Preacher's Peace (2 page)

In a place not too far from where the two Indians had attacked Art, several Indian warriors were sitting in a large council circle engaged in the ritual smoking of an ornately carved and feathered ceremonial pipe. The council had been called when the bodies of two of their warriors were brought back to the village. Now the women were weeping, while the men of the village were trying to decide what should be done to answer this outrage. Their honor and the honor of the dead were at stake.

“They were killed by a white man who takes beaver,” one of the council elders said.

The leader of the council, whose name was Buffalo Robe but was called The Peacemaker, held out his hand, and the others looked at him, awaiting his words.

“I know that the blood runs hot in our young men,” he began. “And there are those who would seek revenge.” He put his hand over his heart. “My heart demands revenge as well”—he moved his hand to his head—“but my head tells me this would not be a wise thing.”

“No, no, we must have revenge!” one of the younger warriors declared.

Again, The Peacemaker held out his hand. “I have listened to the words of your heart. But those are words of passion, not words of wisdom. Here is what my head says. Have you forgotten that the white man sent an army against us? Have you forgotten that they had many guns and we had few, and they killed many of our brothers, while we killed but few of them? If we go to war, we will have more weeping among our women, and more of our tepees will be empty.”

“What of Red Hawk and Mean to His Horses?”

“Does the sign not show that Red Hawk and Mean to His Horses attacked the white man? If this is so, they wanted to do battle, and they lost. I say no more war.”

One of the men sitting in the circle was Standing Bear. Standing Bear's Indian name was Wak Tha Go, and that was the name he used. At six feet six inches, Wak Tha Go towered over every other man in the village, in fact over most men throughout the country. He got his height, unusual for an Indian, from the very tall French trapper who had raped his mother. Now, as the pipe was passed to him, he took a puff into his lungs, then fanned the smoke from the bowl into his face. A medicine man of the Arikara, Wak Tha Go belonged to the Bear Society, and was now wearing a bearskin robe as a symbol of his station. When he stood, wearing his robe, he could frighten those who didn't know him, for with the robe and his size, he was very much like the bear he emulated. He was a strong, courageous warrior who had proved himself in many battles.

“What does the medicine man-warrior Wak Tha Go say?” the warrior who had been speaking with The Peacemaker asked. He turned to Wak Tha Go. “Do you who stand as tall as the tallest bear counsel peace as well?”

“If you kill the cub of a rabbit, the rabbit's mother will turn and run. If you kill the cub of a bear, the bear's mother will turn and fight.” Wak Tha Go looked at The Peacemaker. “The Peacemaker would have us be rabbits.” He fingered the bearskin robe he was wearing, then lifted it with one hand high above his shoulder. “I belong to the Bear Society. I am not a rabbit!” he said resolutely.

“Aiii yi, yi, yi!” the others in the council shouted, for they realized that Wak Tha Go had just made his decision to take revenge.

“Wak Tha Go! Will you lead us?”

“Yes.”

“The trappers are gathering for their Rendezvous,” The Peacemaker said quietly, and the others were silent and listened. “There are more trappers there than there are arrows in all our quivers. Would you lead our men to slaughter?”

“We will fight like a bear,” Wak Tha Go said in reply, looking at each man in turn around the council circle. “But we will be smart like a fox. We will not attack them in Rendezvous.”

* * *

Johnny Swale, Billy Harper, and Eddie Meeks had left Rendezvous two days earlier and were now headed back into the mountains. They had enjoyed a successful trapping season, and the same pack animals that had taken their furs down to be sold were now loaded with supplies they had bought to see them through until next season. Included in the packs was an especially precious cargo: several jugs of whiskey.

Although the whiskey was meant to be a year's supply, the men had broken out one jug already, and were passing it back and forth even in the first miles of their journey.

“Hey, Billy, you know that little ol' Indian gal of Dempsey's?” Johnny shouted. Johnny was riding in front, Billy all the way to the rear.

“Yeah, I know her. What about her?” Billy called back.

“You think she's worth a hundred plews?”

“What do you mean, is she worth a hundred plews?”

“I mean a hundred beaver pelts. You think she's worth that?”

“I don't know,” Billy answered blankly. “Why do you ask?”

