Preacher (12 page)

“Sting a little, did it, Sir Gregory?” Now Loxley was standing sideways with his left hand on his hip, his right side and the extended sword toward Art.

“You say this fella Gregory is an enemy of yours?”

“Oh, yes, an enemy of quite long standing,” Loxley said. He did a sudden thrust, which almost caught Art. Only his lightning-quick reflexes enabled him to avoid being skewered.

“Well, if Gregory is your enemy, then that's a good enough name for me,” Art said.

Loxley danced toward Art, still presenting only his right side as a target. Art had drawn his knife, but it was totally inadequate against the sword. But though he couldn't counterattack, he was quick enough and dexterous enough to avoid every thrust.

Then disaster struck. While avoiding one of Loxley's increasingly closer thrusts, Art tripped and fell flat on his back. In a heartbeat Loxley was on him, with the point of his sword just over Art's chest.

“It's over, lad,” Loxley said, panting from the effort of chasing Art about. “You've been quite a pest. My only regret is that you are going to die too quickly.”

Loxley was just about to make the final death lunge when an arrow whistled over Art and buried itself in Loxley's chest. Loxley dropped his sword and reached up to grab the arrow. Even as he wrapped his fingers around it, however, the light faded from his eyes and he collapsed across Art's legs.

Quickly, Art scrambled out from under Loxley's body, then stood up to see Techanka and Tolian coming toward him. Behind them were at least three dozen others from the village.

“So, my brother,” Tolian said. “Again I have killed another to save your life.”

“Yes,” Art replied.

“You left early,” Techanka said. “Did you plan to attack the Americans without us?”

Art drew a deep breath, then shook his head. “No,” he said. “I did not plan to attack the Americans at all.”

“This I knew,” Techanka said. “It came to me in a dream last night. It is good that you did not lie.”

“This too is not a lie,” Art said. “The red soldiers will not give you guns and ammunition. I heard them talking. They want you to attack the town of Cape Girardeau so that they may attack another town, Commerce.”

“Yes, that is a good plan. We attack one place while the red soldiers attack another,” Techanka said.

“Wait a minute, you aren't still planning to attack Cape Girardeau, are you?”

“Yes.”

“But why? Don't you understand what I told you? The British want your attack to fail. They want many Indians and many Americans to be killed.”

“We must attack. Keytano gave his word,” Techanka said. “It is not for me to break the word of Keytano.”

“But many of you will be killed.”

“We are not like you,” Metacoma said. “We are not cowards who fear death.”

Techanka held up his hand to still Metacoma. Then he looked at Art. “Go, now,” he said. “You are no longer my son. You are no longer the brother of Tolian. You are no longer Shawnee.”

“I am not the enemy of the Shawnee,” Art said.

“Today, you are not the enemy of the Shawnee. But if we meet again, and if my people are at war with your people, we will be enemies.”

Art looked toward Loxley's horse. If he had the horse, he might be able to reach Cape Girardeau before the Shawnee. Then he could at least warn them of the impending attack. But the thought came too late. By rights the horse belonged to Tolian, who had killed the major, and Tolian was already holding the animal, talking to it in soft, comforting tones. Whatever was going to happen at Cape Girardeau and Commerce was going to happen. With a sigh of frustration, Art turned and walked away.

There was no getting around it. St. Louis just had too many people. Everywhere Art looked he saw people, moving up and down the boardwalks, crowding into the stores and overflowing the dram shops. The streets were filled too, with men on horseback as well as carriages, carts, and wagons, drawn by horses, mules, and oxen. It had rained recently, and the street was a quagmire of manure and mud.

But it was the smells that Art was having the hardest time with. Having spent just over a year living in the great outdoors with the Indians, he found the pungency of manure and rotting garbage, as well as several other unidentifiable odors, nearly overpowering. Some St. Louis citizens countered the odor by holding perfumed handkerchiefs to their nose, but most seemed adjusted to it.

The clothes Art had left home with had worn out long ago and he was now wearing buckskins; both shirt and trousers. Although most of the people he saw were wearing more traditional clothing, there were enough dressed in buckskins to keep him from being totally out of place. Only his hair was a little different from the others, as it was long and braided into pigtails. He did see several men with long hair, but no one else was wearing pigtails, so he undid his own, then shook his head, letting his hair fall freely to his shoulders.

* * *

Art had managed quite well in the woods, easily finding his way to St. Louis. He had learned from the Indians how to trap rabbit and squirrel for his meals, as well as what roots and plants he could eat. Also, as he followed the river north, he'd had an abundance supply of fish. But survival in St. Louis required a different set of skills. Here, money was more important than hunting or trapping, and Art didn't have one cent to his name.

Even as he was contemplating his lack of money, he happened across a possible remedy when he walked past a freight warehouse. Here, one wagon was being unloaded and two more were waiting to be moved up to the warehouse dock.

“1 don't know where he is, Mr. Gordon,” he heard one of the men say to another. “This is the third day this month he ain't showed up when he was supposed to.”

