Preacher's Fury. William W. Johnstone

      The rifle boomed, and the branch at which Deaver had aimed went flying, cut off cleanly. Deaver squinted as the powdersmoke stung his eyes a little.

      He gave the rifle back to St. John and said, “It shoots true, all right. And the rest are all the same?”

      “One hundred rifles, brand-new, just as we agreed six months ago in St. Louis,” the Englishman said. “And here’s the really intriguing bit … I can lay my hands on more of them, if you like. As many as you want.”

      That offer convinced Deaver more than ever that St. John was lying about stealing those rifles. The man was working for the British government. The English had been carrying a real grudge ever since ol’ George Washington and his friends had booted them out more than fifty years earlier.

      They had raised hell in the former colonies on numerous occasions since then, sometimes openly, like back in 1812, but often in secret. More than once they had tried to disrupt the fur trapping business and make things hot enough on the frontier that the Americans would pull back.

      Deaver figured this was just more of the same. St. John had to know these guns would wind up in the hands of the Indians. That was exactly what the Englishman wanted.

      “Well,” St. John went on, “do we have a deal?”

      “I want to take a look at every gun,” Deaver said. “You’ve got powder and shot, too?”

      St. John looked a little annoyed, but he forced a smile onto his face and nodded.

      “Of course. And you’re welcome to examine the merchandise. Actually, I’ve thrown in some extras: two dozen jugs of whiskey for our coppery-hued friends.”

      Deaver couldn’t help but chuckle when he thought about how much havoc a bunch of liquored-up redskins with brand-new rifles could wreak. There wouldn’t be a fur trapper between here and halfway to Bent’s Fort who was safe. It could turn into a bloodbath, all right.

      But it would put plenty of money in his pockets, or at least it would once he sold all the furs that the Indians would trade him for these guns.

      “If everything is the way you say it is, St. John, then yeah, you’ve got a deal.”

      The Englishman grinned at him, took the open jug away from one of the other men, and lifted it.

      “Then here’s to a long and prosperous partnership, my friend!”