“ 'Cause Dempsey lost all his trappin' money in a poker game and he was lookin' to sell her. Quiet Stream, he said her name was. She was some good-lookin' for an Indian. Fact is, if I hadn't already sold my furs, I mighta took him up on it.”

“What would you do with some Indian girl?”

“Ha! I'd keep her to warm my bed on those cold winter nights,” Johnny said. “That's what I'd do with her.”

“You're full of it, Johnny. You...” That was as far as he got before there was a too-close whooshing sound, then a thump. “Ughhh!” Billy grunted. It was the last sound that ever came from his mouth.

Hearing the unusual sound behind him, Eddie turned, just in time to see Billy tumble from his horse, an arrow sticking out from between his shoulder blades.

“Indians!” Billy shouted, before he himself was cut down by three arrows.

Johnny didn't wait to check on the fate of his friends. Instead, he slapped his legs against the side of his horse and urged it into a gallop.

“Ayiee!” Wak Tha Go shouted, urging his own horse into a gallop after the white trapper.

If Johnny had released the rope leading to his pack mule, he might have gotten away. But that mule was carrying nearly everything he owned. He thought, once, about dropping the line, but couldn't make himself do it.

Because Johnny was slowed by his burden, Wak Tha Go was able to come right up on him. When he looked over toward his attacker, poor Johnny couldn't believe his eyes. It looked as if a bear was riding a horse! He pointed his pistol and pulled the trigger, but the gun wasn't primed so it didn't fire. He cursed and began to weep. The last thing he saw on earth was the hideous grin on the giant bear-man's face as he brought his war club down on Johnny's head.

W.C. Philbin nodded his rather large, baldish head and made a few appropriate comments in order to prove to Mrs. Abernathy that he was listening to her. In fact, he was having a hard time paying attention because he knew she would only be repeating the same thing she had been harping on for the last two years.

Philbin was the director of the St. Louis Home for Orphaned Boys and Girls. The orphanage was located in a large two-story building that had been left to the city in the will of Mason Pierpont, Mrs. Abernathy's father. It was left with the stipulation that it would be used to provide a “safe, clean, and moral home for the unfortunate children of the city.”

W.C. Philbin believed he was doing that, exactly as dictated by the will. But Mrs. Abernathy had recently learned that a rather significant portion of the money that was needed to run the home was being donated on a monthly basis by a woman known only as Jennie.

“I cannot bring myself to believe that you accept her money,” Mrs. Abernathy said.

“Why shouldn't I accept it? Her money spends as well as anyone else's money.”

“I shouldn't have to explain the why of it to you, Mr. Philbin. My dear, late father specifically stated in his will that this fine old home would go to the city, provided it is used to house our poor, unfortunate orphan children in a place that is safe, clean, and moral.” Mrs. Abernathy sternly held up her finger. “Morals, Mr. Philbin, morals. Her house, the so-called House of Flowers? It is nothing but a whorehouse. I need hardly explain to you that the conduct of that woman is anything but normal, let alone clean or moral. She is a common prostitute. Filthy, filthy!”

“She may be a prostitute, Mrs. Abernathy, but I assure you, she does not ply her trade in the St. Louis orphanage. And there is nothing common about her. Her monthly contribution makes up almost fifty percent of the operating budget. Why, without her, I don't think we would even be able to keep the doors open.”

“Nevertheless, I want you to stop accepting donations from that woman,” Mrs. Abernathy insisted. She sniffed as if to acknowledge a foul odor in the air.

“If we do that, Mrs. Abernathy, we will have to start looking for emergency homes for all our children.”

“Are you telling me you won't turn her away?”

“I'm telling you I can't,” Philbin said. “Not turn her money away and survive. You seem not to understand....”

“Very well. I can see right now that I will have to find some other way to keep that woman from polluting the morals of our dear, precious children.” Mrs. Abernathy stood up then to her full majestic height and matronly girth, and started toward the door. Before she reached the door, she turned back toward the upset orphanage director.

“I never thought I would see the day when I would go to court to try and overturn the will of my father, but I'm convinced that had he known a low-life prostitute would be frequenting this place, giving you her filthy sin money, he would never have left our home to your care.”

“And I am equally convinced he intended this home to be used for the good of the children,” Philbin said. “And to that end, I will accept money from whatever source I can, as long as it is not illegal.”

“Good day to you, Mr. Philbin,” Mrs. Abernathy said haughtily. She slammed the door behind her as she left.

