The Ghost Dancers (A Crossed Arrows Western Book 2)

by Patrick E. Andrews

  The corpse of a dead Mexican vaquero who was charged with watching over the animals through the night was sprawled close by. Halkon opened the gate, then emitted a credible imitation of a hoot owl. This signaled the others to join him. Muchino brought Halkon and Kuchiyo’s mounts with him.

  Within moments, the adroit Apaches rounded up the horses and herded them through the gate. With that done, the long drive back to the Guerras Reservation began. The warriors were all in a good mood. It had been a long time since they’d stolen horses from whites.

  The citizens of Hope Wells, Arizona Territory like all other westerners, were subjected to natural disasters such as droughts, floods, and storms. The people dwelling on America’s frontier also endured illnesses and injuries that were treated by physicians who understood little of sanitation or proper diagnosis. These doctors were also their own pharmacists who mixed medicines as best they could. Thankfully, the one thing these nineteenth century practitioners could do well was control pain. The doctors used opium and laudanum to comfort their suffering patients. The narcotics also made dying easier for someone suffering a fatal illness of injury.

  Unfortunately, many people passed away under inexplicable circumstances even after receiving the best medical care available. The bereaving families comforted themselves during those trying times with religion. They firmly believed that everything occurring in the world was the will of God. It was all part of the Maker’s grand plan for his people. When the Day of Judgment arrived, the faithful would be fully enlightened about that great sanctified design. In the meantime, they bolstered their courage and continued existence with a strong belief in God.

  There was only one church in Hope Wells, but it had a seriously devout congregation with a few hypocrites sprinkled among them. It was called the Church of Christian Worship, and the leader was a lay preacher by the name of Hezekiah Woodward.

  Hezekiah, a short rotund man with a long heavy beard, owned the local dry goods store where his wife Mildred assisted him in the daily running of the business. The couple was childless, but both man and wife accepted this as good Christians should; without complaint or sorrow. As far as they were concerned, merciful God had a good reason for denying them parenthood.

  Pastor Woodward’s deacon was Leo Horton the town barber. This slim, well-groomed man was a perfect match for Hezekiah in religious fervor. There were also three men whom Hezekiah had dubbed “brothers” who ranked below Deacon Leo. These church stalwarts were Farley Dempsey, a burly blacksmith; Ed Turnbull a printer on the local newspaper, and Zeke Mason the stationmaster and telegrapher at the depot. They, like the pastor and deacon were devout Christians. All five men demonstrated a zealousness that would match that of the Hebrew warriors of the Old Testament.

  The deacon and brothers were exceedingly fond of listening as Reverend Hezekiah preached fiery sermons that threatened sinners with eternal damnation. Many times the part-time pastor would state, “Imagine a ball of steel as large as this world we live on. And imagine a bird flying over that ball and dropping a feather on it once every hundred years. The time it would take those feathers to wear that ball down to the size of a marble, is a mere snap of the fingers in an eternity. That’s a terrible long time to burn in hell, ain’t it?”

  “Amen, Pastor Hezekiah!” Leo would holler.

  The clergyman also wanted to save the souls of the Apaches who dwelt on the nearby reservation. Hezekiah felt that even though they had never heard of Jesus Christ, the poor savages were doomed to burn in hell forever. At least that’s the way he interpreted the bible.

  Consequently, the pastor felt it his duty to save their poor souls, and he began a Christian mission in early 1890. Leo Horton was in complete agreement with his pastor and best friend. Once a month the pair took Woodward’s buckboard, along with a baptismal font, and went out on the reservation to spread the word.

  Their efforts were not exactly successful. In fact, the project was a complete failure. The pastor preached as passionately as he could, but none of the Indians could understand English. They only attended the sessions for amusement. They liked the way the two white men babbled loudly and wave their arms. Many of the tribesmen consider them ada’ani’i— crazy!

  Both Hezekiah and Leo knew it seemed useless, but they shared a strong belief that the Almighty would eventually bless their ministry. The pair kept up their monthly efforts, sharing an increasing enthusiasm with each appearance they made.

