Preacher's Peace (14 page)
Authors: William W. Johnstone
The Indian whooped and the other defenders started to fire their guns. Art quickly reloaded and primed his weapon and lifted it again.
In the first fusillade, one of the Indians was shot from his pony and fell into the shallow river. They kept yelling and kept coming. They released their spears, which flew just over the defenders' heads.
“Keep shooting!” McDill shouted from his position, the sound of panic in his voice.
The young mountain man, Art, didn't feel panic or fear. He knew what had to be done. He didn't shout, just carefully aimed his rifle at another of the Indian riders and slowly squeezed the trigger. The weapon kicked him back and black smoke exploded from the barrel. The attacker, about the sixth along the line, fell from his horse. There were two down.
Now the Indian leader wheeled his horse to the right, and just missed getting shot by Montgomery, who had been trying to get a bead on him. Montgomery's gun roared and the ball shot past Wak Tha Go's shoulder. The big Indian turned and smiled, as if to say, “You can't hurt me!” He pulled his horse to the rear of the attacking party, then turned to charge again.
The Indians kept coming, and now they had their own rifles and bows at the ready. Arrows thunked into the earth by Caviness, Matthews, and Hoffman. McDill frantically reloaded and lifted his gun, just in time for a ball from one of the Indians to whiz past his head, missing him by just a few inches.
In a huge explosion of gunpowder and shot, the island defenders fired almost simultaneously, causing the Indians' horses to rear and wheel madly, splashing and snorting. Another man fell. The trappers were cutting down the odds with each passing minute.
The braves circled and fell in behind their leader and charged again. The arrows flew and buzzed. One arrow struck Hoffman in his right arm, just below the shoulder. It passed through his flesh and left a bloody pulp. But he barely flinched as he reloaded his rifle, ramming a ball into the barrel.
Art saw the blood streaming down the German's arm, but couldn't stop to respond. He fired again at the attackers, missing his target as the Indian weaved out of harm's way.
In the melee, a couple of the Blackfeet had managed to pull the bodies of the fallen braves from the river and put them on the riverbank, so they wouldn't be trampled by the repeated charge against the island. All the whites could see was the splashing and the oncoming arrows as the Indians kept up the attack, even in the face of strong gunfire.
It was a miracle that Art had not lost a single man yet. He looked around and saw that his men were fiercely concentrated on doing their best to fire, reload, fire, and reloadâagain and again, almost like machines. He was proud of them, but there was no time for sentiment. He focused on his own job, and was able to get off another shot. This time he hit one of the horses, which went down in a violent, trumpeting death. The rider leaped off in time, and ran back to the other side of the river.
* * *
Wak Tha Go was unhappy at this turn of events. He had expected to wipe out the whites with the surprise attack, but instead he had lost three men and the whites none. He called to his men to take the three fallen braves away, back to the far side of the bluff where they had come from in the morning. He cursed the white men who had killed the Blackfoot warriors.
Secretly, he wondered if he had done something to offend the Great Spirit of Breath who protected his people. What had he done wrong? The bullets of the whites had cut down three brave Blackfeet. This was not the way it should be.
He left two men to watch the defenders so that they would not escape. Then he led the others, with the bodies of the fallen braves, to a camp about a quarter mile away, in a tree-sheltered area where they could regroup and plan the next attack.
One of his men came to Wak Tha Go and said, “Why have we lost these warriors, my chief? Were we not supposed to kill the evil white ones? Instead, they have killed our men.”
“This I know, my brother, and I will pray for an answer to your question. I do not know what is in the mind of the Spirit who guides and gives life to all His creation.”
The brave rode ahead with his head down, leading a horse with one of the corpses draped over it. There would be sadness back in the village when they returned with the dead.
Wak Tha Go knew that his grandiose promises must be fulfilled. He must wipe out these men on the island, or else he would lose face with the village, and with his own men. Hatred and vengeance flared up inside his soul like a roaring campfire. He must go and pray and think about what to do.
He rode off away from the other men after instructing them to make camp and prepare the bodies of the dead for eventual burial by their families and the other people of the village.
He was gone for several hours. At dusk he returned. The warriors awaited him. They had kept up their watch on the island. The whites were hunkered down in their defensive positions, expecting another attack. But the warriors couldn't move without Wak Tha Go to lead them, so they had stayed in camp and mourned their dead. They all jumped up and greeted him when they saw him riding in.