As Mrs. Abernathy was leaving, Jennie was just arriving, having been brought to the orphanage by carriage, driven by an old, white-haired black man who wore a beaver hat. The contrast between the two women was quite pronounced. Jennie was young, slender, and very pretty. Mrs. Abernathy was in her late forties to early fifties, very stout, and plain-looking, to put it kindly. When she saw Jennie, a scowl crossed the society lady's face, making her even less attractive.

“Wait here, Ben,” Jennie said to her driver.

“Yes'm,” Sam said.

“Hello, Mrs. Abernathy,” Jennie said, smiling broadly. “Isn't this a lovely day?”

“Hrumph,” Mrs. Abernathy grunted, pointedly turning away from the young woman.

Jennie was still looking back over her shoulder when she stepped into the orphanage.

“Good morning, Mr. Philbin,” she said when Philbin came to meet her. “I've brought my contribution.”

Philbin held up his hands, as if about to refuse the money. “Miss Jennie, I . . .” he started, then paused.

“Yes?”

Philbin let out a big sigh, then reached for the money “I thank you,” he said.

Art and his friend Clyde Barnes experienced a few anxious moments when they first saw the Indians, but realized quickly that the handful of men and women who had come down to the bank to wave them ashore were Mandans who wanted only to trade.

“Do you think we should put in?” Clyde asked.

“No point in being unfriendly,” Art replied, turning the tiller to land the boat. When they got close enough, Art tossed a rope to the Indians and, by sign, indicated they should make the boat fast by looping the rope around a tree. The Indians complied easily, and in so doing, pulled the boat ashore.

There were a total of eight Mandan Indians in the party, six men and two women. Two of the men were old and gray, while one of the others looked to be still in his teens. The remaining men and women were probably of middle-adult years. One of the older men pointed to his chest.

“I am Tetonka,” he said.

“I am Artoor,” Art said, using the pronunciation of his name that the Shawnee had used when he lived with them, seemingly many years ago. From them he had learned many of the ways of the Indian peoples.

“Do you want to trade, Artoor?” Tetonka asked.

“What do you have to trade?”

Tetonka spoke to the others, and they began to display their wares, from rawhide shirts to moccasins, pipes, and rattles. One of the items was a very pretty dress of white doeskin, finely worked with red, green, and blue dyed quills. Clyde pointed to the dress.

“I'd like that,” he said.

“What do you want with that?” Art asked.

“Who knows?” Clyde said. “When we get to St. Louie, I might just give it to a pretty girl.”

Art laughed, and Clyde began bargaining with the Indians. One of them pointed to a frying pan.

“Art, you have a frying pan, don't you?” Clyde asked.

“Yes.”

“I thought so. We don't need two, and I can always get myself another one with all the money I'm goin' to make.” He handed the frying pan over, then took the dress.

During the course of the trading Art got three rabbits, three combs of honey, and some wild greens. The trading ended to the mutual satisfaction of all. As Art was untying the boat, Tetonka came over to speak to him.

“You are good men,” the old Indian said. “My heart will be sad when you are killed.”

“What are you talking about? We aren't going to be killed,” Art said.

Tetonka nodded his head sadly. “Yes, you will be killed soon.” He signed as he spoke, making a slashing motion across his throat when he said killed. “There are many Arikara who want to kill all white men. Yes. When they see you, they will kill you.”

Art knew that Tetonka wasn't lauding the fact, but was giving Art a warning of the danger ahead. Art's only question now was if this was a warning against the Arikara tribe in general, or a specific warning.

“Have you seen the Arikara?” Art asked.

Tetonka nodded again, and held up seven fingers. Seven was a very precise number, which had to mean that this was a specific warning about a particular war party.

“Where are they?” Art asked.

Tetonka pointed downriver. “Where river does this,” he said, signing a curving motion with his hand. “There is big rock over the river. They wait on rock.”

Art put his hand on Tetonka's shoulder. “Thank you, my friend,” he said. Neither he nor the Indian smiled, but both felt the friendship between them.

“What was the big parlay with the old chief about?” Clyde asked as he finished carefully packing his loot.

“We've got trouble ahead,” Art said.

“What kind of trouble?”

“Arikara.”

“Damn,” Clyde said, understanding the severity of the warning. “So what do we do now?”

