Bones knew the gentry was up to something. What, he didn’t know. And he didn’t care. He personally hoped they would break off and go it alone.

  And that’s exactly what they did.

  The group had been traveling through a rough and dense part of the country, with each man having to concentrate on his own business. No one seemed to notice as the nobility began lagging behind . . . along with several other men. When Bones halted the group for food and rest at about noon, the gentry were gone, along with Dutch, Percy, Falcon, Hunter, and Bates.

  “Hell with them,” Van Eaton said. “I’m glad to be shut of the whole bunch.”

  “Yeah,” Haywood said. “We got our money so who cares. Maybe Preacher will spent his time chasin’ after them and leave us alone.”

  “But they took two of the mules and a lot of supplies,” Lige pointed out.

  Bones shrugged his shoulders. “I’m just glad they’re gone. Good riddance.”

  Preacher studied the ground carefully. The bunch had separated here. Bones and his people were still headin’ for the plains, and twelve or thirteen others had continued on to the north. “Interestin’,” Preacher muttered.

  He had miscalculated where Bones would cut due east, and lost time in backtracking. But Bones had made a bad choice and had to travel through mighty rough country. Preacher figured he was only hours behind Bones. So he’d com6 up behind them. That was fine. He knew a short cut around this brushy tangle that Bones knew nothing about. And that might put him ahead of Bones. But it would be close. Real close.

  “You seem to be the most capable among us, Mister, ah, Dutch,” Sir Elmore Jerrold-Taylor said to the burly man. “So we have voted and you shall lead.”

  “Fine. First thing we got to do is get hid from Preacher. And I mean, hid good. When we get done restin’ here, we’ll take to that crick over yonder and stay in it long as we can. We’ll leave it several times, but always come back to it. That’ll cause Preacher to waste a lot of time huntin’ for our tracks. We’ll find us a place to hole up. Bet on it.”

  “Excellent thinking!” the duke exclaimed. “You get us through, and you shall receive a bonus.”

  Dutch nodded his head. “I want me a shot at Preacher. I owe that no-good. I really do.”

  “Perhaps you might think up a fine plan for an ambush, Dutch?” Baron Wilhelm Zaunbelcher suggested.

  “I been thinkin’ on one. I surely have.”

  Preacher beat Bones and his bunch by only a few minutes. But it was time enough for him to load up all his rifles and get into position. He would be shooting downhill, but the grade was a gentle one. And they had to come through, or try to come through, this pass, or else go miles out of their way. But Preacher wasn’t going to allow them through . . . if he could help it.

  Preacher let the first few riders enter the pass and then he emptied a saddle. Will Herdman was slammed out of his saddle, dead before he bounced on the rocky trail. Preacher grabbed up another rifle, but he was too late. Bones and crew were learning fast. Those who had entered the pass had left their horses and taken cover behind the huge boulders that littered the gap. Preacher reloaded and settled down for a long wait.

  “Preacher!” Bones shouted from the mouth of the pass. “Listen to me, Preacher. The gentry is gone. They left us. We ain’t got no more quarrel with you. This was a job of work, Preacher. That’s all. You takin’ this personal.”

  “You mighty right, I am,” Preacher muttered. “You kilt Eddie, Wind Chaser, and his whole family and band. Then you kilt a dozen friends of mine. It’s personal, all right.”

  “Preacher!” Bones shouted. “We're just a bunch of ol’ boys tryin’ to make a livin’, that’s all. And we didn’t have nothing to do with killin’ that boy or them trappers. That was all the work of the gentry.”

  “Sure,” Preacher whispered. “Wonder how come it was that the supplies I took the other day still had a few traps amongst the other gear?”

  “Look here, Preacher,” Van Eaton shouted. “We made a mistake in comin’ after you. But we’re big enough men to admit it. Let’s just call it quits and call it even. No hard feelin’s, all right?”

  Preacher had a idea. “I’ll think on that for a minute,” he shouted. He found a stick and put his battered old hat on one end. “All right, Bones. I’m comin’ down and you and me, we can talk some. How ‘bout it?”