When he had dismounted, he said to them: “Tomorrow we will attack again. The Spirit has told me that victory is ours. We will avenge our dead brothers with the scalps of the evil men.”
* * *
Clouds covered the moon. Art was grateful for this as he sneaked out of the island camp at the far end of the island from where the Indian sentries watched through the night. He had blackened his face with charcoal and dirt to take off the pale shine that could be seen by a sharp-eyed watcher.
He carried only his knife and had pulled his hat low over his eyes. He half-crabbed, half-swam to a stand of cottonwoods on the bank about a hundred yards upstream from the scene of the day's fighting. He moved slowly but steadily so that he would not create any unusual movement in the water and so that he could blend into the night shadows.
Dog watched him with one eye, seeming to understand that he had to go out alone.
He had not told the others what he was going to do. They did not even know he had sneaked away. Caviness and Hoffman were standing watch, and he had successfully eluded even them. That idea didn't make him very happy, but he put it aside and kept moving, stealthily, until he came to a point where he could cross over the river and step onto the rocky bank.
Once on dry land, he darted toward a sheltering rock and then circled around in a wide arc through some trees to the other side of the black bluff, careful that he didn't make a sound as he moved through grass and underbrush. His moccasins trod over the earth like feathers and carried him to within about fifty yards of the Indians' encampment.
There he waited. The moon eventually fell lower in the sky, below the treetops that ringed the quiet camp. The horses were tethered nearby, and Art avoided them, staying downwind as much as he could.
He knew what he had to do, but it would be the most difficult thing he had ever done in his life. He must kill the Indians' war chief and end their siege of the island. The cool night wind blew over his still-wet body, and he clenched his teeth so that they would not chatter in the surprising cold. He was reminded how winter could come down fast and hard in this high country, even in August or early September. He had even known it to snow at this time of year.
He waited. He was armed only with his knife, which never left his side. The steel blade was clean, extremely sharp, ready to do its killing work. He measured his breathing so that it was smooth and soundless. He waited some more.
After he had been in place for more than two hours, the young mountain man moved. Very slowly he crabbed forward until he was within fifty feet of the camp. He surveyed the sleeping forms of the enemy to determine which was the leaderâthe one farthest from the three bodies of the dead Blackfeet, separated a few feet from the others. It was a calculated risk, but he would take it. He trusted his own instinct on this.
Keeping his breathing as shallow as a snake's, he got on his belly and crawled forward. Now there was no moon, no light, just the wind. He remained downwind from the camp, knowing that the slightest scent or movement would betray him and that would be the end of his life.
The smell of the dry summer grass filled his nostrils. It was like being in a dream, and suddenly he remembered the same smell from when he was a boy. He had always spent his time outdoors, away from his family's home, exploring and hunting and sleeping out under the stars. He had always felt comfortable in the grass, or propped up against a tree. Those days were long past, and he was no longer a boy. Now he was a man on a killing mission.
He was forty feet from his target. He stopped. Waited. Then he moved again, pulling himself forward with powerful arms, his belly sliding against the cold dry earth.
When he got within twenty feet of Wak Tha Go, he removed his knife from the sheath at his belt. He held it in his right hand. The handle, wood covered with leather, warmed in his hand. Sweat beaded his palms.
He crawled closer. Art almost stopped breathing now. Any sound would betray him. He was within fifteen feet. With agonizing slowness, he got within about ten feet. He pushed himself. Sweat covered his brow and his entire body, making him nearly as wet as he had been after coming out of the river. He stopped blinking his eyes as he got even closer.
Then there was a sound! He held himself completely, utterly still. What was it? It wasn't the wind or any animal movementâit sounded human. Then he realized what it was: the war chief's sleep-breathing! He was close enough now that he could almost feel the breeze of the man's breath.
Art's hat formed a tent at the top of his vision. It was completely dark now, and as if by magic he had been transported to this spot, within five feetâalmost striking distanceâof Wak Tha Go. He did not know the man other than as an enemy.
Wak Tha Go expelled a long, loud breath. Then he turned slightly in his sleep. Art froze. He waited nearly ten minutes, then crept closer, using his toes now to propel him forward. Five feet. Four feet. Three feet. Truly, he felt like a snake slithering toward its prey. Eyes unblinking.
Now he made a bold move. He brought himself parallel to the sleeping man's body. He rolled himself over one time until he was nearly face-to-face with the enemy. With a swift movement he clamped his left hand down over Wak Tha Go's nose and mouth.
