Preacher's Peace (13 page)

Jennie and Carla rode in the wagon bed as old Ben, Jennie's longtime driver, handled the reins and gently slapped the horses forward. They were heading West. Four other girls rode in the second wagon, and they would share the driving duties, following Ben's lead. The only problem was, they weren't sure exactly where they were going, other than West. There was precious little in the way of civilization out there beyond St. Louis, and all of them were more than a bit scared at the prospect of leaving behind the place and the people who were so familiar to them. But they sympathized with Jennie's plight and wanted to support her—and they trusted her to take care of them.

Her mind, though, was occupied with thoughts of Art and where he might be, and whether she would ever see him again....

She remembered when they met, how Art had been such a boy, and how he had tried to be her friend. He didn't know how the world worked then. He didn't know about slavery and the evil things that men do to each other. He'd found out quickly enough—those were dark days when Jennie had been owned as property, and used as property by her masters and other men. Lucas Younger had been one such owner. Art had joined up with the Younger party one time, and he and Jennie had become friends.

One day they talked as she sat in the back of the moving wagon. Art was riding close behind to be with her and try to comfort her.

“Why do you call your pa Mr. Younger?” he had said. He didn't know any better.

Jennie looked at Art, surprised, shocked even at his naïveté. She said: “He ain't my pa.”

“Oh, I see. He's your step-pa then? He married your ma, is that it?”

At that, Jennie shook her head. “Mrs. Younger ain't my ma.”

“They ain't your ma and pa?”

“No. They're my owners.”

“Owners? What do you mean, owners?”

“I'm their slave girl. I thought you knowed that.”

“No, I didn't know that,” Art said. “Fact is, I don't know as I've ever knowed a white slave girl.”

“I ain't exactly white,” Jennie said quietly.

“You're not?”

“I'm a Creole. My grandma was black.”

“But how can you be their slave? You don't do no work for'em,” Art said. “I mean . . . no offense meant, but I ain't never seen you do nothin' like get water or firewood, or help out Mrs. Younger with the cookin'.”

“No,” Jennie said quietly. “But gathering firewood, or helping in the kitchen, ain't the only way of workin'. There's other ways . . . ways that”—she stopped talking for a moment—“ways that I won't trouble you with.”

“You mean, like what you was doin' with all them men last night?”

At that moment, Jennie cut a quick glance toward him. The expression on her face was one of total mortification. “You . . . you seen what I was doin'?”

“No, I didn't really see nothin' more'n a bunch of men linin' up at the back of the wagon. Even when I went to bed, I couldn't see what was goin' on on the other side of the tarp.”

“Do you . . . do you know what I was doing in there?”

Art shook his head. “Not really,” he said. “I got me an idea that you was doin' what painted ladies do. Only thing is, I don't rightly know what that is.”

Jennie looked at him in surprise for a moment; then her face changed and she laughed.

“What is it? What's so funny?” Art asked.

“You are,” she said. “You are still just a boy after all.”

“I ain't no boy,” Art said resolutely. “I done killed me a man. I reckon that's made me man enough.”

The smile left Jennie's face, and she put her hand on his shoulder. “I reckon it does at that,” she said.

“You don't like doin' what Younger is makin' you do, do you?”

“No. I hate it,” Jennie said resolutely. “It's—it's the worst thing you can imagine.”

“Then why don't you leave?”

“I can't. I belong to 'em. Besides, if'n I left, where would I go? What would I do? I'd starve to death if I didn't have someone lookin' out for me.”

“I don't know,” Art said. “But seems to me like anything would be better than this.”

“What about you? Are you going to stay with the Youngers?”

“Only as long as it takes to get to St. Louis,” Art replied. “Then I'll go out on my own.”

“Have you ever been to St. Louis?” Jennie asked.

“No, have you?”

Jennie shook her head. “No, I haven't. Mr. Younger says it's a big and fearsome place, though.”

“I'll bet you could find a way to get on there,” Art said. “I'll bet you could find work. The kind of work that wouldn't make you have to paint yourself up and be with men.”

“I'd be afraid. If I try to get away, Mr. Younger will send the slave catchers after me.”

“Slave catchers? What are slave catchers?”

“They are fearsome men who hunt down runaway slaves. They are paid to find the runaways, and bring 'em back to their masters. They say that the slave hunters always find who they are lookin' for. And most of the time they give 'em a whippin' before they bring 'em back. I ain't never been whipped.”