  Then, one day an incident occurred that Hezekiah and Leo considered an act of God if not an outright miracle; an English-speaking Apache appeared. This was a warrior by the name of Pontaro. He had worked as a scout for the U.S. Army when the soldiers were fighting the Tijones Apaches, a tribe that was a bitter enemy of the Guerras. By the time the five-year campaign ended, Pontaro had developed an enormous working knowledge of the English language.

  Pontaro began translating the sermons as Hezekiah preached, and the content of the holy messages fascinated the Apaches. They liked the story of Jesus Christ from his birth to the crucifixion, but none stepped forward to be baptized.

  “Don’t worry, Deacon Leo,” Hezekiah assured his companion. “It won’t be long before many of the Indians accept Christ as their savior and want to be baptized.”

  “I agree, Pastor Hezekiah. And I will continue to put the baptismal font in the back of the buckboard with a jug of water for when that happy time arrives.”

  Pastor Hezekiah didn’t realize that the message he sermonized would later fit in with the preaching and predictions of a dangerous Indian oracle.

  Now, on a Sunday afternoon on the Guerras Reservation, the Reverend Hezekiah Woodward and Deacon Leo Horton stood disappointed and stunned that the only Apache who showed up for the monthly service was Pontaro.

  “Where are the people?” Hezekiah asked.

  “They listen to other preacher,” Pontaro replied. “He is the Prophet, and he has told them about a messiah they must call to rid the world of all the whites.”

  Hezekiah was shocked. “A messiah? Why would they believe what that prophet preaches, instead of me, a Christian pastor?”

  “He Apache; that why,” Pontaro replied. Then he explained the Ghost Dance ceremony and other aspects of the Messiah’s appearance on earth.

  Hezekiah’s distress increased. “How can they believe a messiah can resurrect all the dead Indians?”

  “Because Great Life Giver is angry with the whites. He send the messiah long time before and they kill him. This to be his second time on this earth. Goodbye. I not be here again.”

  Hezekiah watched the Apache walk away, then turned to his deacon. “He talked about a second coming. Could this be Lord Jesus’ time to return to us?”

  “Surely, the Savior would not leave Heaven and walk among savages,” Leo stated firmly. “I think this Prophet fellow is a false prophet. Wait! Maybe he’s the Antichrist!”

  Pastor Hezekiah Woodward stood in silent thought for a moment. Then he took a deep breath and exclaimed. “I’m not certain of that a’tall, Leo!”

  “You and me have gotta talk about this.”

  “I’ll have to speak with God about this first,” Pastor Hezekiah Woodward declared. His way of seeking guidance from God was to pray long and hard. And the Lord always answered him. Sometimes it was in a dream or something as simple as a single thought that would spring into his mind. But the best times were in the middle of the night when Hezekiah would wake up and actually heard the sound of God’s voice speaking to him.

  He turned to Leo. “This is something big and I’m sure God will guide us along the proper path to take. He will not forget our ministry and all the hard work we put into it.”

  They got into the buckboard for a contemplative ride back to town.

  Chapter Four

  The quartermaster teamster pulled on the reins, bringing the baggage wagon to a halt. He jumped down and walked over to the front door of the scout detachment’s orderly room, knocking loudly before entering the building. />
  Captain Mack Hawkins and Lieutenant Ludlow Dooley looked up from familiarizing Scout Michael Strongbow with the mysteries of a duty roster. “What d’you need, soldier?” Hawkins asked.

  “I got a delivery for this unit, sir,” the teamster said, holding up a bill of lading. “It was at the railroad junction north of Fort Sill. So I took it to the quartermaster warehouse over there, but they said it belonged here at Fort Lone Wolf. So I brung it here.”

  “That’s very interesting,” Hawkins remarked caustically. “What is this delivery?”

  “Ten thousand rounds of .44 caliber Winchester ammunition, sir.”

  The officers’ mouths opened wide in astonishment.

  The teamster announced, “I’m gonna need some help unloading it.”

  “Damn!” Hawkins exclaimed, turning his eyes to Ludlow. “That father of yours is a very generous man.”