The shock startled the Indian awake. His eyes opened wide and he saw Art for an instant. Art felt him start to struggle, to fight off his attacker. But it was too late.
With a blindingly powerful swing, Art brought his knife up, then down, plunging it directly into the Indian's heart. He had to push Wak Tha Go's head down, stifle his cry. It took every ounce of strength the young man had to hold the powerful Indian's mouth and nose and push the long steel blade as far as possible into the chest. Then he withdrew the knife.
Blood bubbled up out of the deep, deadly wound in the chest cavity. Art smelled it, felt it on his hands and arms. It was warm and wet. Still trying to be absolutely silent, he wiped his hands in the grass and started to turn to make his way out of the camp without being detected by the others.
He stopped himself. If he wanted to end the siege of the island, he must send an unmistakable signal to the Indians. They had lost three men in the battle, now their chief to a killer in the night. But how would they know who had done it?
Art removed his hat. He hated to lose it, for a hat was a part of a man on the trail, as necessary as a gun, though for vastly different reasons. He placed the hat on Wak Tha Go's upper chest. Then he reached around and found Wak Tha Go's own knife. In the brief struggle before his life had ended, the Indian had groped for the knife and his dead hand was close by.
The mountain man took the knife and plunged it through the brim of the hat, pinning it to the dead warrior's chest.
What would they say to that? he wondered. He hoped it would spook them enough to call off another attack. Pushing himself away, he crawled for several yards before he got to his feet and ran quietly away into the night.
* * *
The next day came and the Indians did not attack. None of the men on the island knew whyâexcept Art himself. As they packed and prepared to leave, he told them.
Eleven
The party was somber, glad to have survived the siege of the little unnamed island, grateful that Art had put a knife in their enemy's chest. Even McDill and Caviness were quiet for the first two or three days out, after such a close call. Dog held back, but followed the party off the island.
The man who would one day be called Preacher, leader of this column, rode out one morning to scout the forward area west of the Missouri River, which rolled wide and shallow around boulders and over rocks up in this north country. He rode about five miles out, ahead of the other trappers.
From the day he had left his family in Ohio, Art had been a fiercely independent man. He remembered to this day the letter, just a brief note really, that he had left behind. It said, simply:
Ma and Pa
Don't look for me for I have went away. I am near a man now and I want to be on my own. Love, your son, Arthur.
He was on his own, all right, and had been for more than twelve years as he grew into manhood among the Indians and mountain men of the West. He had known more adventures than he could have ever dreamed up back in Ohio.... As he breathed in the Missouri badlands air untainted by man, he said a silent prayer of thanksgiving to the only God he knew, the Creator of this land of savage beauty. He was not much given to introspection, and had never been a churchgoing man, but sometimes he just felt that he had to look up and say thanks.
He was almost unaware of the men he had left behind. Ahead lay a thicket that stretched out like a green island on the brown land. He kneed his mount in that direction. Maybe this was a place where his party and their horses could rest for a while at midday, out of the sun that was already beginning to beat down hard on them. There hadn't been rain here for at least two weeks, and the ground was sere and hard-packed, stony even away from the river.
Art dismounted when he was about twenty yards outside the thicket, leading his horse forward, alert to sounds and smells out of the ordinary that would signal danger. He cradled his trusted rifle after he had loaded and primed it, then hobbled the horse when he got to the edge of the thicket.
Moving through the underbrush, he peered into the shadowy area beneath the trees, measuring each step with as much silence and stealth as he could manage. He entered an opening that must have been about ten yards by twenty yards, enough space for a house and garden, he thoughtâthough it was unlikely that any white settler would ever come to this remote part of the world to build such a house. Dog, who had followed him, yowled.
Then, with a suddenness that nearly took his breath away, he saw it: a grizzly bear with its long black-brown back turned to him. The animal became still, then sensed Art's presence, then turned toward him and stood at its full height. As the bear turned, he could see three smaller animalsâcubs. This was a mother, a grizzly sow, who was tending her young. She was as dangerous as ten men. He knew this when he heard her roar, an earsplitting howl of anger and defiance.
The huge, dark bear stood nearly ten feet tall on her hind feet. Her giant clawed paws slashed at the air as the cubs, not knowing what was happening, scurried over each other to stand behind their aroused mother.
Her black eyes locked on Art, who stood stock-still at the edge of the opening beneath the trees. He took one step forward, toward the grizzly that was ready to attack. This was unexpected, and the bear cocked her head, then opened her mouth again, baring yellow teeth and fangs. The sow trumpeted a warning to the approaching man and to the wolf-dog.