“I can see where a colored runaway might be easy to find. But you don't look colored. How would they find you? Don't be afraid. I'll help you get away.”

“How would you do that?”

“Easy,” Art said with more confidence than he really felt. “I aim to leave the Youngers soon's we get to St. Louis. When I go, I'll just take you with me, that's all. You bein' white and all, you could pass for my sister. No one's goin' to take you for a runaway. Why, I'll bet you could fine a job real easy”

“Maybe I could get on with someone looking after their children,” Jennie suggested. “I'm real good at looking after children. You really will help me?”

“Yes,” Art replied. He spat in the palm of his hand, then held it out toward Jennie.

“What . . . what is that?” Jennie asked, recoiling from his proffered hand.

“It's a spit promise,” Art said. “That's about the most solemn promise there is.”

Smiling, Jennie spat in her own hand as well, then reached out to take Art's hand in hers. They shook on the deal.

* * *

Now Jennie was on the move again. She had achieved her dream of living in St. Louis, but had seen the dream shattered by evil men and women who hated her for her race and her profession. Had the world changed at all since that day she and Art had made their spit promise? How she wished she could see him here by the side of this wagon as she headed West again.

How many times had she been bought and sold since she was a young girl—the girl Art saw when they first met? Both of them had been sold as slaves after that, but he had escaped and fled into the mountains, become a man whom other men respected. Well, in the last decade she had become a successful businesswoman. No one had owned her. Respect was harder to come by, though, for a beautiful Creole woman who lived by her wits and her body.

Yet she knew one thing. She would never be a slave again. She would die first. That much was certain.

Art's party of trappers rode west along the upper reaches of the wide and wild Missouri. All were alert to the danger that they knew lurked behind every stand of trees and every hill. They kept to the lowest point everywhere they went, and on the third day out from the fort Art led them onto an old Indian trail that looked well traveled. It took them up to a shallow tributary of the Missouri River and into a wide ravine that gave them shelter and hid them from view throughout most of the day's travel.

The floor of the ravine was wide, and most of it was the streambed, nearly two hundred yards across, sandy and rocky. Along each side of the river were low bluffs, almost black in color from the dark earth and the shadows when the sun did not strike them directly. As the ravine opened to the high plain ahead, there was a small island, only about fifty yards long and thirty yards wide. It was dense with willow, alder, and a few tall cottonwoods standing proudly. It took Art's men the remainder of the day to reach the little island.

“We'll camp there tonight,” Art said, pointing to the island. He turned his horse into the cold stream. Dog followed, then ran ahead, leaping from the water that wasn't even chest-high to him onto the dry, brushy shore of the island. He immediately went to explore its length and breadth.

“Yes, sir,” Herman Hoffman said unthinkingly, the first words he had spoken for the entire day. He was dependable, though Art wondered what kind of trapper he would make. Still, it was none of his concern.

McDill and Caviness grumbled something about Art's decision, but they were wise enough not to share it with the rest of the party. The cousins, Montgomery and Matthews, willingly led their pack animals across the wide, shallow stream onto the island, without a word of protest. Green they might be, but they knew enough to follow their leader's orders for their own safety

They all ate a light, cold supper. Art and Hoffman, along with Dog, took the first watch after dark, followed by McDill and Caviness. The youngsters took the final watch, which would last until breakfast time.

They kept the horses together in a tight circle at the center of the island, tethered to the strong cottonwood trees. Art had insisted on this, even though McDill had laughed at such seemingly needless precautions.

* * *

Wak Tha Go had formed a party of twelve men, including himself, from the Blackfoot village. He had hoped for more, since he had announced Running Elk's “prophecy” that the white trappers would be annihilated by the Blackfeet. But he thought he would have more than enough strength, outnumbering the whites two-to-one—in country familiar to the Indians and strange to the trappers.

He was dressed in full war costume, wearing buckskin leggings and moccasins elaborately trimmed with beads and feathers, with a single eagle feather fastened in his scalp lock. He wore a white buffalo robe, which was very rare, tanned and soft, over his otherwise-naked torso. And his face was painted in lines of red and black, which gave him a fierce, menacing appearance to anyone who might meet him in battle.

The others were similarly dressed. Each warrior carried a rifle or musket, as well as arrows and a hand ax for closeup, hand-to-hand fighting and scalping. The war party rode out from the village before dawn, heading southwest to where their scouts had said the white men were camped on an island in the river.

