Preacher's Peace (18 page)

He almost didn't realize what he was saying, but he kept talking, kept preaching, letting his voice roll out in the singsong cadence with the words that tumbled back into his mind from the times when he was a child and his parents dragged him to church services and traveling preachers' revivals.

“Proclaim this among all the nations. Prepare ye for war! Rouse the champions of the people, who will defend them in my name. Armies, prepare to advance. Hammer your plowshares into swords, your hooks into spears. Even the weaklings will be given strength in the Lord's name. Let the nations arouse themselves and assemble in the Valley of Jehoshaphat and be led by the champions of war!

“The sun and the moon will grow dark, and the stars will lose their brilliance. For the Lord God roars from Zion, He thunders from Jerusalem, and the heavens and the earth tremble at the sound of His mighty voice!”

For the rest of the morning, Art preached without stopping or faltering. The people of the village, men, women, and children, all came to the tree and stood and listened to him. All of them heard him, though they did not understand the strange white man's language.

The elders of the village huddled in an impromptu council nearby and whispered among themselves. They were amazed and concerned about this man, wondering whether he was a white devil who had come among them to destroy them.

As the sun rose in the sky, the mountain man preached on:

“When that day comes, the mountains will run with new wine and the hills will flow with milk, and all the streambeds of the country will run with water. A fountain will spring forth in the temple in the great city. Egypt will become a desolation and the land of the enemy a desert waste on account of the violence done to the Lord's people, the innocent children whose blood they shed in their country.

“But the land will be inhabited forever, and Jerusalem from generation to generation! ‘I shall avenge their blood and let none go unpunished,' saith the Lord, and he shall dwell in Zion with the righteous ones.”

Throughout the night the people of the village had heard him preaching without stopping. Very few had gotten any sleep that night. Throughout the morning women and children gathered around the tree where the man was bound and listened to his strange words. They talked among themselves, saying they thought he was crazy—that is, touched by the Great Spirit who created and protected all things.

Buffalo Standing in the River met with the other elders in the impromptu council. They watched and listened to Artoor, shaking their heads. They decided to call a full-fledged council meeting.

Buffalo Standing went to Brown Owl's tepee. There the younger man sat with his wife, who had been among the women listening to the prisoner preach throughout the morning. It was nearly noon, nearly time for the prisoner to be killed.

“Owl, my young friend, the men of our village must meet to discuss what we are going to do.”

“The decision has been made. He is to be killed today. He is an enemy of our people.”

“Yet he spoke of peace to many before Wak Tha Go came and told us we must fight him. And now we hear him speak and we think he is crazy. If this is true, he is under the protection of the Father and Creator of all.”

Buffalo Standing led the young war chief to the council tepee where the others awaited. A pipe was lit and passed from man to man. Each one spoke his heart about this situation. All agreed that the prisoner should not be killed, that he should be released because he was clearly crazy.

When Brown Owl's turn came, he took the pipe and was silent for a moment. In the silence, from outside Art's words penetrated the council lodge:

“Listen, my people, to the words of the Lord. ‘It was I who destroyed your enemies. It was I who brought you up from Egypt and for forty years led you through the desert to take possession of the Promised Land. I raised up your sons as prophets and warriors.

“ ‘But because you have turned away from the Lord, I will crush you where you stand. Flight will be cut off for the swift, and the strong will have no chance to exert his strength, nor will the warrior be able to save his life. The archer will not stand his round, the swift of foot will not escape, nor will the horseman be able to rescue the fallen warriors. Even the bravest of men will throw down his weapons and run away on that day!' ”

Finally, Brown Owl spoke. “The words of my brothers and fathers are correct. Although I have seen this man Artoor in battle and know that he is a skilled fighter, I see also that he is touched by the Great Spirit and we must honor the Spirit by letting him go.”

All of the men nodded and grunted in agreement. Then, one by one, they rose and filed out of the tepee. Outside, the elders and warriors gathered by the white prisoner. Brown Owl ordered the guards to untie him.

Art stopped speaking for the first time in nearly eighteen hours. His mouth was parched and sore, and he staggered, had to steady himself by holding onto the tree. His vision was blurred, and he blinked to gain clear sight of all those who were gathered around him. At first he did not understand what was happening.

Brown Owl signed to him that he was free. Others stepped forward and gave Art a blanket, his own hunting knife, and a parfleche of food.

“You are free to leave us, for you have the protection of the Great Spirit. Do not come back to make war with our people, or else we will fight you, and this time we will kill you,” the warrior told him.

