re dead and gone. The future belongs to men like me. Men who know what they want and take it.”

  “You’ll be doin’ me a favor by killin’ me, then. I don’t want to live to see a future like that.”

  “Oh, you’ll live for a while longer,” Ozark told him. “You haven’t given me what I want yet, so you won’t die until you have.”

  Preacher figured they were in Ozark’s house, the dwelling that had belonged originally to Jonathan and Annie Collins. His vision had cleared a little since Ozark stopped hitting him, and he had been able to take a look around the room.

  It was comfortably furnished with a table and several chairs that had been made in an actual factory somewhere, not hacked out of tree trunks and nailed together. Preacher wasn’t sure how Collins had gotten the furniture all the way out here, but he supposed if you had enough money, most things were possible.

  Woven rugs of Indian design were scattered on the floor. One wall was studded with pegs on which hung rifles, pistols, powder horns, and several swords in scabbards.

  The swords looked old, as if maybe they came from Revolutionary times. Preacher wondered if Jonathan Collins had acquired them, or if that was Ozark’s idea.

  A door opened behind him. Footsteps sounded. Ozark looked past Preacher at whoever had just come in, probably the man he had sent to place Annie back in captivity.

  “Go get three or four more men,” Ozark ordered. “We’re going to lock Preacher in the smokehouse.”

  “Preacher? That’s Preacher?” The man swallowed audibly. “Maybe you better just go ahead and kill him, boss, while he’s in bad shape and you’ve got the chance. I’ve heard stories about Preacher. He’s supposed to be a mighty bad man to have for an enemy.”

  “So am I!” Ozark roared as his face darkened with anger. “Are you trying to tell me how to run this gang?”

  “No, sir, no, sir, not at all,” the man replied hastily and fearfully. “I didn’t mean nothing by it, boss, I swear. I was just surprised to find out that this fella is Preacher, that’s all.”

  Ozark jerked his head in a curt nod and snapped, “Go do what I told you.”

  “You bet, boss.”

  “Wait a minute,” Ozark said as his subordinate started to turn away. “Did you do like I said with Annie?”

  “I sure did. She’s locked up in the storeroom in the warehouse, and Royce and Barker are right outside the door. She can’t go anywhere even if she managed to get out somehow, which she won’t.”

  Ozark waved a hand. “Go on.”

  Footsteps hurried out and the door slammed.

  Preacher grinned, even though stretching his cracked and bloody lips like that was painful.

  “Looks like I got your boys spooked,” he said.

  “Don’t you worry about my men,” Ozark said. “They’ll do as they’re told.”

  “I ain’t worried about ’em. When the time comes, they’ll die just like all the other varmints who thought they had the upper hand on me.”

  Ozark sneered again. “You’re awfully sure of yourself, aren’t you?”

  “Don’t see no reason not to be. I’m still here, and a whole heap o’ fellas who’ve tried to kill me ain’t.”

  Ozark grinned back at him. “I can say the same thing, you know.” He slapped his chest. “I’m still here, damn you.”

  The boss outlaw turned and stalked away, out of Preacher’s view. Preacher heard glass clink against glass and figured Ozark was pouring himself a drink.

  A moment later, Preacher heard the sound again. Despite Ozark’s bold words, he might be trying to fortify himself with a few shots of liquor.

  This time, Ozark didn’t offer Preacher a drink, but at least he didn’t throw one in his face, either.

  After a few minutes, several men trooped in.

  “Cut him down and take him to the smokehouse,” Ozark told them.

  One of the men came up behind Preacher. The mountain man felt his arms move back and forth as the outlaw sawed on the rope holding him up. By this time, his hands were numb from the tightness of the rope around his wrists and the pressure it put on them.

  The rope parted. Preacher collapsed. He had known that was possible and would have preferred to stay on his feet, but his muscles simply refused to cooperate. They had been put under too much of a strain.

  The men left the rope around his wrists. A couple of them grasped his arms and lifted him. Two more stood back and aimed pistols at Preacher, ready to shoot him if he tried anything.

  That wasn’t going to happen, Preacher thought grimly. He was capable of a lot, but not even he could take on four hardened killers given the shape he was in at the moment. He managed to make his legs work awkwardly as his captors half-dragged, half-carried him toward the open door.

  Preacher twisted his head around and looked up, satisfying his curiosity as he saw that the rope holding him up had been looped around a rafter. He’d wondered about that. It wasn’t important, of course, but he’d wanted to know anyway.

  The outlaws took him out into the night. The coolness of the air was refreshing. Preacher saw quite a few other members of the gang standing around watching as his captors led him to a small, sturdy-looking log building with a flat roof. He had seen many smokehouses and recognized this one for what it was.

  It had been built for more than smoking meat, however. The brackets on either side of the open door and the thick beam leaning against the wall indicated that it was designed to do double duty as a prison.

  The men steered Preacher to the doorway. The two holding his arms stopped, and a man behind him planted a foot on Preacher’s rear end and shoved hard just as the other two let go. He flew forward through the opening.

  His hands were tied in front of him, so he was able to get them down and break his fall with them, rather than landing face-first on the ground. As he sprawled there, the door slammed shut behind him. He heard the bar drop into the brackets, effectively sealing him in here.

