Preacher's Peace (5 page)

“Who signs the letter?”

“We all heard Eby wager the girl to this young fella. That means she belongs to him, until he gives her freedom. I reckon he'll have to sign it. Can you write your name, mister?”

“Yes,” Art said. “I can write my name.”

The man stuck out his hand. “The name is P. Edward Kane. I've done some lawyerin'. I can fix up the letter for you for two dollars.”

Art took two dollars from his pocket and handed it to the man. “Here's my two dollars,” he said.

“It'll need two witnesses,” Kane said.

“I'll be one of the witnesses,” the man who had shot Eby said. “The name is Clyde Barnes.”

“And I'll be the other,” another trapper said. “The name is Pierre Garneau.”

Jennie held the precious paper in her hand. Showing this to Constable Billings would validate her claim to be a free woman. She held the paper to her breast and thanked the Lord for her freedom. Then, opening the paper up, she studied the three signatures: Clyde Barnes, Pierre Garneau, and the most important one of all, Art. Only Art. Even in this document, he had used the only name she knew him by. She thanked the Lord for Art too, for the man who had made her freedom, her new life possible.

The man she knew, she thought. She smiled. She knew him, all right; she knew him that night in what is sometimes referred to as the biblical sense. For that night, she had made a man of the boy, and he had made a woman of her, touching her soul for the first and only time in her entire life.

It was just after midnight, about six weeks since Art had begun his trek from Rendezvous, and the campfire was now little more than a scattering of orange-glowing coals. Both Art and Dog were sleeping nearby. Art had made his encampment in a meadow at the river's edge, about one hundred yards from the edge of a thick forest. A full moon illuminated the scene in shades of silver and black.

The night had come alive with the sounds of nature: the whispering river, wind sighing through the trees, and night creatures from frogs to cicadas. Two men emerged from the trees, interrupting this peaceful scene.

“There it is, Cally! I see the boat!”

“Well, why don't you just shout it out, Angus?” Cally replied.

“I see the boat,” Angus said again, much quieter this time.

“I see it too.”

“What you think he's got on that boat?”

“I seen 'im from the ridge just afore he landed. Don't know for sure what he's a-carryin', but my guess would be beaver pelts.”

“Beaver pelts?” Angus said. “When you ask me to come along with you, I thought maybe we was goin' to rob a trader, carryin' whiskey and the like. What do we want with beaver pelts?”

“Beaver pelts is the same as gold back in St. Louis.”

“How we goin' to get 'em to St. Louis?”

“Same way he was doin' it. We're not only goin' to take his pelts, we're goin' to take his boat. Get your gun out, make sure it's loaded.”

“It's loaded, all right,” Angus said as he pulled his pistol from his belt.

* * *

Dog growled quietly, then sat up, fully alert. The sudden movement awakened Art. Opening his eyes, he saw two men moving awkwardly across the open field, clearly illuminated in the moonlight. Dog growled again, standing with his back arched menacingly.

“I see them, Dog,” Art said. Slowly he reached for his rifle and pulled it toward him, cocking it at the same time.

Dog stood up, but as yet made no move toward the men.

“Wait,” Art said under his breath. Without moving, Art lay as if he were asleep, all the while watching the two men approach. When they got within twenty yards, Art suddenly sat up. “Now!” he said.

Dog leaped forward as if he were on springs. Within ten feet of the two men, he hunkered down on his hind legs, ready to pounce again. He growled, baring his fangs.

“You two boys better hold it right there,” Art said. He did not have to shout, but spoke as if he were chatting with them in a parlor. “If you move again, Dog will rip open your throats.”

“He—he can't get both of us,” Cally said.

“What makes you think he can't? How long do you think it would take for him to rip out your windpipe?”

Still growling, Dog inched even closer. He had their scents now, something his wolf-brain would never forget. They were as good as dead if he felt they posed a deadly danger to Art.

“No!” Angus said. “Call off your dog, mister. Call him off!”

“Put your guns down on the ground,” Art ordered calmly. By now he was on his feet, walking forward, pointing his rifle at them.

“Suppose we just put our guns back in our belts and walk away,” Cally said.

“Put them on the ground,” Art repeated. “Only, do it real slow. You don't want to upset Dog now, do you?”