“We'll position the load so that we're in between the bundles,” Art suggested. “That should be good enough to stop any arrows they might shoot at us from ashore.”

It was about another mile downstream before the river curved again. At the bend in the river Art saw a large rock, part of which hung out over the water. “There it is,” he said.

“Yeah,” Clyde replied nervously. “I see it.”

Between them they had two rifles and two pistols, all charged, loaded, and primed. In addition they took their powder horns and lead-shot with them as they squeezed in between the two rows of bundles. They were ready when the boat drew even with the rock.

“There's one,” Clyde said, drawing a bead on an Indian ashore.

Art stuck his hand out to keep Clyde from shooting. “No,” he said. “Let's not shoot unless they shoot first.”

Clyde eased the hammer back down. “If you say so,” he said.

* * *

When Two Ponies saw the boat coming downriver, he signaled Wak Tha Go. Wak Tha Go then passed the signal on to the warriors who waited in canoes. This would be the third time Wak Tha Go and his war party had encountered white trappers since leaving the village. On the two previous encounters, they had killed the trappers, but gotten little for their efforts. But this boat was laden with pelts and supplies, and would be a great coup, one that the village would sing about around the campfires. The women and the elders, as well as the warriors, would be pleased.

Armed with one of the rifles they took from the trappers they had attacked earlier, Wak Tha Go ran across the cape to be on the other side of the river bend. From there he would have an excellent, unobscured view of the boat as it approached, and of the attack of his warriors.

* * *

On board the boat Art watched the Indian closely until they slipped by, unchallenged. He was about to breathe a sigh of relief when, ahead, he saw two canoes coming swiftly toward them.

“Art!” Clyde called.

“Yes, I see them,” Art replied evenly, betraying no emotion, no fear. “Get ready.”

There were at least four men in each canoe, and they were paddling hard to close the distance. One man in each canoe launched an arrow toward the boat. Because Art had been expecting an attack from the riverbank, he and Clyde had moved everything to provide protection from the sides. While that protected them from any attack from the riverbank, it left them exposed to a frontal attack. As a result, both arrows came dangerously close: The first stuck in one of the bundles; another stuck in the deck of the boat.

“Take the one on the right!” Art shouted.

The canoe on the right was the closest. Art shot at the canoe on the left, and had the satisfaction of seeing the Indian in front tumble out, along with his oar. And as the Indian fell, he also upset the canoe, which was exactly what Art had hoped would happen.

“Damn!” Clyde shouted in disgust when the bullet he fired missed its mark and made a splash in the water near the pursuing canoe.

Clyde then pulled his pistol and started to shoot it.

“No!” Art shouted. “You reload! I'll do the shooting for both of us!”

“Good idea,” Clyde agreed, handing his loaded pistol to Art.

Art held his shot, waiting for the canoe to come much closer. During that brief period, the Indians shot several more arrows, many of them coming uncomfortably close. Finally, the canoe drew within pistol range. Art aimed and fired. He hit the lead paddler, but unlike the man in the first canoe, this one fell back, and the canoe did not swamp.

In the meantime, the other canoe had been righted, and the Indians had climbed back aboard and resumed the chase.

Art killed a second man in the canoe on the right, and because two of their number had now been killed, they started paddling back down the river in order to join up with the other canoe. Doing so put them out of pistol range.

Clyde handed Art a loaded rifle. “Here,” he said. “And the other one is loaded too.”

“Thanks,” Art said. One of the Indians seemed to be giving instructions to the others, so he was the one Art selected as his target. Raising the rifle to his shoulder, he took careful aim, then pulled the trigger. The talkative Indian fell into the river and began to float away, face down in the water.

That left only two Indians in each canoe. When the Indians saw that the odds were now much less favorable to them, they turned and began paddling hard for the bank.

“Ha, ha, ha!” Clyde shouted, standing up and moving to the edge of the boat. “Run, you cowardly bastards, run!” he shouted.

* * *

On shore, Wak Tha Go watched with disbelief as his men were shot down, one by one. What he had thought would be an easy killing raid had turned into a disaster. Who was this trapper who killed almost every time he fired his rifle?

Wak Tha Go raised his own rifle. He wanted to kill the white man who was so deadly with his own shooting, but he could not get a good shot at him. The other man, though, the one who had been loading the rifles, was within easy range.