  The darkness was complete. The smokehouse wasn’t airtight, but it had to be close to that in order to keep the smoke in while meat was being prepared. The tiny cracks here and there weren’t big enough to let in any starlight.

  Preacher lay there on his belly for long minutes, the breath rasping in and out of his throat. Eventually, he summoned all the vestiges of strength he could muster from his body and pushed up onto hands and knees.

  He couldn’t feel his hands, but he knew they were on the ground supporting him as he inched forward.

  When his head bumped the wall, he let himself sag over to his side and struggled to sit up with his back propped against the logs. Again, he had to sit there for a while to recover some of his strength before he attempted to do anything else.

  But eventually, he was able to lift his arms. He lowered his head and found the loops of rope around his wrists with his mouth. He began pulling at them with his teeth, trying to loosen them, and as he worked to free himself, he started figuring out how he was going to escape.

  And what he was going to do to Mack Ozark when he did.

  CHAPTER 16

  In such thick, suffocating darkness, it was impossible to tell how much time was passing. When the sun came up in the morning, it would grow lighter in here, but until then, one moment was pretty much like the last.

  Preacher worked on the rope for a while, but eventually, exhaustion and the punishment he had taken caught up with him. His head tipped back and rested against the log wall as he dozed off.

  He fell into a sound sleep.

  When his eyes opened again, he realized after a moment that a faint gray glow was stealing into the makeshift prison. He bit back a groan. That was the light of dawn seeping in through the cracks. He had slept away the night instead of freeing himself.

  Before long, Mack Ozark would send men to fetch him and start trying again to force him to reveal the twins’ whereabouts. Preacher knew he’d die before he cracked under that pressure, but he’d just as soon not have to endure more torture in the meantime.

  He went back to work on the rope binding his wrists, stubbornly tugging and gnawing on it with his teeth. Finally, the strands began to part.

  Somewhere outside, a volley of shots crashed with no warning. Preacher’s head jerked up at the unexpected sound. Audie and Nighthawk had to be responsible for that gunfire. Somehow, they knew he was a prisoner and were making an attempt to rescue him.

  Preacher wasn’t surprised. Ever since he’d been captured, the possibility that his friends might come to help him had been in the back of his mind. He had known that Little Bear was watching when he slipped up to the old trapper’s cabin to look for Annie Collins. Seeing him and Annie taken prisoner by Ozark, Little Bear’s first instinct would have been to go looking for Audie and Nighthawk so he could let them know what had happened.

  Preacher might have hoped that they would abandon him to his fate and concentrate on keeping the infants safe instead, but at the same time, he knew Audie and Nighthawk would never turn their backs on a friend. They would try to find some way to rescue him and still protect Edward and Elizabeth.

  He hoped his friends had found someplace safe to leave the babies. More than likely, they had left the young’uns in Little Bear’s care. The young Flathead wouldn’t be much help in a battle like this, but he could watch those babies and protect them to the best of his ability.

  Preacher went back to work on his bonds with a new ferocity as he heard shouts from elsewhere in the compound. He could tell by the dimness of the light that dawn hadn’t been approaching for long. It was still gray and shadowy outside.

  Like the keen strategists they were, Audie and Nighthawk had picked the best time to launch their attack. Ozark’s men would be groggy with sleep.

  The rope had frayed quite a bit, and Preacher was about to try breaking it when he heard the bar rattle in the brackets on the other side of the door. Someone removed it, and a moment later, a towering, broad-shouldered figure jerked the door open and stood there filling up the doorway.

  “Nighthawk!” Preacher exclaimed.

  The giant Crow warrior ducked his head low to come through the door. One long stride brought him to Preacher’s side. He bent over the mountain man, hooked his fingers in the frayed rope, and snapped it as if it were nothing more than a slender thread.

  Preacher shot to his feet. The sleep he had gotten, short though it had been, had restored some of his strength. His iron constitution didn’t require as much time to recover as some.

  “The babies safe?” he asked Nighthawk as he flexed his fingers.

  “Umm!”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  Blood began flowing back into Preacher’s nerve-deadened fingers, bringing with it stabbing jolts of pain. He ignored the discomfort. He was just glad to have some feeling in his hands again.

  Nighthawk pulled a tomahawk from behind the rawhide sash tied around his waist and pressed it into Preacher’s hand. The mountain man nodded. It felt good to be armed again, although he would have liked to have his Colts.

  “Let’s get outta here,” he said. “We need to get Annie Collins. She’s supposed to be locked up in the warehouse, wherever that is.”

  Nighthawk nodded. He ducked to step back through the doorway and leveled an arm as soon as he was outside.

  One of Ozark’s men sprawled on the ground beside the door. His head was twisted at an odd angle on his shoulders.

  Preacher knew that Nighthawk had gotten hold of the varmint standing guard outside the smokehouse and broken his neck with one good wrench of his hands. As Preacher followed, he saw that the big Crow was pointing toward a large, log structure on the other side of the blacksmith shop. That was probably where the gang stored the goods they looted from wagon trains and trading posts and used to trade with the Indians.