Art had never seen anything like it: this monster with black eyes towering over him. Deliberately, he raised his rifle and aimed, held steady. With almost lightning speed, the grizzly attacked.
The mountain man fired his rifle, sending a ball directly into the chest of the advancing bear. She shuddered as she took the impact of the lead in the center of her huge body. But it did not stop her. The grizzly came on, flailing her razor-claws, roaring in pain. With immense speed and power the wounded sow pounced, her arms extended.
Art reacted just as quickly, ducking first as the bear-talons swept the air where his head had been. He felt the wind of her violent swipe. He dropped his rifle, useless now, and ran toward a nearby tree. He scrambled to get a foothold in a low branch, and had to jump up to reach for a higher branch. He slipped, jumped again, and took hold this time.
The bear spun almost a full circle with the momentum of her attack. Her back was to the man. The ball in her chest was the source of incredible pain, and blood leaked from the entry wound. She turned, spotted Art as he tried to clamber up the tree.
She shook her gigantic head, mouth open, and saliva sprayed all around her. In two steps she was at the tree where Art hung, trying to gain a footing. As she grabbed for him, he swung out of her reach and pulled himself up higher into the tree.
He thought if he could hold out and not let the grizzly get him for just another minute, she would die from the wound he had inflicted. But she showed no sign of dying. The cubs watched from the side of the clearing as their mother attacked yet again.
This time she stood at her full height and reached for Art, clawing him across the back with one paw, pummeling him with the other. Art felt the deep cuts in his back and the blow to his left shoulder, shaking him from his precarious perch in the tree. He wanted to howl in pain himself, but did not. He had to hold on, had to try....
The great grizzly sow seized her prey then, holding both of Art's legs and pulling him off the tree. Dog yapped at the bear's legs, but she ignored him.
He tumbled to the earth, falling with a hard thud and wincing at the pain. His back was in shreds and he felt the warm blood from the razor wounds there. He rolled away from the attacking bear, but was not quick enough.
With an ear-shattering roar, the grizzly went after him again. She reached down and swiped, this time slicing into his arm with her claws. He wanted to scream, but did not. His only thought was escapeâbut there was nowhere to go. He struggled unsteadily to his knees. He pulled free his hunting knife from its sheath at his belt. With his good arm he pushed the knife toward the mad animal, found his target.
As he stabbed the blade into the wounded grizzly's chest, he felt it scrape against the giant's ribs. The foamy spittle at the gaping mouth became pink, then red. The bear's black eyes locked on Art, who could barely breathe as he was caught in a savage tent made by the huge animal's body.
Then it closed in on him and fell on top of him. Art was crushed beneath the thousand-pound weight of the grizzly sow.
* * *
It was only an hour, but it seemed like days to Art, who drifted in and out of consciousness. His men found him lying beneath the carcass of the bear he had killed. It took all five of them another hour to figure out how to lever the dead body off the man. The bear's blood mingled with Art's, leaving him a bloody, pulpy mess. He fought through the pain to remain alert.
“She-bear . . .” he gasped. His eyes sought the three cubs who had sniffed around their mother before Art's party arrived.
McDill looked around, cursed, and shot at the nearby cubs, who scattered out of sight. There was little hope for them now. They would soon join their mother in death.
Hoffman, ignoring his own injury, and the others knelt beside their leader. He lay on his back more dead than alive. He bled from claw wounds in his face, chest, back, shoulder, and thighs. One leg and several ribs were broken. His face was a red mask of blood, and he had to spit to keep it out of his mouth as he breathed.
“He's tore damn near to pieces,” Don Montgomery said. Matthews turned away and got sick. “Aw, Joe, come back here and help him.”
“He should be dead,” McDill muttered, standing over Art.
“Maybe we should put him out of his misery,” Caviness suggested.
“By God!” Hoffman, the big German, leapt to his feet and pushed his face against Caviness's. “You will not kill our captain as you say! You will die if you try to hurt him, because I will kill you!”
It was the longest speech any of them had ever heard the Hessian give. His face was red from heat and anger. Caviness took one step backward.
“I was just saying maybe it would be the merciful thing to do, that's all.” Caviness looked around at the others, but no one came to his defense. He had not won any friends on this journey, and even McDill looked away.
“All right, all right, I'm sorry,” he said finally.