  “Get set to blow his head off,” Bones told Van Eaton. “That’s a good deal, Preacher,” he shouted. “Ain’t no reason at all why you and me can’t be pards, now, is there?”

  “Right,” shouted back.

  Preacher crawled on his belly for a few yards, and then slowly lifted the hat until the brim was even with the top of a large rock. A rifle cracked and the hat flew off. Preacher screamed as if in terrible pain and then fell silent. He quickly crawled back to his loaded rifles and waited. “You sorry . . .” He bit back the oath.

  Preacher kicked at a rotting log and the log broke free arid rolled a few yards, thudding against a rock. It sounded, he hoped, like a body falling.

  “I believe we got him!” Lige shouted.

  “I think we did,” Van Eaton said, his words carrying up to Preacher.

  “Good shootin’, Van Eaton!” Evans said. “You finished the man for good this time.”

  “There’s one I owe you, Van Eaton,” Preacher muttered, sliding around into a better shooting position. “And you can bet I’ll pay that debt.”

  Stan Law jumped up from his cover, a large knife in one hand. “I get to cut off his head!” he shouted. “Somebody bring the picklin’ jar.”

  “No! I get to cut off his head!” Cantry shouted.

  “We’ll race to see who gets the head!” a thug called Billy yelled.

  Preacher let them come, all of them, including Bones and Van Eaton, running up the grade, knives in hand, laughing and yelling and shouting and joking and racing to see who would get to cut off Preacher’s head.

  “Sorry, boys,” Preacher said, then stood up. Holding two rifles like pistols, he fired, dropped those rifles, picked up two more, and emptied those. Then he grabbed for his pistols and really began uncorking the lead.

  Billy went down, shot through the head. Cantry took a ball in the center of his chest and stopped abruptly, falling back against Bones and knocking him down, unknowingly saving the bounty-hunter’s life. Stan Law took a ball through his stomach. The heavy ball, fired at such close range, tore out his back. Bob Jones stopped his running and for a moment, and stared in horror at the growing carnage before him. He only had a moment to look before Preacher grabbed up his pistols. Bob took a double-shotted charge in the face and would have been unrecognizable even to his mother. Jose screamed in panic and turned around just as Preacher fired. The ball passed through his neck, just below the base of his skull. Paul Guy’s bladder relaxed in fear and the last thing he would ever remember was that he had peed his pants.

  Then the gang was running and rolling and falling and sliding down the grade, some of them losing rifles and knives and pistols in their haste to get away. When they reached the bottom, they didn’t look back, just headed for their horses and galloped away.

  Preacher glanced at the dead and dying sprawled grotesquely below him and without changing expression, began reloading.

  “You a devil!” Stan gasped at him.

  “I reckon I might have shook hands with him a time or two,” Preacher acknowledged. “The difference between us is, I know when to turn loose.”

  Thirteen

  The man-hunters ran their horses over rough country, straight west, for several miles before the exhausted animals could go no farther. Reason finally overcame fear and Bones halted the wild retreat before he and his men killed their horses.

  Slumped on the ground, trembling from fear, exhaustion, and shame, Bones looked at what was left of his party of bounty-hunters. He’d come west with just over forty men. He was down to fifteen, counting himself. He looked over at Lige, sitting with what was left of his bunch. Counting himself, Lige had been reduced to six men.

  Bones Gibson shook himself like a big dog and stood up, amazed that his legs would support him. He was ashamed of himself for running away like a scared cat from a pack of dogs. He looked at the discouraged and thoroughly filthy bunch of men. “All right, people, listen up. Look at me, damnit, you dirty pack of cowards!” That got their attention. They stared at him, some of them through fear-glazed eyes.

  Bones said, “We’re through runnin’. I mean it. This is the end of runnin’ from that mountain man. We’re gonna get out of this fix, in an orderly retreat. We’re gonna operate like an army from now on. With captains and lieutenants and sergeants and the like. And I’m the captain of this company. Anybody don’t like it, leave and do it right now.”