“No, no, we don't want to upset him,” Cally said. “Do what he says, Angus.”

Holding their guns, they started to bend down.

“Turn the guns around,” Art said. “Hold them by the ends of the barrels.”

“Mister, these things is loaded and charged,” Cally said. “We'd be fools to hold them by the ends of the barrels.”

“You'll be dead if you don't,” Art said, moving his rifle menacingly to cover Cally.

“All right, all right,” Cally said. First Cally, and then Angus, turned their pistols around so they were holding them by the ends of the barrels. Then, bending over, they put their guns down, all under the watchful eyes of Dog and Art.

“It's after midnight. Seems to me that's a little late to be making a sociable visit on a man's camp. So, what are you boys doing here?” Art asked.

“Nothing,” Cally replied. “We just seen the boat tied up and was sort of wonderin' who you was and what you was doin' here.”

“Who I am is none of your business,” Art said. “And as to what I'm doing here, I was trying to get a little rest.”

“What are you carryin' on that boat of your'n?”

“That's none of your business either,” Art said. He made a waving motion with his rifle. “I expect you two boys better get on now.”

“What about our guns?”

“Leave 'em.”

“Them guns cost money, mister. We can't just leave 'em here.”

“Come back for them in the mornin'. I'll leave 'em in the river.”

“By the river?”

“In the river.”

“They'll get all rusted.”

“Clean them. Now, get.” Art made another wave with his rifle, and the two men, with one final look at Dog, turned and started walking quickly back across the meadow. By the time they reached the tree line, they were both running.

Art laughed, then rubbed Dog behind the ears. “Well, now, Dog,” he said. “You're turnin' into a pretty good partner to a man.”

Blackfoot Village, Upper Missouri
River,
Monday, July 5, 1824

Because Wak Tha Go had a sister who was married to a Blackfoot Indian, he was welcomed in the village of the Blackfeet. This was good, because he was no longer welcome in the village of the Arikara. Four young men who had followed him when he led the war party on an adventure had been killed. The wives and mothers, the sisters and brothers of those who were killed were angry with Wak Tha Go.

In this way Wak Tha Go was eating dinner in the lodge of his sister when her husband, Yellow Dog, came to him.

“Crazy Wolf is holding a council now, and he wants you to come,” Yellow Dog said.

“I will come,” Wak Tha Go said. He finished the last of the piece of meat he was eating. Wiping his fingers on his chest, he followed the husband of his sister through the village and to the circle where the council was meeting.

They were seated around the fire. Wak Tha Go sat in the outer ring of the circle. If he sat in the inner circle, and had been asked to move back, it would have brought him dishonor. By sitting in the outer circle, it would bring him honor to be invited to move closer to the fire, which he fully expected to happen.

“Wak Tha Go,” Crazy Wolf said. “Come, sit in the inner circle with the elders of this band.”

There were a few grunts of recognition and respect as Wak Tha Go, his presence now honored by Crazy Wolf's invitation, moved to the inner circle.

“I will tell a story,” Crazy Wolf said simply once Wak Tha Go was seated.

“During the geese-flying time, white soldiers made war on the Arikara people. They came in the night, while the people slept, and they killed many and set fire to the tepees and burned food and blankets. They also stole many horses, but Wak Tha Go, who is a brave warrior, did not forget what the white soldiers did, and he made war against them. But now the Arikara want war no more, and The Peacemaker has said that he will make peace with the white soldiers. But Wak Tha Go will not make peace with the white soldiers, so he has come to us, the Blackfoot people. So I say, from this day until there are no more days, Wak Tha Go will be a Blackfoot.”

Crazy Wolf pointed to Wak Tha Go as he spoke, and the others smiled and congratulated him for making war against the white soldiers, and for coming to join them.

“Wak Tha Go, will you speak now?” Crazy Wolf said.

Nodding, Wak Tha Go stood, then turned to face the other Indians.

“I have heard that the Blackfeet turn away the white trappers who come to your land to hunt the beaver.

“I have heard that the warriors of the Blackfeet have fought bravely and well against the trappers while other villages and nations surrender to the white trappers.

“I have heard that there is no warrior more fierce than a warrior of the Blackfeet.”

“Ai, yi, yi, yieee!!!” the others cheered.

