It was late enough by the time Preacher got back to the settlement that he didn’t go to Jessie’s Place. He headed straight for Beaumont’s house instead.

When he got there and rode around back to the carriage house, he found Lorenzo waiting out there with a worried frown on his face.

“Something wrong?” Preacher asked as he swung down from the saddle.

“You damn right they’s somethin’ wrong, boy,” the old man replied. “The boss is so mad he’s fixin’ to chew nails. Somethin’ happened today whilst you was gone. I don’t know what it was, but it was bad enough to make him half-crazy. I got my black ass outta there ’fore he decided to shoot it off.”

“Nobody tried to kill the boss, did they? It’s my job to stop things like that from happenin’, but he’s the one who told me to go do whatever I wanted to this afternoon.”

“Naw, ever’thin’ was fine until a little while ago. I brung Miss Jessie over here, and I reckon her and the boss had theirselves a fine ol’ time. But when I got back from takin’ her back to her house, there was a fella here I didn’t know. I heard Mr. Beaumont yellin’ at him, and then the fella, he went scurryin’ outta here like the Devil his ownself was after him.” Lorenzo grunted. “I reckon that’s about the size of it, too. When I tried to ask the boss what was wrong, he ’bout bit my head off.”

Lorenzo frowned as he looked at Preacher, who had started to unsaddle Horse.

“Say, boy, you look like you been dunked in the river.”

“I have been,” Preacher said. “And I’ve got somethin’ to tell the boss that ain’t gonna make him happy. I got a feelin’ he’s already heard about it, though, from the way you said he’s been actin’.”

One of those drivers who’d been chased off from the wagons must have come back here and told Beaumont what had happened, Preacher thought. The man might not have known all the details, but he would have been well aware that the theft of the cotton from the riverboat hadn’t gone as planned. That by itself would have been enough to cause an explosion of Beaumont’s hair-trigger temper.

Preacher took his time about tending to Horse, as if he were reluctant to go into the house. As a matter of fact, he was, but not because he was afraid of Beaumont, even though that’s probably what Lorenzo thought was going on. He was reluctant because he thought that if he came face to face with Beaumont, he might pull out his knife and bury it in the man’s chest just to end this terrible business right here and now.

All the way back to St. Louis, Preacher had struggled to come to grips with the fact that some of the blood spilled from the captain and the crew of the Harry Fulton was on his hands. If he hadn’t come to St. Louis and started this business of posing as Jim Donnelly, he wouldn’t have thrown in with Jessie and Cleve. He wouldn’t have gotten stuck in the middle of a war between the two of them and Beaumont.

Preacher knew the attack set up by Jessie and Cleve would have taken place today whether he was involved or not. But he had thought long and hard about it, and the only reason he could see for the murders of the captain and crew was to keep his secret safe. The drivers with the wagons who worked for Beaumont had been let go with their lives because they had never seen him and didn’t know he’d betrayed Dugan and the other river pirates. But the captain and crew had seen him. Somebody, either Jessie or Cleve, had ordered that they be killed and the riverboat burned just to make sure there were no survivors who could talk.

All to keep Preacher safe so they could continue using him against Beaumont.

That knowledge was a damned bitter pill to swallow. Preacher didn’t really blame himself for those murders. He hadn’t pulled the triggers or set the riverboat on fire, but his presence had escalated things to the point that someone believed wholesale slaughter was necessary.

“You goin’ in there?” Lorenzo asked.

“Got to,” Preacher said. “Mr. Beaumont’s expectin’ me back.”

Lorenzo folded his arms across his chest. “Well, I’m stayin’ out here with the horses, where it’s safe.”

“Probably ain’t a bad idea,” Preacher said as he walked through the open double doors of the barn and started toward the house.

As he stepped in through the back door, he heard a crash from somewhere upstairs. It sounded like someone had just thrown something against the wall. There was another crash as he went up the stairs.

Beaumont was so mad he was throwing things, Preacher thought.

When he reached the upstairs hallway, he heard ranting and cursing coming through an open door at the end of the corridor. That was Beaumont’s bedroom, Preacher knew, although he had never actually set foot in there. He approached the door carefully. It was possible Beaumont had a gun in there, and if he was loco enough, he might take a shot at anybody who poked his head inside.

Preacher stopped about a dozen feet from the door and called, “Hey, boss! It’s me, Donnelly!”

Beaumont’s cursing stopped abruptly. A second later, he appeared in the doorway, his collar askew, his hair disheveled, and his face flushed dark red with rage. Shards of broken crockery littered the floor behind him.

“Donnelly!” he roared. “What the hell happened downriver? I sent you to look out for my interests!”