  Ludlow, still stunned by the size of the order, said nothing

  Michael was confused. “Is that a big order?”

  Ludlow nodded. “It is a gigantic order! Go to Sergeant Eagle Heart and tell him to bring the scouts over here. Quickly!”

  Michael rendered a perfect salute, performed a faultless about-face movement, and marched out the door.

  Within minutes the detachment stood in formation in front of the orderly room. Hawkins barked some orders, and the entire detachment followed the wagon over to the post ordnance storehouse. When they arrived at the building, Hawkins borrowed a hammer from the teamster and broke into the crate. He pulled out a couple of boxes, noting the contents.

  “Each of these holds a hundred rounds,” the captain announced. “That means…let me see—”

  Ludlow butted in. “That means there are a hundred of those boxes, sir. One hundred rounds in one hundred boxes add up to ten thousand rounds.”

  “Indeed it does, Mr. Dooley.” He signaled to Sergeant Eagle Heart. “Let’s get these bullets hauled inside.”

  “Yes, sir, Cap’n!” the sergeant replied.

  He gestured to Corporal Tall Bear and Swift Horse to climb into the back of the wagon. Although officers aren’t supposed to do manual labor, Hawkins and Ludlow joined the teamster along with Sergeant Eagle Heart, Corporal Running Cougar, Red Moon and Michael Strongbow to form a line so the ammunition could be passed from man to man to the storehouse door. Red Moon and Michael stacked the boxes along the back wall.

  The post ordnance sergeant made an appearance to update his regular monthly ammunition inventory. He gasped when he saw the amount of rounds being unloaded. “Whew!” he said. “Cap’n Hawkins, sir, it’s gonna take you fellers about ten years to shoot all that up.”

  “Sure will,” Hawkins happily agreed. “Maybe we should put in a requisition for a Gatling gun.” He referred to the hand-cranked fast-firing weapon used by the Army.

  But Ludlow Dooley squelched the idea. “Gatlings are .45 caliber, sir.”

  “That’s right,” the ordnance sergeant agreed. “A bulletin from the War Department had a write-up on a machine gun used by the British. It was invented by an American name of Maxim who lives in England. You pull the trigger and it fires continually ‘til you let up.”

  “We studied the weapon at West Point,” Ludlow said. “The recoil when fired is what makes it work.”

  “Christ!” Hawkins exclaimed. “What caliber is it?”

  “It’s a British caliber, sir,” Ludlow answered. “.303. It’s the same they use in their Enfield rifles.”

  “Mmm,” Hawkins mused. “D’you think you could get your father to buy us one of those machine guns and the ammunition for it?”

  “I’m sure that well has run dry for a while, sir,” Ludlow stated.

  “Too bad. Well, Mr. Dooley, let’s get these .44 rounds put away, shall we?”

  “Yes, sir. We shall.”

  A full moon floated over the Guerras Apache Reservation as Parson Hezekiah Woodward and Deacon Leo Horton sat quietly in the buckboard beside the oasis. They waited for the special rendezvous they had requested from Pontaro the former army scout. It took some gentle arguing on their part before the Apache agreed to arrange a meeting.

  Both men were on edge with a serious case of acute anticipation.

  Hezekiah had spent almost the previous week in deep nightly prayer and meditation. He knelt in his den, praying for divine guidance on what he should do about the messiah Pontaro talked about. For the first three evenings he felt nothing during the sessions. There was no stirring of his soul, only a dull emptiness.

  His wife Mildred noticed his lethargy during store hours and became concerned. She asked him if he was feeling ill, and Hezekiah told her he had prayed for help from the Almighty, but was getting nowhere. Mildred asked about his quandary, but he refused to talk about it. Since she was as devout as he, she encouraged him to keep trying for what he sought from God.

  The next night he began his prayer as usual. But he still felt no encouragement from above. He persisted in his plea for another hour when his mind was suddenly filled with a strange awareness of wisdom and revelation. This righteous sensation heightened, then gradually drifted away. He wept with joy, having received more than a sacred message; it was a commandment.