  No one moved. But new interest now took the place of hopelessness in many eyes.

  “I’m fixin’ to give you my first order. Here ‘tis: We take shifts guardin’ while the others take a bath in that creek over there. And I mean bathe. With soap. Then we shave close and give each other haircuts. And we wash our clothes and air out our blankets. When that’s done, and we all look like human bein’s again, instead of like a bunch of people who just crawled out of a cave, then we make our plans. Now move. Move!”

  It was almost dark when Preacher hunkered down and watched the last one die. He rolled them all into a pile and tossed brush and limbs over them. He smashed their weapons and threw them aside. Then he went back to Thunder, saddled up, and rode out. He knew of a little spot that was ideal for a camp. He’d pick up the trail of the man-hunters come the morning. Right now, he wanted some hot food and a good night’s sleep.

  Miles to the north, Dutch had halted the men and made a very tight and secure camp. Dutch was under no illusions. He’d come to realize they were up against a first-class fighting man who possessed all the skills needed to not only survive in this God-forsaken country, but to prosper in it. Dutch was going to call on all of his eastern woodsman skills to avoid Preacher. He did not want a fight with the man until the odds were all on his side. And he felt sure that would come, sooner or later. But for now, they had to stay alive.

  The royalty had stopped their foolish antics, all of them finally realizing this was not a game, not a sporting event.

  This was a life or death struggle against a very skilled and very determined fighter. And to a man, they had silently admitted they were out-classed by Preacher. And they had suddenly turned into the hunted.

  It was not a feeling that any of them savored. Just the thought of it left their mouths experiencing the copper-like taste of fear.

  Sound carries in the high country, and they had all heard the very faint sounds of gunfire to the south of them. They all wondered how many more men Preacher had killed. “Canada,” Sir Elmore said aloud.

  “Beg pardon?” Dutch lifted his head and looked at the man.

  “Canada,” Elmore repeated. “We’ll try for Canada. We’ll be safe there.”

  “That’s hundreds of miles away,” Falcon said. “Up through the unknown. Winter’s gonna be on us in a few weeks. We got to get out of these mountains.”

  “I concur,” Zaunbelcher said. “I do not think any of us would live through a winter trapped in here.”

  Rudi Kuhlmann looked at the six men who had chosen to accompany the royalty. “Get us out of this alive, gentlemen, and none of you will ever have to worry about money again. And that is a promise.”

  “You got a deal,” Dutch told him.

  “We’ll cut north in the morning,” Bones told his group. “Head straight for Canada.”

  “Canada!” Lige blurted.

  The men at least looked more or less human now that they had bathed and shaved and trimmed their hair. But their thoughts were still dark and savage when it came to Preacher. They had panicked back at the pass, and were ashamed of it. And each had silently promised nothing like that would ever happen again.

  “That ain’t a bad idea,” Evans said. “I got some friends up there and they’re doin’ all right. They been up there for ‘bout three years now. Huntin’, fishin’, trappin’. They’re gettin’ by, so’s I hear.”

  “All right,” Van Eaton said. “Canada it is. We’ll pull out at first light.”

  “Now this is mighty interestin’,” Preacher muttered, squatting down and studying the tracks. He had been following the tracks of Bones’s bunch for two days. They had passed right by an easy way out of the Rockies and kept right on heading north. “Canada,” Preacher whispered. “Canada? Now why did I think of that?” He didn’t know, but the thought would not leave him. “Well, I ain’t runnin’ them ol’ boys clear to Canada.” He swung back into the saddle, curious now, and once more began his following the trail. He took his time, trying to figure out what in the world Bones had in mind this time.

  Unbeknownst to either of the two groups, they were only about ten miles apart, and since Bones and his bunch were traveling faster, almost parallel to one another.

  Preacher shared his supper with an old Indian and his wife who had stumbled onto his camp, and after eating, the men smoked and talked. The old man and his wife were of the Northern Ute, and both were not well. They were going back south to where they had first met, long ago, to build a lodge and die together.