Art took the gifts that were offered. Without a word, he walked away toward the east, away from the village. His head swam with words. His heart was full of strange emotions, but he was glad to be free. Now he would find his men, come hell or high water.

He wondered if Dog was out there somewhere waiting for him.

Percy McDill had kept the trappers' party together, but through curses and threats rather than true leadership as Art had done. Along with Caviness, he bullied and cajoled the men, Matthews, Montgomery, and Hoffman, to stay with him when they threatened to split up and go their separate ways.

He practically had to kill Hoffman early on to keep him from going back to check on Art. The Hessian was certain that McDill had done something underhanded, and the others were too, though they didn't talk about it among themselves.

“You're taking orders from me now,” McDill had told Hoffman with a sneer. “I say jump, and you jump. I say stay, and you stay. Got it?”

“Yes, sir.” Hoffman had swallowed his pride and hatred and said the words that he was born and bred to say.

“That goes for all of you men. Men,” McDill spat. “More like a bunch of women, if you ask me. I don't want no more trouble out of any of you—or else Caviness and me will deal with you.”

That had been about eight weeks ago. Now, McDill led the men back to the temporary tent-town where they had been in August, the settlement that was maintained for fur traders and trappers, where the mountain men stopped to resupply and get drunk and spend a few hours with some women.

The tents, some sod huts, and a few hastily erected log structures were the same. There may have been one or two more of each. And there were whites and a few Indians and mixed-breed children living there. There was a smoky, greasy pall over the whole encampment, a sense of impermanence and death.

McDill led the party into the settlement, coming from the opposite direction, the west, and met the stares and quizzical looks of the mountain men who happened to be there.

The big man didn't want to admit to anyone—including himself—that his leadership had been a complete failure. But he did what he did best: bluffed and blustered his way from one fiasco to another. His party had precious few pelts to trade, too few to bring back to St. Louis. This was because he was not an expert trapper, because he had not been able to stay in the mountains through the winter season when the furs were at their best. And because he wouldn't make alliances with any of the Indian tribes they had encountered on their journey after they left Art to die.

And his henchman Caviness was not very good either. The others were too green to know the ways of the wilderness well enough to salvage the mission. They knew that McDill was a lousy peacemaker—unlike Art—but they said nothing. They had decided to stick together rather than split up for the winter, and they went along with McDill's decision to return to St. Louis before the weather got too cold.

So, as they rode through this ramshackle excuse for a town, they were a pretty bedraggled, dispirited bunch. They had lost their original leader and had not recovered from that. Despite McDill's bluster, they all knew it.

He led them to a trading tent, where they offered their paltry supply of pelts—very few, and not very good—for sale to finance their trip back to St. Louis. He tried to demand the best price, but had to settle for much less. He kept all the money.

“I'm boss of this outfit and I'll take care of the money,” he said, brooking no challenge to his decision. Behind the others' backs he looked at Caviness and winked. He'd take care of his friend, and the others could go to hell, as far as he was concerned.

“We're only gonna stay for a day or two here, rest up and buy some supplies for our ride back to St. Louie. Let's find a place to camp for tonight.”

They walked their horses and gear over to a small clearing on the edge of the makeshift town. There was another two-man camp nearby with a campfire burning, the men sitting on a fallen tree trunk and tending the fire. There was a pot of coffee cooking in the fire.

McDill ordered his men to set up their camp and build their own fire, ignoring his neighbors.

After a while one of the men came over to the larger group and said, “You all are welcome to some coffee if you want.”

“Maybe later,” McDill said curtly.

“Sure we would,” Montgomery piped up, poking Matthews in the ribs, and Matthews said he would too.

“Now look, you men—” McDill sputtered. “I told you we need to stick together here. We'll fix our own supper.”

“Just tryin' to be neighborly, friend,” the man said.

Then Hoffman said, “We met you before. You're a friend of our captain, Art.”

“Yeah, I'm Jeb Law. We met before. And this here is Ed,” he added, pointing to the other mountain man with whom he was sharing the camp.

McDill cut in. “Art used to be our captain. He's dead now. I'm the leader here.”

“That so?” Jeb said, and left it at that. He returned to his own campfire. He called over to them, “You're welcome to some coffee and grub—any time.”

A little while later, Matthews and Montgomery drifted over to Jeb Law's campfire and sat down to drink a cup of coffee, the first they had drunk in many weeks. Then the Hessian, Hoffman, came over, and finally even McDill and Caviness gave in and came over, bringing their own drinking cups.

