Preacher's Journey by William W. Johnstone

men, but now he decided that they had planned to fleece the pilgrims at cards all along. But they had gone up against stiffer competition than they had expected. All of Jonathan’s talk about not being any good at poker had been a ruse, designed to draw in Hawley and Watson. They had played along without even realizing it, even to the point of suggesting that they play for money instead of pebbles, which was no doubt what Jonathan had wanted all along.
    But despite that con, Jonathan had been winning fair and square. Preacher hadn’t seen Jonathan or any of the other Galloways cheating.
    Well, it was over now, and nobody had gotten killed. There was that to be thankful for anyway, Preacher thought as he reloaded the Hawken.
    Hawley walked over to him. “What are you gonna do about this?” he asked, knowing that Preacher was in charge here.
    â€œCome mornin’, you and Watson will go your way and we’ll go ours.”
    â€œYou’re not goin’ to kick us out of camp tonight?”
    â€œNope, not in weather like this. Not that I care overmuch whether the two of you freeze. I just don’t want to have to mess with your stiff carcasses come mornin’.”
    â€œThis ain’t fair,” Hawley blustered. “You said we could travel together.”
    â€œThat was before your pard tried to kill somebody.”
    â€œWe’ll stand a lot better chance of gettin’ to Garvey’s Fort if we stay together.”
    â€œYou will, you mean,” Preacher said.
    â€œMight come a time when you’ll need our guns.”
    â€œWell, we’ll just have to get along without ’em, I reckon. Get back over there by the cliff, and the two of you stay there. Somebody will be keepin’ an eye on you all night, so don’t try anything.”
    â€œAin’t fair,” Hawley muttered again as he turned away. “Just ain’t fair.” He went back over to Watson and told him what Preacher had said. Watson was still in pain. He cradled his injured hand against his body.
    The Galloways all began to move toward their wagons. Now that the trouble was over, they were ready to turn in. Except for Roger, who started toward Preacher and said his name.
    Preacher half-turned to see what Roger wanted, so it was only out of the corner of his eye that he saw Watson pull a pistol from under his coat with his good hand. In an instinctive reaction to the threat, Preacher pivoted back toward the cliff and fired from the hip. Watson had lifted the pistol and pointed it at Preacher, but he fumbled for an instant before pressing the trigger, probably because he had the gun in his left hand. That second of delay was enough to prove fatal for him. The ball from Preacher’s Hawken smashed into his chest and lifted him backward off his feet as it plowed all the way through his body and burst out his back in a shower of blood and pulped flesh. He hit the face of the cliff and bounced off, pitching forward and leaving a smear of crimson on the rock.
    Like lightning, Preacher lowered the rifle and pulled one of the pistols from behind his belt. He covered Hawley, who was reaching for a gun, and said, “Don’t do it.”
    Hawley froze, then slowly lifted his hand away from his pistol. “Don’t shoot,” he croaked, knowing just how close he had come to dying. “Don’t shoot, Preacher. I ain’t gonna cause any trouble. What Ed did, that was on his own head. I didn’t have nothin’ to do with it.”
    â€œYou were reachin’ for a gun,” Preacher snapped.
    â€œWell, hell, a man sees his partner shot down, he just naturally tries to do somethin’ about it.”
    That was true enough, Preacher supposed. Instinct had sent Hawley’s hand toward his gun, and instinct had come near getting his head blowed off. But nobody else had to die, not tonight.
    Preacher said, “Come over here, take all your guns and knives out, and put