  The old Ute told him that there were two parties of white men, about eight or ten miles apart, both of them traveling north. He said he sensed evil in these men, and he and his woman had hidden both times. He said the men were not happy people; sullen and grim-faced. And they used bad language . . . at least it sounded bad to him.

  The old man had heard of Ghost Walker, and was honored to be in the presence of such a fine and brave warrior.

  When preacher awakened the next morning, he knew the old man and woman would be gone, and they were. Lying next to Preacher’s blankets was a gift from the old Indian, one of the finest-made tomahawks Preacher had ever laid eyes on. Preacher hefted it and knew it was made to throw, and that was something he was a pretty fair hand at. He stowed it behind his sash.

  As he rode, he smiled at the old Indian’s news. So the gentry and the trash with them were only a few miles to the west of Bones’s pack of hyenas. That was interesting.

  “I believe we’ve shook him off,” Fred Lasalle said, on the evening of the third day after the ambush in the pass.

  “Maybe,” Bones replied.

  “I think we’ve lost Preacher,” Percy said, at approximately the same time and sitting about six miles away from Bones’s bunch.

  “Maybe,” Dutch said.

  At that moment, Preacher was about four miles behind of both groups. He had cooked and eaten his supper, boiled his coffee, and then let his small fire bum down to only coals, just enough to keep his coffee hot. He sat with a blanket over his shoulders, drinking coffee and mentally fighting with himself.

  He figured he’d more than avenged Eddie, Wind Chaser, and the trappers the man-hunters had killed and robbed. He ought to just give up this hunt and go on about his business.

  Preacher had been fighting this mental battle for several days, and was no closer to a decision now than when he began. Even if there were some sort of law out here, he couldn’t prove that Bones and his party had done anything. It would be his word against theirs. And if it came to that, Preacher might well be the one who ended up on the wrong end of the rope. Patience and Prudence and the others hadn’t actually seen any of the man-hunters break any laws — and since everything had happened in so-called ‘disputed territories,” he wasn’t sure what country’s laws applied where. Or even if there were any laws out here, was more like it. Preacher, like so many mountain men, was pretty much in contempt of the so-called laws of so-called ‘civilized people.” Preacher felt that most of them were downright stupid.

  Just before Preacher snuggled deeper into his blankets, for the nights were turning colder, he made up his mind to make no further contact with the man-hunters, other than continuing to push and follow them north. Well . . . he might accidentally hassle them a little bit. If the man-hunters started trouble, then he’d fight. But they would have to start it. He’d let Canada handle the man-hunters.

  The weather grew colder, the days shorter, and the nights longer the farther north the men rode. Even though the two groups were only a few miles apart, neither group was aware of the other. But both knew that Preacher was still behind them, staying well back, but coming on.

  Preacher had begun trailing one group for a day or so, and then swinging over and trailing the other. Both groups were aware of him. And the hunt became a game with the Indians. Word was passed from tribe to tribe and the Indians were amused by it all. If so many men were running away from just one man — even if that man was Ghost Walker — the fleeing men must surely be cowards and therefore not worth bothering with. They would not be brave under torture.

  “What the hell is he doing?” Van Eaton threw out the question to anybody who might have an answer, although he knew no one in the group did.

  “Following us,” Bones said. “Driving us north. He’s got something up his sleeve, for sure. And I think I know what it is.”

  “What?” Titus asked.

  “I ain’t got it all worked out yet in my mind. But I figure I’m close.”

  “Well, I’m gettin’ right jumpy about him bein’ back there,” Tatman said. “It’s gettin’ hard to sleep at night, worryin’ ‘bout him slippin’ into camp and cuttin’ a throat or two. I say we ambush him.”

  “Maybe,” Bones said. “Yeah, I been givin’ that some thought, too.”

  Van Eaton said, “You don’t reckon he’s somehow got in touch with the Canadians and they’re waitin’ for us at the border?”

  Bones smiled. “You always could read my mind, Van Eaton. Yeah. That’s what I think he’s done.”

  “How?” George Winters asked.