“If I cannot kill you, white man, I will kill your friend,” Wak Tha Go said under his breath.

* * *

Just as Wak Tha Go was about to pull the trigger, Art happened to catch him out of the corner of his eye.

“Clyde! Get down!” Art shouted.

“What for?” Clyde asked, turning toward Art with a big grin on his face. “They're skedaddling like pups. Why, I . . .”

That was as far as Clyde got. There was an angry buzz in the air, followed by a distant explosion, then a thump as the bullet plowed into Clyde's back and exited through his chest.

“What?” he asked in surprise as he tumbled back against the plew bales, then slid to the deck in a seated position. He put his hand on his chest, then pulled it away to examine the blood that had pooled in his cupped palm. “I'll be damned,” he said, more out of almost childish curiosity than anything else.

Art grabbed the rifle that Clyde had just loaded. He looked toward the riverbank, hoping to get a bead on the Indian who had shot Clyde, but the Indian was nowhere in sight.

“Damn!” Art said in frustration.

“Did he skedaddle?” Clyde asked with a strained, lopsided grin on his stupid face.

“Yes,” Art said, squatting beside his friend.

“That means we run them all off, didn't we?”

“Yes,” Art said.

“Ha! I reckon we showed them not to tangle with the likes of us,” Clyde said. Clyde coughed, and as he did so, flecks of blood came from his mouth. “Oh,” Clyde said. “Oh, that's bad, ain't it?”

“I won't lie to you, Clyde,” Art said. “You're not goin' to make it.”

“I'm not? You want know a funny thing? It ain't hurtin' all that much,” Clyde said.

“Can I get you something? A chew of tobacco? A drink of whiskey?”

“Some whiskey maybe,” Clyde said.

Art pulled the cork on a whiskey jug, poured some into a cup, then held the cup up to Clyde's mouth. Clyde took a couple of deep swallows, then chuckled.

“What is it?” Art asked.

“I was just wonderin' what ol' St. Peter is goin' to say when I show up at them pearly gates with liquor on my breath.”

“I don't reckon he'll say much of anything, given the way things are,” Art said. He wanted to strangle his friend for his stupidity. He wanted to save his life, but knew it was finished.

“Wonder if ol' Pierre is there . . .”

“Sure, he is. I expect he'll be standing there to meet you himself,” Art said. “He'll probably fix you some of that crawfish pie he was always talking about.”

“I'd rather have some beaver tail. Never knew anyone who could cook beaver tail like Pierre.”

“It was good,” Art said, remembering it from the many times Pierre had cooked it for him as well.

“Art?”

“Yes?”

“I want you to do somethin' for me.”

“What's that?”

“You know that purty dress I bought? Well, once you get to St. Louie, I want you to give it to a purty girl.”

“Do you have someone in mind?”

“No,” Clyde answered. He coughed again, struggling to smile as the color drained from his hard-weathered face. “You pick one out for me. I was just goin' to give it to the first purty girl I seen who would take it.”

“I'll find someone,” Art promised.

“You know, it's beginnin' to hurt now. Fact is, it's hurtin' somethin' fierce.”

“Want some more whiskey?”

“I don't reckon,” Clyde replied. “Ol' St. Peter might close an eye to me havin' whiskey on my breath, but don't know how he'd take to me bein' drunk.”

Clyde closed his eyes and was silent for a long time. Art bent over to see if he could hear his friend breathing, but he couldn't. He was going to have to put ashore in order to bury him, but he didn't want to do it yet. He needed to make certain he was far enough downriver to be away from the Indians who had attacked them.

Then Clyde surprised Art by speaking one more time. “Lord, I sure would've loved to see me a purty girl in that purty dress,” he rasped. Those were his last words.

* * *

Art didn't come ashore until after dark. By that time he had drifted far enough downriver that he was sure there were no more Arikara bucks around. He also figured that the darkness would offer some protection and allow him to bury his friend safely and in peace.

Art dug a grave about one hundred feet from the river's edge, then lowered Clyde into the hole and covered him up. He gathered stones to cover the grave in a primitive sort of cairn, a sort of civilized gesture that would have been unfamiliar to the man buried beneath the cold earth. Afterward, he stood alongside the freshly dug grave, took off his own hat, and held it across his heart.