Preacher's Peace by William W. Johnstone Page B

Art had begun his trek from Rendezvous, and the campfire was now little more than a scattering of orange-glowing coals. Both Art and Dog were sleeping nearby. Art had made his encampment in a meadow at the river’s edge, about one hundred yards from the edge of a thick forest. A full moon illuminated the scene in shades of silver and black.
    The night had come alive with the sounds of nature: the whispering river, wind sighing through the trees, and night creatures from frogs to cicadas. Two men emerged from the trees, interrupting this peaceful scene.
    â€œThere it is, Cally! I see the boat!”
    â€œWell, why don’t you just shout it out, Angus?” Cally replied.
    â€œI see the boat,” Angus said again, much quieter this time.
    â€œI see it too.”
    â€œWhat you think he’s got on that boat?”
    â€œI seen ’im from the ridge just afore he landed. Don’t know for sure what he’s a-carryin’, but my guess would be beaver pelts.”
    â€œBeaver pelts?” Angus said. “When you ask me to come along with you, I thought maybe we was goin’ to rob a trader, carryin’ whiskey and the like. What do we want with beaver pelts?”
    â€œBeaver pelts is the same as gold back in St. Louis.”
    â€œHow we goin’ to get ’em to St. Louis?”
    â€œSame way he was doin’ it. We’re not only goin’ to take his pelts, we’re goin’ to take his boat. Get your gun out, make sure it’s loaded.”
    â€œIt’s loaded, all right,” Angus said as he pulled his pistol from his belt.
    * * *
    Dog growled quietly, then sat up, fully alert. The sudden movement awakened Art. Opening his eyes, he saw two men moving awkwardly across the open field, clearly illuminated in the moonlight. Dog growled again, standing with his back arched menacingly.
    â€œI see them, Dog,” Art said. Slowly he reached for his rifle and pulled it toward him, cocking it at the same time.
    Dog stood up, but as yet made no move toward the men.
    â€œWait,” Art said under his breath. Without moving, Art lay as if he were asleep, all the while watching the two men approach. When they got within twenty yards, Art suddenly sat up. “Now!” he said.
    Dog leaped forward as if he were on springs. Within ten feet of the two men, he hunkered down on his hind legs, ready to pounce again. He growled, baring his fangs.
    â€œYou two boys better hold it right there,” Art said. He did not have to shout, but spoke as if he were chatting with them in a parlor. “If you move again, Dog will rip open your throats.”
    â€œHe—he can’t get both of us,” Cally said.
    â€œWhat makes you think he can’t? How long do you think it would take for him to rip out your windpipe?”
    Still growling, Dog inched even closer. He had their scents now, something his wolf-brain would never forget. They were as good as dead if he felt they posed a deadly danger to Art.
    â€œNo!” Angus said. “Call off your dog, mister. Call him off!”
    â€œPut your guns down on the ground,” Art ordered calmly. By now he was on his feet, walking forward, pointing his rifle at them.
    â€œSuppose we just put our guns back in our belts and walk away,” Cally said.
    â€œPut them on the ground,” Art repeated. “Only, do it real slow. You don’t want to upset Dog now, do you?”
    â€œNo, no, we don’t want to upset him,” Cally said. “Do what he says, Angus.”
    Holding their guns, they started to bend down.
    â€œTurn the guns around,” Art said. “Hold them by the ends of the barrels.”
    â€œMister, these things is loaded and charged,” Cally said. “We’d be fools to hold them by the ends of the barrels.”
    â€œYou’ll be dead if you don’t,” Art said, moving his rifle menacingly to cover Cally.
    â€œAll right, all right,” Cally said.