Jeb Law said, “Well, we heard you men ran into some trouble out there on the Upper Missouri.”

“We're doin' fine,” McDill said. “We did lose poor old Art. He got mauled by a big old grizz. It was painful to see him all beat up like that,” he said with phony sadness, as if he had been a good friend of the young mountain man instead of a bitter and resentful enemy.

But Jeb Law wasn't fooled. He smiled. He had an ace up his sleeve. “That so? He was dead when you left him?”

“Yeah,” Caviness lied. “We was on the run from some Indians, fought 'em off pretty good, but we had to keep moving fast.”

Matthews shifted uneasily where he was sitting. He cleared his throat and started to say something, but McDill glared at him as if to tell him to keep his mouth shut.

The German couldn't help himself. He hated McDill and Caviness. He blurted out, “No he wasn't dead. He was hurt badly. We left him with his rifle and food. We don't know what happened to him.”

“Really?” Jeb said. “Well, now, I wonder if he's the one the Injuns are all palaverin' about for the past month or so.”

“What do you mean?” McDill spat.

“There's a man they're callin' Preacher. The Blackfeet captured him—seems he was wanderin' the country after he had been attacked by a bear. He had nothin' except his knife and a buffalo robe that he made hisself—I guess he kilt a buffalo to get it. Anyhow, the story is the Injuns caught him and brought him back to their village to kill him. But he started acting crazy-like, started preaching like from the Bible. Didn't stop talking for almost a whole day. Well, mister, seems like the Blackfeet couldn't bring themselves to kill him. They let him go and started calling him Preacher. Sounds an awful lot like my old friend Art.”

McDill looked at Caviness. It was just about sundown and the shadows were long and dark. But McDill's face was white, like the moon. He and Caviness got up and left the campfire.

The others stayed and drank more coffee, and even ate some supper with Jeb and Ed. They pumped Jeb for all the information he had heard about Art. They were happy to learn that their old boss was alive and well. But the question in all their minds was: Where is he?

Art made his way back to the American Fur Company trading post on the river, commanded by Joe Walker. Along the way he had bartered for a horse from a friendly Indian, so he was able to save valuable time by riding the last fifty miles or so. Already it was past the middle of October and the days were getting shorter, the nights much colder.

He had been reunited with Dog after his captivity by the Blackfeet. The wolf-dog had remained outside the village, aware that his human companion was in trouble. He'd kept to the woods and brush throughout the day and night, and when Art had emerged a free man, he'd followed him for about a mile before showing himself. The young mountain man was glad to see his canine friend, but he wasn't surprised. Dog had proven himself many times over as reliable and faithful.

As he traveled, Art looked back on the events of the past few months. The primary mission was mostly a failure, though there had been some successful peacemaking along the way. Still, Art wouldn't have much to report to William Ashley besides his own adventures—which he could barely believe himself.

Approaching the fortlike structure he saw that, like before, the front gate was closed. The blockhouse that overlooked the gate was still empty. He almost smiled at the thought that he had been here before, that it was like being in a play and repeating the same scene over and over again. Then Dog barked, just as he had the time before, which only confirmed the feeling that Art had.

“Who goes there?” came the voice from the blockhouse.

“I'm here to see Joe Walker. My name is Art.”

“You again?” the voice said.

Minutes later Art was in Walker's lamp-lit, windowless quarters, talking to the bald-headed, bearded commander of the trading garrison.

“You don't look too healthy,” Walker said. He was smoking a pipe, and the smoke filled the cramped space. Papers and maps were strewn over the top of his desk.

“Well, I've had some tough days recently.”

“So I hear—Preacher.”

Art looked at Walker with surprise. “What did you say?”

“I called you Preacher. That's what the Indians are saying. I just did some business with an Arikara scout who told me all about it—all about your captivity by the Blackfeet. I told you they were savages.”

“They actually treated me pretty good, all things considered.” Art scratched his beard. He wanted to shave and to clean himself up. He couldn't believe that Walker had already heard of his experience with the Blackfeet. “What else are they saying about me?”

“Well,” Walker said, “there is something about a fight with a grizzly bear. Seems you won but came out the worse for wear.”

“Pretty near killed me,” Art admitted. “She was a big mother bear with a bunch of cubs. I didn't mean to bother her.”

“She couldn't have known that, I suppose. So your men left you behind, wounded?”

“They did what they had to do. I would have done the same if it was one of them.”

“And where are you going now?”

“I'm looking for my party. You remember them from when we came here in August. They been throug here?”

