Read Online Preacher and the Mountain Caesar by William W. Johnstone - Free Book Online Page B

suggestion. “So, if ye’ll tell me what dastardly act you caught this pair performing, maybe it is we can drag the whole family in and dispatch them.”
    Silence lengthened while Preacher thought over all he had heard. Try as he might, he could not visualize these two as so profoundly evil as Ruben painted them. He had brought the children here to find them a good home, with stepparents who would raise them properlike. He could not turn his back on that promise in good conscience.
    â€œI dunno, Ruben. I’m thinkin’ they can be shown the error of their ways and, given a good home, turn out all right.”
    â€œDon’cha tell me ye’ve turned soft-hearted, Preacher, don’t ye?”
    â€œRuben, if you weren’t such a little-bitty feller, an’ all frail-like, I’d break you in half for sayin’ that. I’m the same man I’ve always been. It’s only that I’ve got to know them over the past two, nearly three days. They can be sweet-tempered enough and obey right smartly, if a firm hand is applied.”
    â€œTo their bottoms, I presume, I do.” Ruben poured another drink. For all of Preacher’s disparagement, Ruben stood six-two in his stocking feet and had the body of a double beer barrel.
    â€œI have yet to do that. Though when they come at me to rob me, I shook ’em until their teeth rattled. That seemed to get their attention.”
    â€œI wonder why?” Tall Johnson spoke for the first time. “You were serious, then, when you asked me about bein’ a poppa?”
    â€œNot really. I know how you and Shorty live. Not a place for kids. No offense intended.”
    â€œNone taken. There’s a feller over a couple of valleys, runs horses. I hear he’s been wantin’ to take in a couple of yonkers to help work on the place. If that’s any help.”
    â€œHe have a woman to wife?”
    â€œSure does. And three kids of his own.”
    â€œSounds fine. I might look into it, failing I find any closer.”
    * * *
    A sudden shout and curse in French from the cook at the hostelry brought the old drinking friends out of their cups and onto their boots. Preacher, wise in the ways of his captives, reached the back door first. He got there in time to see the cook on his rump, legs splayed and upraised, a pot of as-yet unheated potato soup soaking him from floppy stocking cap to the toes of his moccasins. Beyond him was the open door to the store shed—and the rapidly disappearing backs of Terry and Vickie.
    â€œYou had the right of it, Ruben. They’s nothin’ but trouble,” he shouted as he set off afoot in swift pursuit.
    Being no stranger to running—Preacher had engaged in many a foot race against Arapaho and Shoshoni braves—the rugged mountain man soon managed to close ground on his quarry. Terry lost more precious space with frequent, worried glances over his shoulder. With longer, stronger legs and more endurance, Preacher far out-classed the youngsters. Then providence gave the children a much-needed break in the form of several habitués of the trading post.
    â€œHoo-haa! Lookie there. Ain’t that ol’ Preacher playin’ the nursemaid?”
    â€œShore be. Don’t he look cute a-high-steppin’ it like that?”
    â€œShut them yaps, Ty Beecham, an’ you, Hoss Furgison. Them kids is my responsibility.”
    â€œStrike me dead. Preacher’s done become plumb domesticated.” Tyrone Beecham rubbed salt in Preacher’s wounded pride. “Nextest thing we know, he’ll take to wearin’ an apron and skirts.”
    That did it. Preacher slammed to a stop and whirled to confront his detractors. No man, unless he was a tad light in the upstairs, ever suggested that a denizen of the High Lonesome might have sissy inclinations. To question a fellow’s manhood most often called for a shooting. Preacher did not want to kill these old friends,