“What would you have of us, Wak Tha Go?” Crazy Wolf asked. “You have abandoned your people because the Arikara want to make peace with the whites? Have you come to bring the word of peace from your people?”

“No,” Wak Tha Go answered resolutely. “I have come to the Blackfeet because only the Blackfeet will make war. The Arikara are no longer my people. They are more rabbits than people. I belong to the Piegan Blackfeet.”

“Show us that you are deserving,” Crazy Wolf said. “Become a leader of our warriors.”

“I will,” Wak Tha Go answered, and his response was greeted by more cheering.

The council was not yet over, but Wak Tha Go left. He knew that it was better to leave while they wanted him to stay, than it was to stay when they wanted him to go.

He would lead a war party of Blackfeet warriors, and he would count many coups and he would steal many things. But what he wanted to do more than anything else was to kill Artoor, the white man he had seen on the boat. Wak Tha Go had learned Artoor's name from Tetonka, the Mandan who had traded with him.

He put in at LaClede's Landing in St. Louis after two months on the river. Even from the river, he could see that the city had changed a lot since he was last here many years before. Missouri was a state in the Union of States now, and St. Louis had grown from a frontier town to a bustling, prosperous city of nearly ten thousand people. That was a lot of people—too many people for someone like Art who had grown accustomed to life in the wilderness and going for days or weeks without seeing another human soul.

A friendly hand ashore took the rope Art tossed to him, and made the boat secure.

“You'll be wantin' to sell them furs, I reckon,” the man said.

“You buying?” Art asked.

“No, Mr. Ashley does the buying. I just work for him.”

“That would be William Ashley?”

“Yes, sir. You know him, I expect.”

“I know of him. If he's the one buying, I'm selling.”

“Very good, sir. If you'll permit me, I'll get the plews loaded and down to Ashley's office.”

“I'd appreciate that,” Art said, surprised to find someone so helpful upon his arrival. He hoped for his sake that the man was honest as well.

Fifteen minutes later the pelts were loaded onto an oxcart and hauled down to Ashley's office. Art sat with his fur bundles, his legs dangling over the back as the cart rolled up Market Street. Dog followed along behind the cart, seeming not to mind the people and the traffic everywhere. Of course, the people gave Dog a wide berth.

St. Louis was a vibrant city, alive with the pulse of commerce and enterprise: the scream of a steam-powered sawmill, the sound of steamboat whistles from the river, the hiss and boom of the boats' engines, and the clatter of wagons rolling across cobblestone streets. To someone used to solitude so quiet that he could hear the flutter of a bird's wings, the noise of civilization was almost unbearable.

The cart stopped in front of a two-story building. A neatly painted sign out front read:
FURS BOUGHT AND SOLD, WILLIAM ASHLEY, PROP.

Even before Art dismounted, a dignified-looking man, wearing mustard-colored trousers and a blue jacket, came out of the building and began looking Art's load over. The man's whiskers were neatly trimmed, his hands clean, his eyes bright and direct.

“You've got some good-looking plews here,” he said.

“Would you be Ashley?” Art asked.

“Indeed that is who I am, sir, William Ashley, at your service.” He bowed slightly, politely, but not in servility.

“Then you're the man Clyde told me to look up.”

“Clyde?”

“Clyde Barnes.”

“Ah, yes,” Ashley said, smiling. “I know of Mr. Barnes. How is he?”

“He's dead. Killed by Indians on our way downriver.”

“I'm sincerely sorry to hear that. Blackfeet?”

“Arikara.”

“I see. Well, the Blackfeet have always been hostile to our fur-trading enterprise, but the problem with the Arikara is more recent.”

“Is it true that a couple of your men traded bad whiskey to the Arikara for pelts?”

“Word does get around, doesn't it?” Ashley said. “Yes, unfortunately it is true. The men were working for me. But the idea of trading whiskey for plews was their own. I don't do business that way, never have, and never will. Believe me, Mr. McDill and Mr. Caviness were severely reprimanded.”

“Reprimanded? What does that mean?”

“It means I gave them a good scolding.”

“People have gotten killed over that, and more people are likely to get killed, and all you did was give them a scolding?”

“I have no authority to do anything more to them,” Ashley said. “I'm not the law.”

“I reckon not.”

“What's your name, sir?” Ashley asked.

“Art,” the young trapper said simply.