“Haven't seen them, but word is they're headed back to St. Louis. They don't have much by way of pelts.”

“What?”

“Don't know why, but they were seen moving east just a few days ago. Probably they'll head down toward the Platte for resupply, maybe do a little trading, then head on down the Missouri to St. Louis. I've dispatched a message to Mr. Ashley to tell him to expect them. Didn't know about you, though. I'll write him a letter to tell him I have met with you.” Walker puffed on his cigar. “And that you have a new name,” he added.

Art said, “I will tell him myself what happened to me and to our expedition. Not sure what he will think about all this.”

“Well, I hear Mr. Ashley is a reasonable man.”

“I like him and respect him.”

“I wish you good luck, sincerely. And I know you'll be back out here. You've never been a city man. You belong out in the mountains and the high plains, with men like me. That's who you are now, son.”

“Well, I've got to keep moving. I'm going to try to catch up with my men. If I move fast I can do it.”

“I have no doubt you will, Preacher. No doubt at all.”

* * *

Jennie had made a decision. She was going to go back. Maybe not all the way to St. Louis, but she was going to take her girls out of this primitive place and back into something that resembled civilization. The settlement on the Kansas and Missouri Rivers, called Westport or Kansas City, just beyond Independence, might be a place to settle. But it was hopeless out here, even though she had come to like the few bedraggled men who were trying to make a go of the little settlement.

It was getting close on to winter, so it was time to move. She told Ben and Carla Thomas and the other girls about her decision.

“I want you to pack up all your belongings and be ready to leave first thing in the morning,” she said.

Then she told the men of the settlement. They couldn't believe their ears. They were sad because they had come to like her and her girls. It was beyond their wildest dreams that Jennie and the girls from the House of Flowers had come to their little village in the first place. What would they do without her when she was gone?

“You'll be fine,” she assured them. “I'll miss you too.”

But she wasted no time in gathering her girls, reloading the wagon, and ordering Ben to drive—east this time. First she would return to the trading settlement at the junction of the Missouri and Platte Rivers, and from there decide which direction to head next.

It took two days of hard overland travel to get there.

They rolled in near the end of the second day, the sun low in the sky. Jennie sat up front in the driver's seat with her old friend Ben, the freed black man. He had stuck with her through the worst of times and hundreds of difficult miles. He did not question her decision to turn back east—in fact, he was glad she was doing it. It would be safer for her and the girls.

“Look, Ben, this is a bustling community. There are even some women here. Most of them Indian girls as far as I can see. And a lot of trappers. Hmmm, I'll bet there's some money to be made here for a person of business.”

“It's also pretty rough, Miss Jennie.” Ben rarely ventured an opinion of his own.

The encampment was nothing pretty to look at—tents and crude sod and log buildings. The men hanging around stopped as the girls passed, and waved and whistled. No doubt, they were glad to see this train pull in to their humble way station.

“Look, there are some boats,” Jennie said, pointing at some keelboats along the river's shore. “We could take a boat as far as Westport, maybe settle there for a while and see if we like it.”

“Yes, Miss Jennie,” the faithful black driver said simply. He knew by now that whatever Miss Jennie decided on was what they would do, no arguments from him.

They drove to one of the more substantial buildings, which was a fur dealer's headquarters, and Jennie went inside to get the lay of the land. She found out that they could camp anywhere they pleased, that there were no authorities in this place other than the gun and the fist, and that the trappers and traders and other men in the vicinity would be mighty glad to see them.

* * *

McDill got drunk during the second day in the sprawling tent-town. He spent a sizable chunk of the money that he had collected for the entire party's pelts. That left him with next to nothing to buy supplies, but he was too far gone by noon to care much.

He wandered the sprawling encampment looking for a woman. Any woman would do. He had almost forgotten about the time he'd been here before and the trouble he had caused by making a play for another man's squaw. But he hadn't forgotten how Art had sicced his wolf-dog on him, how Dog had bitten his knife hand and humiliated him.

“Shoulda shot that damn dog-monster when I had a chance,” he muttered to himself drunkenly. He staggered through the makeshift “streets” of the town, glassy-eyed and angry. This time nobody was going to prevent him from getting what he wanted.

He headed toward the center of the settlement, where the Eastern fur traders had set up their frontier offices. A better class of people was living there, he had convinced himself. Maybe that meant a better class of woman.

Putting his hands in his pockets, he realized that he had very little money left. He'd given Caviness ten dollars off the top of their meager take, just to keep his friend off his back. The others were going to be mad when they found out he had spent all his money on liquor—and maybe a whore.

