The Trainwreckers by Sean Lynch

Author:Sean Lynch [Lynch, Sean]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pinnacle Books
Published: 2021-08-02T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 25

Pritchard, Strobl, and Hoke Rupe arrived in Booneville a little after midnight. The ten-mile ride into town took longer than expected, due to Hoke’s fragile condition. Pritchard rode ahead of him, and Strobl behind, fearing the wounded rider would fall from his saddle. But Hoke did not, and a couple of hours later they reached the town limits. They were met on the main road by two men armed with rifles and a lantern. Both wore badges.

“Whoa there!” one of the men called out. “Who are you, and what’s your business in Booneville?”

“Deputy U.S. Marshals Samuel Pritchard and Florian Strobl,” Pritchard answered from horseback. “We’ve got an injured man here. He’s been shot and needs a doctor.”

“The doctor’s busy fixin’ up a troupe of fellers who come ridin’ in a little while ago,” the other Booneville deputy said, as both lowered their rifles. “Three men, all shot to hell.”

“I’ll wager those are the lads who attacked our campsite,” Strobl offered.

“What’s left of ’em, anyhow,” Pritchard agreed. “Where can I find the doc?” he inquired.

“Don’t bother with the doctor,” Hoke said, his voice tight with pain. He was leaning over the pommel, his face was ashen, and he appeared near collapse. “Even if a sawbones could do anything for me, which he can’t, I ain’t got much time left. Get me to the Presbyterian church.”

“Sure enough,” Pritchard said.

“The church is at the far end of town,” one of the deputies said. “Biggest one in Booneville. You can’t miss it.”

“Obliged,” Pritchard said. “Is Bob Blevins still the sheriff here?”

“He is,” the deputy answered. “You know him?”

“I do,” Pritchard said. “Iffen I could impose on you fellers further, would you get word to Bob that Samuel Pritchard is down at the Presbyterian church?”

“Bob’s likely fast asleep at this hour,” the other deputy said.

“He’ll get his britches on for me,” Pritchard said, reining his horse toward the church.

The Presbyterian church was as big as the deputies had described it. It was almost a quarter-mile out of town, but clearly visible by virtue of the steeple, which made it the tallest building in or around Booneville.

When they got to the church, Pritchard helped Hoke from the saddle while Strobl tied their horses to the hitching post. The trio mounted the steps with the two deputy marshals holding the wounded man upright between them. Strobl pounded on the door.

After a minute, which Hoke spent spitting blood, the large double-doors opened. Greeting them was a very tall, lean man in a nightshirt holding a candle. He had thick, muttonchop whiskers and an eyepatch over his right eye.

“I’m right sorry to bother you at this hour,” Pritchard began, “but this feller’s been gutshot. He asked us to bring him here. His name is—”

“Henry,” the large man said, as his shoulders slumped in recognition. “Henry Rupe. I know him well. I’m Reverend Oliver Winfield. Bring him inside.”

Hoke collapsed as he started forward and Pritchard caught him. He carried the now barely conscious man as Winfield led them through the nave to the rear of the church where the pastor’s quarters were located.

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