“It is good,” Hoffman said, then went back to tend to Art.
All of them had thought it, but only Caviness had said it. As they looked at the tall young mountain man lying in a pool of red-black blood, none of them thought he could survive the day. But carefully they cared for him, washed his wounds, and bandaged him. McDill tended to his horse, then fetched his bedroll, which they laid out in a semi-sheltered spot by a tree. Hoffman went to the stream close by and filled Art's canteen with fresh water.
He brought it back and propped it up next to his wounded friend. “Here is water for you,” he said.
“He's a regular orator,” McDill commented to Caviness as they built a cook fire.
No point in riding farther today. They would camp here for the night and start out in the morning. As the others ate, Art listened to their palaver, drifting in and out of consciousness.
“We should rig up a travois,” Matthews said. “Maybe we could get him back to the fort for medical help.” He looked at the others, sitting around the fire. “We can't leave him here.”
“He's gonna die,” McDill spat.
“We don't know that,” Matthews said angrily. “He's our leader. We've got to stay with him.”
“He can't lead us nowhere now.” McDill was relentless, couldn't let go of his hatred for Art and his need to take over the expedition and prove himself.
Montgomery and the German knelt by the severely injured man, and helped him drink some water from a canteen. For all they knew the water, like his blood, would leak out of puncture holes in his body. But they had to do something. Art couldn't eat anything in his condition, and he was barely conscious enough to move his lips to drink. The two men looked at each other in despair.
“Damn,” Montgomery said simply. He was not a man of words.
Hoffman too was sad and angry at the grizzly sow who had nearly killed his friendâand angry at the disloyalty shown by McDill and Caviness. “We must keep an eye on those men,” he told Montgomery in a low voice. “I do not trust them.”
“Hell, no,” Montgomery hissed. “They's a pair of snakes if there ever was, damn their souls to hell.”
That night the members of the party slept fitfully. All were exhausted but full of uncertainty about their mission. Without their designated leader there was nothing to hold them together. They stood watch in three shifts through the night, but there was no sound, no threat from man or beast. The dawn came suddenly.
Art drifted between sleep and unconsciousness, his injuries stabbing him with pain in nearly every part of his body. At sunup, when the camp began to stir, he was aware of the activity, heard the men's voices and smelled the morning cook fire, but his eyes remained closed.
The wound in his throat was especially painful, and he could feel the copious dried blood on the bandage there. He was more than half-certain that he was going to die.
“So I'm in charge now,” McDill announced to the others as the men drank their morning coffee.
“The hell you are,” Matthews said, glaring at McDill and Caviness.
“Maybe it's hell for you,” Caviness said, “but McDill here is the only one with the experience to do it. So you just shut up and listen to him. He'll get us out of here in one piece, like Art there can't do just now.”
“Besides,” said McDill, “those Blackfeet are liable to attack again. You want us to sit here and wait for them to gather their forces and come wipe us out?” McDill tossed his coffee dregs onto the ground and glared at Matthews and the other men.
For a minute no one said anything, then the Hessian, Hoffman, said to McDill, “You will leave Art here to die?”
“You want to stay here and die with him?”
“He might live if we can care for him.”
“Look at it this way. Do you think he would endanger the whole group if you were injured and going to die?”
Again, the men were silent. It was hard to stand up to McDill when he was like this, at his bullying worst. He stood there like a big mule, his fists clenched, scowling at them all.
“Wellâwhat do you say? You want to be women and stay here and watch him die and likely get killed yourselves?”
Caviness added, “And probably a lot worse than poor old Art hereâscalped and gutted like a deer by them Blackfeet.”
“It ain't right to just leave him,” Montgomery muttered.
“What's that? Speak up,” McDill demanded.
Hoffman said, “He means we got to do something. We cannot just leave the man here to die.”
“All right, you want to do something, you can leave him some food and water. Maybe he'll want to eat somethingâif he can. I'm not saying we shouldn't do anything for the poor soul.” His words were sympathetic, but McDill turned and gave a wink to Caviness that the others couldn't see.
That seemed to satisfy Art's friends. They settled in for a quick breakfast, saying nothing among themselves and watching McDill and Caviness with suspicion.
The men changed that bloody neck bandage after they had eaten. Matthews cleaned and loaded Art's rifle, and the others put a full canteen and a supply of food beside the wounded man. Caviness stood to one side and watched. But McDill helped, brought Art's horse around after he had watered it, and ground-tethered it nearby.
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