“Damn them to hell anyway,” he breathed. “They got out of this thing with their lives, which is more than that young Indian-lover woulda done for 'em.” Despite Art's skills and easy way with people, McDill wasn't about to give him credit for anything. “Like to get us scalped with his Injun-palaver. If I hadn't been there on the island, I don't know what woulda happened. Saved all of our damned lives . . .”

Percy McDill looked up and couldn't believe what he was seeing. There, directly in front of him, were the girls from the House of Flowers in St. Louis. At first he thought he was dreaming or maybe somehow imagining this sight. He had never gone into the famous house of prostitution— the likes of him couldn't afford the fancy prices for fancy women. But he had hung out nearby enough to recognize a few of the faces and figures of these girls.

What were they doing way out here in this Godforsaken place? A jumble of thoughts clogged up his brain and he couldn't think straight, couldn't figure out what was going on. All he knew was that he wanted a woman and here were some women. How lucky could a man get?

He smiled evilly and staggered forward.

* * *

Art wasn't sure why, but something propelled him forward. He rode without stopping to sleep, only to rest and water his horse. Turned out it was a good bargain, this horse: very sturdy and reliable and didn't seem to mind Dog tagging along for the ride. From Joe Walker, Art had obtained a rifle, shot and powder, a new canteen, a new saddlebag for food and supplies. He was all set now, and with each mile he felt stronger and more determined to find the men he had once commanded.

He hoped Hoffman, Montgomery, and Matthews were all right. He hoped McDill and Caviness were healthy too, so he could beat the hell out of them. He had no doubt that McDill had bullied the others and lied to them to make them do whatever he wanted. That was his way.

He remembered the first time he had encountered Percy McDill, in the tavern in St. Louis. The big man had been full of it then, a coward at heart, selfish, with nothing good to say about another human being. McDill had been so cocksure that the job of leading the expedition for Mr. Ashley would be his. And he'd been so angry when the assignment went to Art . . . and a thorn in Art's side ever since.

Late in the afternoon of the third day out of Walker's fort, Art rode into the tent city at the junction of the Missouri and the Platte. There was something familiar about the look and feel of the place, the men who populated it—for they were his kind of people, men of the mountains. As he rode through, he got more than a few hellos and howdies.

They looked at him differently, however. That dad-blasted preacher story must have gotten to them too, he mused. He looked around for someone he knew well.

He found what he was looking for. There was Jeb Law, his old friend. Art rode over to Jeb's campsite. The old man looked up from his fire, broke out into a big grin. “Well, if it ain't my oldest and dearest friend and—” He looked down at the lean and hungry Dog. “And his pal Dog.”

Art dismounted and shook Jeb's rough hand. Jeb looked him over, from head to foot.

“You be needin' a good meal, son. Let me fix you up some beans. Got coffee cookin' on the fire. Take a load off'n your feet.”

“Thanks, Jeb. Good to see you too.”

The two men sat. Jeb Law looked directly into the younger mountain man's eyes and said, “You came to the right place if'n you're lookin' for your explorin' party. They're right here.”

“McDill and the others?” Art wasn't surprised except that it had taken him a lot less time than he had thought. He calculated that they'd be well on their way to St. Louis by now. McDill didn't like to linger in places like this, especially since he'd gotten in trouble over a woman last time through.

“They're all alive,” Jeb said.

“I'll be damned. Well, that's a good thing. Guess they didn't need me after all.”

“Ha! You should see the long hound-dog looks on those men. They sure missed you. They thought you was dead.”

“McDill. He told them that, didn't he.”

Jeb nodded. “Sure thing. The others didn't like it one bit when they found out he had lied to them. Other than that one that's joined to him at the hip—what's his name?”

“Caviness.”

“Yep. He and Caviness are a pair of evil children if'n I ever laid eyes on any in my whole miserable life.” Jeb smiled. “And you are a sight for sore eyes, boy. Here, have some of old Jeb's coffee. Best brew west of Nowhere.”

Dog sidled up next to Art, sat alertly right beside his leg. The coffee slid hotly into Art's belly, and he felt the effects of no food in three days.

“I told them all about you bein' called Preacher and all that. They were sure surprised.”

“Now, where did you hear about that?”

“I hear things. Don't take long for stories to get passed around out here. You know that. And it was a pretty good yarn, about how you killed a bear and wandered around wounded and got yerself captured by Injuns. I said to myself, ‘That sounds just like the Art I know.”' He grinned, showing the few yellow teeth he had left. “Sure 'nuff, it were you!”