Mr. Gordon, who was apparently the foreman of the warehouse, walked over to the edge of the loading dock and spat a stream of tobacco juice. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then reached down into a pouch for a fresh supply.

“I'd fire James right now if I could find someone else to work in his place.”

“They ain't that many people want to work unloadin' wagons,” the first man said. “It's hard work.”

Art turned and walked back to the dock. “Mr. Gordon?” he said.

Gordon was obviously surprised to be addressed by name by someone he had never seen before. “Who are you?” Gordon asked, pausing before he stuffed a handful of the tobacco into his mouth. “And how do you know my name?” He poked in a few of the loose ends.

“I heard this man address you by name,” Art explained. “I also heard you say you would hire someone if you could find them. Well, I need a job, and I'm not afraid of hard work.”

“I appreciate the offer, son, but you ain't nothin' but a boy,” Gordon said. “This here is man's work.”

Putting his hand on the side of the wagon and his foot on a wheel spoke, Art vaulted up into the back of the wagon. The wagon was loaded with barrels of flour. Art picked up a barrel, lifted it easily to his shoulder, then carried it over to a pile of similar barrels on the dock. He put his load down, then turned around and looked at Gordon.

“Is there anything to do any harder than what I just did?” he asked.

Gordon laughed, spitting a few pieces of tobacco as he did. “No, not that I know of,” he said. “You willin' to do that all day long for a dollar?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then you got yourself a job, boy. I'm Gordon, that fella there is Tony. You do what Tony tells you to do, and you'll be all right. What's your name?”

“I'm Art.”

“Art what? What's your last name?”

Art paused for a moment. His unwillingness to use his last name had caused difficulty for him back in Commerce. Many slaves did not have last names, and when he didn't give his, the sheriff was ready to believe that he was a slave. He still didn't want to use his family name, not so much to avoid being found now, for he was certain his parents had long since given up the search, but because he didn't want to take a chance on bringing any dishonor to the name. Then he remembered the name of Major Loxley's enemy. “Gregory,” he said. “My name is Art Gregory. But please, call me Art.”

“Art, is it?” Gordon looked over at Tony. “Tony, here's your new helper. His name is Art.”

“Well, Art, grab yourself another barrel,” Tony said, picking up one of his own. “We got two more wagons to do after this one.”

“Yes, sir,” Art said, going right to work.

Gordon stood by, watching Art and Tony at their labor for a moment or two. Then satisfied that Art was going to work out, he went on his way.

* * *

It was after dark before all the wagons were unloaded. Tony, Art's coworker, was a heavy-limbed man with broad shoulders but a prominent belly. He was bald on top of his head, but wore a full beard. A scar ran from the bottom of his left eye, down across his cheek, and into a misshapen lip. His two top front teeth were missing. Although it was relatively cool, both Tony and Art had worked up a sweat, and Tony wiped his face with a towel, then tossed the towel to Art.

“Thanks,” Art said.

“You're all right, boy,” Tony said. “I thought I might have to carry your load too, but you matched me lift for lift. I'm glad Mr. Gordon put you on.”

“I am too,” Art said.

“Come on, let's go to the Irish Tavern and get us a beer,” Tony suggested.

“I'll have to get paid first,” Art said. “Where do we go to get paid?”

“Paid? We don't get paid till Saturday. That's payday.”

“We don't get paid today?”

“No, sir. Like I said, no pay till Saturday.”

“Oh,” Art said, disappointment obvious in his voice. “What day is this?”

“Tuesday, the eighteenth.”

“What month?”

“What month?” Tony replied. He laughed. “Where you been, boy? It's October eighteenth, 1814.”

“I sort of figured it was getting on toward fall.”

Tony studied Art for a long moment. “Where you been, boy, that you don't even know what month this is?”

“I've been sort of drifting around,” Art replied, not wanting to be too specific with his answer. “Here and there.”

“Uh-huh. And you ain't got no money. I mean, you ain't got one dime, have you?”

“No, sir, I reckon not.”

“What the hell, boy? How was you plannin' on eatin' between now and Saturday?”

“I'll get by. I can always go down to the river and catch a fish. Or I can go out into the woods. A body can never starve in the woods.”

“The hell you say. You must know the woods pretty good to say that. I mean, if I suddenly found myself in the woods like that, I'd probably starve.”

Art remembered his first experience in the woods. If he had not been found by Techanka and the other Shawnee that day, he would have starved.

“It is something you have to learn,” Art admitted. “You can't just go out into the woods and start living off the land.”

“So, you're what? Plannin' on goin' into the woods tonight, then comin' back in tomorrow to work?”

“Yes, sir, I reckon I've got to do that. I don't know any other way to get anything to eat, other than to catch it and kill it myself.”

“Wait a minute,” Tony said, holding up his finger. “If you really need money all that bad, let me go talk to Mr. Gordon. Perhaps we can talk him into paying you ahead of time.”