“Art? Art what?”

“Just Art.”

“Well, I reckon if Art is enough for you, it's enough for me,” Ashley said.

Since leaving home at an early age, Art had made a point of never using his last name. This way, he figured, he would never do anything that would bring dishonor to his family back in Ohio. He needn't have worried about such a thing, for so far in his young life, he had been the epitome of honorable conduct. It was the way of the man that the onetime runaway boy had become.

“That your animal?” Mr. Ashley asked, pointing to Dog, who stood at alert between the cart and Art.

“Not mine, but we have traveled a piece together.”

“Tell you what, Art. Give me a day to get your plews counted and graded. Come on back tomorrow morning and I'll have your money.”

“All right,” Art agreed. He started to leave, then caught himself and turned back. “Do you suppose I could have twenty dollars now?” he asked.

Ashley chuckled knowingly. He had dealt with mountain men for a long time. “Want to take advantage of the big city, do you? Yes, of course you can. You can have much more than that, if you need it.”

“Twenty is enough.”

“Come on inside.”

Art followed Ashley into his storehouse. As the door opened, a little bell attached to the top of the door rang. Surprised, Art looked up at it.

Ashley chuckled. “If I'm in the back, that little bell lets me know when someone comes in,” he explained.

The back of the store that Ashley mentioned was his counting and grading room. A counter separated the front of the store from the back, and through a door that led into the back, Art could see several long tables around which men were working.

Ashley went around behind the counter, took twenty dollars from a strongbox, then opened a ledger book and wrote Art's name in it. Beside Art's name he wrote, “Twenty dollars on advance.” He turned the book around and handed the quill pen to Art. “Make your mark here,” he said.

“I can read and write,” Art said.

“A mountain man who can read and write? I'm impressed.”

“Mr. Ashley, do you know a man by the name of Seamus O'Connor?”

“Seamus O'Connor? It doesn't ring a bell with me.”

“He owned a place called the Irish Tavern. I used to have friends who spent time there: a man named Tony, another named James O'Leary.”

“Ah, yes, I remember them. O'Leary was a big strapping fellow. And the other—Tony, you say? They worked for Ed Gordon down at the wagon-freight yard.”

“Yes!” Art said, smiling broadly. “That's them. Do you know where I can find them?”

Ashley shook his head sadly. “They're dead, son. Both of them.”

“What? How?”

“They were unloading a riverboat when the boiler exploded. Killed Gordon and six of his men, including your two friends Tony and James.”

“Oh.”

“Sorry to have to be the one to tell you.”

“That's all right,” Art said. “Those things happen.” He held up the silver coins. “Thanks for the advance.”

With Dog alongside, Art left the store and walked on up Market Street, looking for the Irish Tavern. It was no more. In its place was something called the Joseph LaBarge Tavern. Art was standing in front of it, looking it over, when he heard a woman's voice call out from just inside the building.

“No, please, don't! It was an accident!”

“You bitch! I'll teach you to be clumsy around me!” a harsh voice said. The voice was followed by a smacking sound and as Art looked up, he saw a young woman propelled backward through the open front door. She fell on the porch, and a large, gross-looking man stomped out of the saloon behind her.

“Please,” the young woman begged. “I didn't mean to spill the beer on you.” She tried to get up, but as she did so, the big ugly man hit her again, knocking her back down onto the porch. She rolled over onto her hands and knees and tried to escape him that way, but he followed after her and kicked her. She cried out in pain.

Art stepped up onto the porch behind the man.

“I'll learn you to spill beer on me, you worthless whore. I'll kick your ass clear into Illinois,” the man growled at the young woman, who was still cowering on the wooden planks of the porch.

“Sir?” Art said from just behind the man.

“What do you . . .” the man started to ask, but he was unable to finish his question because as soon as he turned toward Art, the young mountain man brought the butt of his rifle up in a smashing blow to the man's face. The blow knocked out two of the man's teeth, broke his nose, and sent a stream of blood gushing down across his mouth and into his beard. If he hadn't been ugly before, he certainly was now. His eyes rolled up into his head, and he dropped heavily to the porch.

The young woman, now on her knees, looked on in shock and fear as Art reached his hand for her.

“Ma'am, may I help you up?” he asked.

The woman made no effort to take his hand.