Beaumont didn’t have a gun in his hand, so Preacher came closer. “We were ambushed, boss. Riflemen were waitin’ in the trees on the far bank when we tried to stop that riverboat. Their first volley wiped out Dugan and most of the rest o’ the boys before we even knew what was goin’ on, and then they picked off the rest of the bunch.”

Beaumont stared at him and said, “But not you. You’re still alive.”

“Only because they figured I was dead, I reckon,” Preacher said. “I can swim pretty good, so when the canoe I was in tipped over, I dove as deep in the river as I could go and swam underwater for a good ways. Those bushwhackers must’ve thought I was either hit by one of their shots, or drowned, or both. When I come up for air, I could still hear some shootin’, but they weren’t aimin’ at me.”

Beaumont’s upper lip curled in a sneer. “So you hid like a coward while everyone else was killed?”

Preacher allowed some anger into his voice as he replied, “I didn’t see how it’d do a damned bit of good to get myself killed, too. There were more’n a dozen of those bastards, maybe as many as twenty or twenty-five. One man wouldn’t have stood a chance against them.”

Beaumont glared at him for a moment longer, then finally shrugged and said, “I suppose you’re right about that. What happened after the ambush?”

“I found a place downstream where a tree fell over in the water and used it for cover while I watched what was goin’ on. Some of those fellas who’d been layin’ in wait for us paddled out to the riverboat in a skiff and took it over. They had the captain at gunpoint, so he had to do what they said. He put the boat ashore, just like you planned for Dugan and the rest of us to do, and some wagons came up and they unloaded the cargo onto ’em.”

Beaumont nodded. “I talked to one of the drivers I hired. He said some men with guns got the drop on them and stole the wagons from them. That’s all he knew, because they had to either get out of there or be killed. I was hoping that not everything had gone wrong . . . but I had a feeling that it had.”

“Sure enough,” Preacher agreed. “Dugan and the rest of the men dead, the cotton gone . . . and that ain’t all of it.”

“What else could there be?” Beaumont snapped.

Grim-faced, Preacher said, “After the wagons left with the cotton, those bushwhackers murdered everybody on the riverboat and set it on fire.”

Beaumont just stared at him for a long moment, as if he couldn’t believe what Preacher had just told him. He seemed genuinely shocked. Finally, he muttered, “My God. Why would they do such a thing?”

“Clean slate, I reckon,” Preacher said with a shrug. “No witnesses left behind.”

“I suppose. I’ve never worried about anyone getting hurt if they got in my way, but to wipe out a whole riverboat crew like that in cold blood . . .” Beaumont’s voice trailed off as he shook his head.

Beaumont might like to believe that was worse than anything he had done in the past, but that wasn’t the case, Preacher knew. Beaumont was responsible for scores of deaths, and he wouldn’t hesitate to order multiple murders if they served his purposes.

But clearly he wasn’t the only one who could be that ruthless.

“You have any idea who would do such a thing, boss?” Preacher asked.

Beaumont shook his head. “No, but I’m going to find out. Whoever they are, they can’t keep something this big a secret for very long. I’ll find out, and when I do . . . they’ll pay. By God, they’ll pay.”

“If there’s anything I can do to help . . .”

Beaumont came forward out of the room and clapped a hand on Preacher’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, Jim, I’ll let you know. I’m sorry I sent you into that trap.”

“You didn’t know somebody was double-crossin’ you.”

“No.” An insane light glinted in Beaumont’s eyes. “And that’s exactly what happened. Someone knew my plans and hired those men to steal the cotton right out from under me. That’s the only way it could have happened.”

Preacher didn’t want to steer Beaumont’s thoughts in that direction, but there wasn’t much he could do to stop them. He could try to muddle the situation, though.

“Dugan or one of those other fellas could’ve talked too much in a tavern about what they were gonna do,” he suggested. “Some fellas get a little too much whiskey in ’em, they don’t know when to shut up.”

“I suppose that’s possible.” Beaumont rubbed his jaw and frowned in thought. “And if that’s what happened, they’ve already paid for their carelessness with their lives. But I’m not convinced, Jim. I think whoever planned this may still be out there, plotting against me.”

There was more truth to that statement than Beaumont knew. He had all sorts of enemies who wanted to ruin him.

Beaumont put a hand on Preacher’s shoulder again. Preacher managed not to pull away in revulsion. “I’m going to need your help looking into this. You and Lorenzo may be the only ones I can trust. And if there’s something you want to do for me, Jim . . .”

“You name it, boss,” Preacher said, trying not to be too obvious about the fact that he had to force the words out.

“Whenever I find out who’s to blame for this, I’m going to give you the privilege of killing him . . . or her.”