“You don't have to do that,” Art said.

“Yeah, I do. You're a good worker and I don't want you to up and quit. Else, I might wind up with James again.”

Tony turned out to be an effective advocate for Art's cause, for two minutes later he returned with a silver dollar, which he ceremoniously presented to Art.

“Now, what do you say we get us that beer?” Tony asked.

“Do you mind if I get somethin' to eat first?”

“You can eat at the same place we get the beer,” Tony said.

* * *

The Irish Tavern was run by Seamus O'Conner, a large, round-faced Irishman who wasn't opposed to delivering a homily with the whiskey, beer, and food he served in his establishment. He kept order in the place by the judicious use of a sawed-off piece of a hoe handle, and more than one drunk who began making trouble would wake up in the alley behind the Irish Tavern with a headache that wasn't entirely brought on by drink.

Art had a meal of corned beef, cabbage, and potatoes fried with onions. Tony, who had three beers while Art was eating, sat across the table from him, marveling at the young man's prodigious appetite.

“How long's it been since you et, boy?” Tony asked.

“I had me a squirrel a couple of days ago,” Art said.

“A squirrel?”

Art nodded.

“You ain't been livin' in the city, have you?”

Art shook his head no.

“Where you been?”

“Like I said, I've been sort of wanderin' around the last year or so.” Art wasn't ashamed of the time he spent with the Shawnee, but if they had carried through with their plans to attack Cape Girardeau, it might not be a good idea to be associated with them.

“Where is he now?” a loud voice suddenly asked. “Would someone be for tellin' me where I can find the whore's son who took the job o' James O'Leary?”

“Oh-oh,” Tony said, looking toward the door.

Art, who had his back to the door, looked around. A large man, one of the biggest men Art had ever seen, was standing just inside the door, his face set in an angry scowl.

“Who is that?” Art asked.

“That would be James O'Leary,” Tony replied.

At about that same moment James plowed into the room, heading for the table where the two were having their supper. James was focused entirely on the task at hand and he rushed forward, bent forward at the waist. He made no effort to go around the furnishings, but pushed through them, leaving tables and chairs overturned in his wake. Others in the saloon, not wanting to incur James's anger, jumped up and moved out of the way, giving the big man plenty of room.

“You?” he said, pointing to Art when he got closer to him. “Would it be you who took my job now?”

“I took
a
job,” Art said. “It wasn't your job, because you weren't there.”

“Now, he's got you there, James, m'boy,” Tony said, trying to ease the situation. “You know yourself, you been absent from work more than you been there. And I don't mind tellin' you, that's made it a lot harder on me.”

“I'll be hearin' no blarney from the likes of a black-heart like you,” James said to Tony. “Sure'n this is between me and . . .” When James looked directly at Art, he stopped in mid-sentence and the expression on his face changed. It wasn't until then that he noticed just how young Art was. “Faith 'n begorrah, how old would you be now?” he asked.

“I'm old enough to do the work I was hired for,” Art replied.

“Aye, lad, but the question is, would you be man enough to hold on to the job?”

“He more than held his own, James. Which is more than I can say for you when you show up drunk,” Tony said.

“ 'Tis not the work I'm inquirin' about now. 'Tis the lad's will to hold on to what he's got. How about it, boy? Are you man enough to fight for your job?” James asked, smiling evilly at Art. He put up his fists. “What say you we have a bit of a brawl? Just the two of us, right here, right now. Whoever wins the fight keeps the job.”

“Come on, James, you got near a hundred pounds on the boy,” one of the others said.

“Yeah, if you're going to fight, make it a fair fight,” another added.

“Well, now, you tell me how to make it fair and I'll be glad to be doin' that. But would you be for tellin' me how the I can make it fair for a little pissant that ain't no bigger'n a pup?” James asked.

“Give him the first punch,” someone said.

“Yeah, that's it. Give him the first punch,” another added.

“I'll give him the first punch. He can hit me anyway he likes,” James said. He stuck his chin out.

“Wait,” Seamus called from behind the bar.

“And for what would I be waitin'? Pray tell me that now, Seamus O'Conner.”

“Let the lad take his first punch with this,” Seamus said, holding up the sawed-off length of a hoe handle.

James looked at the hoe handle, then at Art. “All right lad, I'm game. I'll give you the first blow, and you can use the club. I wouldn't want anyone to be sayin' that James O'Leary took unfair advantage of a wee lad like you. But you better make it a good one, boy, 'cause afterward I intend to mop the floor with your sorry carcass.”

“Here, lad,” Seamus said, putting his club in Art's hand. “It has put more than one thickheaded Irishman on the floor.”

Art took the club. It was about eighteen inches long and an inch in diameter.

“I don't want to fight,” Art said, handing the club back to Seamus.

“See there, Seamus?” James replied. “The lad has no stomach to fight. He wants to just walk away and let me have my job back.”

“No,” Art said. “I didn't say that. I plan to keep the job. I just said I don't want to fight you.”