  The Reverend Hezekiah Woodward was to contact Deacon Leo Horton. They were to go to the Apaches and aid them in their undertaking with the Prophet and the Messiah. He got to his feet and loudly cried out, “Surely this is the second coming of Christ!”

  Although it was four o’clock in the morning, Hezekiah grabbed his hat and coat and rushed out into the street. He hurried to Leo Horton’s house and banged on the front door. A bedroom window opened and Horton stuck his head out. “Who’s there?”

  “It’s me, Leo. Come out here. I got important news. Real important news.”

  A minute later the barber opened the door. Woodward didn’t bother to go inside the house. “I’ve received a message from God, Leo! He has commanded us— you and me— to aid the Apaches in their task with the Messiah and Prophet.”

  Leo was stunned and couldn’t speak for a moment. “Hezekiah, are you…are you sure? That is … is … amazing! But are you sure?”

  “There is no doubt this is the second coming of our savior, Leo! God hisself told me so!”

  “You talked with God again, Hezekiah?”

  “I heard his voice, Leo, just like I’m hearing yours now. He said he has chose me for a special chore. We’re getting pulled into something that’s gonna herald heaven on earth!”

  Tears came to Leo’s eyes. “Oh, sweet Lord! Can it be, Hezekiah? Can it be?

  “I prayed for several nights, Leo! I prayed like I never prayed before. Then I received the word of God. And I know exactly what we have to do.”

  Leo sagged against the door jamb. “My sweet Lord! We been called on like disciples. Wait a minute! We ain’t disciples. We’re saints.”

  “But we cain’t talk to nobody about it,” Hezekiah cautioned him. “Not even to the brothers of the congregation.”

  “I understand, Hezekiah. But how’re we gonna do this?”

  “It’s being showed to me, Leo. Ever’ minute I become aware of something else we gotta do. And there’s no time to waste. So don’t open your barbershop today. And I’m gonna let Mildred take care of the store. We’ll both go out to the reservation and ask Agent Larimer to fetch Pontaro for us. But we cain’t reveal a reason. We’ll just insist we gotta speak to Pontaro.”

  Now, in the darkness of the desert, Pastor Hezekiah Woodward and Deacon Leo Horton stood beside the buckboard, waiting at the place for the rendezvous. After an hour they could hear the soft plodding of horses’ hooves in the sand. A minute later they saw the shadowy figures of two horsemen approaching.

  Pontaro and the Prophet appeared plainly in the moonlight. Both Hezekiah and Leo gasped at the physical magnificence of the man with Pontaro. The Indians did not dismount, but rode up next to the buckboard under the trees. “This is the Prophet,” Pontaro said. “He does not speak the white man tongue.
I will tell you what he says and I will tell him what you say.”

  “Excellent,” Hezekiah said. “Please give him our fondest greetings and tell him I have received a commandment from God that me and Leo here are supposed to help the Prophet in his task with the Messiah.”

  From that point on, Pontaro acted as interpreter.

  The Prophet was not at all friendly. “You should not have come here.”

  “Believe me,” Hezekiah said, cowed by the man. “We have nothing but peaceful feelings toward you. We are only obeying what the Almighty told us to do. He’s what y’all call the Great Life Giver.”

  It was obvious the Prophet was suspicious. “How did you hear about what we are going to do?”

  Leo Horton pointed at Pontaro. “He told us.”

  Hezekiah saw that the Prophet was angry with Pontaro, and begged, “Please don’t get mad at him. The Great Life Giver commanded him to tell us.”

  The Prophet turned his anger toward the two white men. He didn’t want to reveal the plan to kill all whites, but he stated, “You are in great danger.”

  Hezekiah, feeling he was under God’s protection, was not afraid. “We want to help you. Pontaro told us the Messiah had appeared on the earth once before.”

  The Prophet’s eyes narrowed with anger. “Yes. It was a long time ago. And the whites killed him. Then they destroyed the world so Indians could not live on it anymore. The Great Life Giver sends the Messiah back for revenge.”

  Woodward knew it would be useless to try to explain the Gospel to the Apache, and spoke quickly. “Cain’t you understand, Prophet? We been told by the Almighty to help you. Help you!”