Preacher's Justice by William W. Johnstone Page A

killin’,” the second said.
    â€œHe’s the guilty one, all right,” the captain said. “Otherwise, he wouldn’t of jumped over like that.
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    On the Missouri River, on board the Missouri Belle
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    Preacher booked passage from Kansas City to St. Louis on the steamboat Missouri Belle. He had enough money to afford first-class passage, and could have easily occupied the most luxurious stateroom. The fact that he chose not to was due less to parsimony than to the fact that he was genuinely more comfortable on the open deck than in one of the fancy staterooms.
    While in Kansas City, Preacher got himself some new clothes, though his new duds, like those that he’d gotten rid of, were made of buckskin. He rented a bathtub and got himself cleaned up, even going to the barber for a haircut and a shave. As a result, he cut quite a handsome figure when he stepped aboard the Missouri Belle. Two of the passengers, Misses Emma Purdy and Cynthia Cain, took note of him, smiling at him from behind the fans they were carryng.
    The two very pretty young ladies were from well-to-do families in Kansas City. Their families, believing that Kansas City was too provincial a town for them, were sending them to St. Louis for finishing school.
    Although the young women had noticed Preacher the moment he came on board, they made no effort to approach him, believing that he, as most other men they had encountered, would make the first move. When, by the evening of the second day, it became obvious to them that he wasn’t going to come to them, they approached him.
    Preacher was standing by the rail, looking at the shoreline. Preacher had been through this country many times before, and was sorry to see that even here, civilization was beginning to creep in. Now he saw farmhouses and cultivated land where, on previous voyages up and down the river, there had been nothing but wilderness. He wondered how long it would be before civilization, and all its ills, encroached upon the West that he knew.
    Though the scene was bucolic, it wasn’t silent. The boat was a cacophony of sound as it moved down river. The steam-relief valve was booming, the engine clattering, and the side-mounted paddle wheels were slapping against the water. Because of all the noise, he didn’t hear the two women approach. The first time he noticed them was when they suddenly appeared, one on each side of him.
    Recovering quickly, Preacher smiled at them. “Good evening, ladies,” he said.
    â€œGood evening,” they replied.
    â€œNice view from here,” Preacher said, struggling hard to make some small talk. Truth to be told, he was uncomfortable in situations like this.
    â€œYes, quite lovely,” one of the two girls replied.
    â€œThe captain said you are called Preacher,” the other one said.
    â€œBut he also said that you aren’t really a preacher,” the first added.
    â€œThat’s true,” Preacher said. He turned away from the shoreline, and leaned back against the rail as he spoke to the two pretty women.
    â€œI’m Emma Purdy,” one of the women said.
    â€œAnd I’m Cynthia Cain.”
    Preacher nodded his head. “I’m pleased to meet you, ladies.”
    â€œIf you aren’t a preacher, why do they call you preacher?” Emma asked.
    â€œIt’s just something that happened to me once,” Preacher said.
    â€œOh, please, do tell.”
    â€œIt’s a long story.”
    â€œWell, it’s a long time before we get to St. Louis,” Cynthia reminded him.
    Preacher laughed. “I guess it is at that,” he said. “All right, here goes.”
    Preacher began telling of the time he had been a prisoner of the Blackfeet, with no chance of help or escape. From somewhere an idea formed in his head and he began to sermonize, speaking in the same singsong voice he had once heard used by an itinerant preacher on the waterfront in St. Louis.