As their leader, Wak Tha Go rode about two horse lengths ahead of his men, so they could admire his courage and fierce appearance. The enemy, too, would be cowed by his warrior's paint and regalia, he knew.

He had told the braves his strategy the night before, when one of the scouts had returned with word that the whites were making camp. “We will ride up to their camp in the early morning and attack before they leave, while they are unprepared.” He planned to approach from the east, with the rising sun at their backs. It was a simple attack plan that should work easily.

Nothing would give him greater satisfaction than wiping out the white trappers and counting coup on their property. They could use the horses and rifles too. It was going to be a good day to have a fight.

* * *

Art rose before sunup and folded his bedroll neatly and began packing his horse. He did not light a fire. Something told him that they should not this morning. He didn't know why, but he had learned to follow his instincts on such things.

Dog was patrolling the island, sniffing and snooping around in the underbrush. He also kept an eye on the horses, which whickered nervously whenever he was close by. He seemed to enjoy making them nervous, Art thought.

“Come here, boy,” he said, tearing a piece of jerky in half and tossing it toward Dog. He chewed on the other half himself. He was hungry, but he had learned to live with hunger as a fact of life in the wilderness. Dog too, being half wolf, instinctively knew to eat when it was available because he could not know the next time there might be an opportunity.

The other men began to get up to face the new day on the trail. Art watched them. There had been plenty of time for him to form judgments of these men. And there was no question that, other than McDill and Caviness, he liked them; in fact, he respected all of them, even the two hostile ones, for their trail sense and ability to adapt to new, sometimes dangerous conditions away from the city. He only wished there was more of a chance for peace with the Indian tribes—then all of his party would have better prospects for survival and profit from pelts, as would Mr. Ashley himself.

But Art couldn't take on the whole world by himself. He had to have friends and allies to change the ways of the frontier. It was a daunting task. How could you change men? Take McDill, a born bully and a bad man. Still, in a fight he would be a valuable man to have on your side. The Hessian, Hoffman, was another case: a good heart and fiercely loyal to his leader. The others too were fighters with whom Art could trust his life. If it ever came to that . . .

Just then he heard the war shrieks coming from the other side of the riverbed, from atop the bluffs there to the northeast of the camp. He jumped upright and snatched up his rifle, checked the load.

“Everybody up! We've got trouble!” he called to the men.

From a slow, deliberate waking, they all leaped to their feet, guns in hand.

“What the hell?” McDill sputtered.

Again the war whoops arose, high-pitched and threatening.

“We're being attacked,” Art said simply. “And we better be prepared to defend ourselves. They're coming in from over there,” he said, pointing across the flat, shallow river. The rising sun lit the black bluff from behind, and skylined atop the ridge there were several Indians on horseback, brandishing their war spears.

They knew better than to stay there. After a minute to show themselves and, they hoped, to scare the white men on the island, they rode down to the other side—all but one. That one, a tall man with a single feather on his head and his face painted, remained visible and defiant, as if he were challenging them to take a shot at him.

Art was tempted to do just that, but until he knew how many of them there were and where they were coming from, he held off shooting anybody.

He turned to the others. “McDill and Hoffman, you two take the rear and see if any of them are attacking from the other side of the river. I doubt it, but we just don't know for sure.” Those two turned and went to their positions.

To the others, he said, “Caviness and Montgomery, take the left—over there by those trees—and Matthews and I will take the right. If the Indians split up their party to attack from two ways, we'll be covered. If we see them coming from just one direction, we'll regroup to face them there. Okay?”

“Yes, Boss,” Montgomery said, and saluted smartly.

Caviness grumbled something about how they were likely to die today, all because of Art—or something like that.

Art paid no attention to the grumbling. He and Matthews turned, moved over to some tall scrub to their right, and hunkered down there, rifles at the ready, powder and shot close at hand for reloading.

He had divided up the men to put one quick loader with one slower man. He was the quicker between Matthews and himself. McDill was quicker than the Hessian, and Montgomery was lightning-fast on the reload, while Caviness was slow as molasses. Art could only hope for the best, hope that each man and each pair would hold position. The trouble was, how many Indians were about to attack?

The men could only wait. Then the attack came. From atop the bluff the tall Indian, who certainly was the leader of the raid, rode straight down the side of the bluff, his horse kicking up black dirt and rocks as he came. He gave out a high-pitched war cry that was answered by the others.