“Don't be afraid. No one's going to hurt you anymore,” Art said. His hand was still extended toward her.

Hesitantly, the woman took his hand, and Art pulled her to her feet.

“I—I didn't mean to spill the beer,” she said. “But he grabbed me as I walked by. I was startled. I couldn't help it. I tried to explain and apologize, but he wouldn't listen.”

“Ma'am, you don't owe an explanation or an apology to anyone,” Art said reassuringly. “Least of all to a pig like him. Why don't you come back inside and sit down until you feel better.”

“Thank you,” the young woman said.

Art led her back toward the front door of the saloon, which was still open, and now crowded with many patrons who, drawn by the commotion out front, had come to the door to see what was going on. They made way for Art, the woman, and Dog.

“Hey!” the man behind the bar called. “You can't bring your dog in here.”

“He's not my dog, and I'm not bringing him anywhere, he's just with me.”

“Get him out of here.”

“You get him out,” Art said.

“You two, get him out,” the man behind the bar said, pointing to a couple of the patrons. The two men started toward Dog, but he bared his wolflike fangs at them and growled. They stopped in their tracks.

“Get him yourself, LaBarge,” one of them said.

LaBarge came out from behind the bar, looked at Dog, then shrugged. “He can stay if he don't cause no trouble,” he said.

The others laughed.

Art walked all the way to the rear of the saloon, then chose a chair that put his back to the wall and gave him a good view of the entire room. Dog trotted along with him, then curled up alongside. Art was sitting next to an iron stove. The stove was cold and empty now, but still smelled of smoke and charcoal from its winter use. Once again, the proprietor, LaBarge, came out from behind the bar.

“Carla, I expect you'd better get back to work now,” LaBarge said.

“Yes, Mr. LaBarge.”

“Give her a chance to catch her breath,” Art said.

“You paying her wages, mister?” LaBarge asked.

“No.”

“I am. So she'll do what I say. Get back to work, Carla. And be more careful 'bout spilling beer on the customers.”

“Yes, sir,” Carla said. Looking at Art, she smiled. “What can I get you?”

“A beer.”

“It's on the house,” LaBarge said.

“Thanks.”

“I reckon you done what you thought was right, hittin' Shardeen like that. But it's goin' to get you kilt. Shardeen ain't a man you want to mess with.”

A moment later Carla brought Art his beer and, smiling shyly, set it in front of him. From the folds of her dress, she removed a couple of boiled eggs, wet from the brine in which they were stored. “These here two hen's eggs is from me,” she said.

“Thank you, Carla,” Art said, smiling up at her.

Carla walked away, and had just returned to the bar when the front door burst open and the man Art had encountered, the one LaBarge had called Shardeen, rushed inside. He was carrying two charged pistols, one in either hand.

“Where is that son of a bitch!” he yelled angrily. His nose was flattened almost beyond recognition, his eyes were black and shiny, and his beard was matted with blood.

When Shardeen entered, everyone else in the saloon scattered, moving so quickly that chairs tumbled over and tables were pushed out of the way. Art's rifle was leaning against the wall behind him. It was loaded, but not primed, so even if he could get to it, it wouldn't do him any good at this moment.

Seeing Art in the back of the saloon, Shardeen let out a loud bellow and shot at him. There was a flash of fire and a puff of smoke. The bullet crashed into the smokestack of the stove, sending out a puff of soot. With a shout of frustrated anger over his miss, Shardeen raised his other pistol and fired it as well. This one slammed into the wall behind Art. Art had not moved a muscle since the big man had entered the tavern.

Dog jumped up and growled at Shardeen.

“No, Dog,” Art said quietly. “I'd better handle this myself.”

With both pistols empty, Shardeen pulled his knife and, with an angry roar, rushed across the room toward Art. Now Art moved. He pulled his own knife and waited for him. At the last moment, Art danced to one side, rather like a bullfighter avoiding a charge, and like a bullfighter, thrust toward Shardeen. His knife went in smoothly, just under Shardeen's rib cage. With a grunt, Shardeen stopped, then staggered and fell. Art twisted his knife so that, as Shardeen went down, the brute's own weight caused the blade to open him up, spilling blood and steaming intestines. Art pulled the knife out. Shardeen fell face down on the floor, flopped a couple of times like a fish out of water, and then was still.