To the left, from where Art's men were, a column of attackers came around the bluff, brandishing guns and spears.

“McDill, any sign back there?” Art called out loudly, trying to be heard above the sound of the attackers' war whoops.

“Nobody—not yet!” came the reply. “I don't think they're coming from here!”

Art had to make a quick judgment. He had no way of knowing whether the Indians had ten or a hundred men in their war party, or some number in between. He would have to go with his gut instinct on this. His own men's lives were in his hands now—just like his own.

“All right, move up, cover Caviness and Montgomery, but don't bunch up too tight. We've got to present a wide front.”

He had learned some about military tactics during his brief time with Jackson's army and in talking with old soldiers over the years at Rendezvous. But he was mainly following common sense in the situation at hand. His ears were splitting from the Indians' whooping and shouting, but he tried not to let that scare him or distract him. He had to stay in control and get these men through this situation.

Matthews said, “What should we do?”

Art said, “Stay put for just a second. Look, they're listening to the chief. I count a total of twelve. That's not a lot, but twice as many as us. At least that's how many we can see right now.”

It looked pretty bad for Art's men. He counted again: twelve, including the chief. “They look like Blackfeet,” Art surmised aloud.

“Yeah,” Matthews said. “All painted up for war.” He tried not to sound as scared as he felt.

* * *

Earlier, Wak Tha Go had risen before dawn and said his prayers to the Spirit to guide him in his holy purpose, to wipe out these evil intruders on the sacred land of the red people.

His purpose was simple: to kill them all. He would achieve this by a swift surprise attack at dawn. He outnumbered them two-to-one, and each of his braves had the fighting heart of five men! It would be a simple task to wipe them out long before the sun reached its zenith in the sky.

He urged his followers to keep their horses quiet as they first approached the bluff that overlooked the enemy's camp. They rode closely together and arrived at their destination in good time. In near-silence they all rode up to the top of the bluff, Wak Tha Go in the lead. He indicated that they should line up so they would be visible to the men below against the pink and red morning sky.

When all were in place, Wak Tha Go let loose a long, loud war yell: “Yee-yee-iii-haa! Yee-yee-ii-haa!”

The other warriors followed with their own shrieking cries that were meant to terrorize the enemy, who was presumably still in his bedroll. They smiled and laughed to each other. A good day for a raid! Too bad there were so few white trappers; they would have to fight each other for their scalps.

“Go now,” Wak Tha Go ordered them, according to his plan of attack.

He remained alone on the very top of the bluff, looking down into the camp of the enemy. He could see the forms of the men as they scrambled from their bedrolls. One in particular moved slowly, was not in a panic. It was hard to tell from this distance, but he appeared to be a young white man, tall, and there was a dog near him. This man looked up at Wak Tha Go. Did their eyes meet? Wak Tha Go was not sure, but he did know that he had sent a message of fear into this man's heart—and into the hearts of the others as well.

Wak Tha Go smiled to himself. Then he unleashed another powerful yell, which was the signal to his braves to move down the slope and around to the riverbed. He. pulled his own horse around and reluctantly moved away from the ridge top, where he had been skylined to those below. He would meet them face-to-face now, not from above....

He was proud of these men who had stepped forward to go on this raid. They were the bravest of the brave from among the Blackfoot village where he had found refuge and purpose. He would proudly lead them into battle this day.

When he got to the bottom of the bluff, he wheeled his pony around and went to the head of the column of warriors, then rode with them onto the sandy shoreline of the river. Again, he looked across to take the measure of the men who would die today, his enemy. They did not look like much. They were armed, seemingly ready to meet the attackers. The dog was still there, pacing back and forth, prowling like a wolf, not barking.

The fierce Indian leader raised his own spear and lifted his voice in a shout. The others followed suit, raising a huge, eerie war cry. Wak Tha Go kneed his mount into action and plunged into the river. His men did likewise, their horses kicking up the shallow water.

As he charged, Wak Tha Go threw his spear toward the man he thought was the leader of the whites. It missed. The Indian took up a rifle that had been loaded and primed and lay across the horse's neck. He held it high, to keep it dry, and pushed his mount forward into the gunfire from the men on the island.

* * *

Art shouted to his men to hold their fire until the attackers came closer. He watched the tall, fierce warrior who led the party. The man's spear came whistling toward him, and he ducked beneath the rock and scrub for cover. The spear missed. He lifted his rifle and took aim. When the charging leader was within about ten yards, he fired. He missed.