Preacher's Peace

by William W. Johnstone

  As Jennie looked up and down the line of competitors remaining, she saw that one of them was her master, Bruce Eby. Eby had the first shot. “Third from the right,” he said. He aimed, fired, and the third bottle from the right exploded in a shower of glass.

  This round of shouting eliminated four competitors; the following round eliminated two, and the round after that eliminated two more. Now only Art and Eby remained. A series of shots left them tied.

  “Move the targets back another one hundred yards,” the organizer ordered, and two men repositioned the cart.

  By now all other activity in Rendezvous had come to a complete halt. Everyone had come to see the shooting demonstration. Only two bottles were put up, and Eby had the first shot.

  “The one on the left,” Eby said quietly. He lifted the rifle to his shoulder, aimed, and fired. The bottle was cut in two by the bullet, the neck of it collapsing onto the rubble.

  “All right, boy, it’s your turn,” the organizer said.

  Art raised his rifle and aimed.

  “Boy, before you shoot, how ’bout a little bet?” Eby said.

  Art lowered his rifle. “What sort of bet?”

  “I’ll bet you five hundred dollars you miss.”

  Jennie saw Art contemplating the offer. She didn’t know if he had that much money or not. And if he did, she didn’t know if he was confident enough in his shooting to take Eby up on his offer.

  “Ahh, go ahead and shoot,” Eby said. “I’ll be content with just beating you.”

  “I’ll take the bet,” Art said.

  “Let’s see the color of your money.”

  Art took the money from his pocket, then held it until Eby also took out a sum of money. Both men handed their money over to the organizer, who counted and verified that both had put in the requisite amount.

  “It’s all here,” the organizer said.

  “All right, boy, it’s all up to you now,” Eby said.

  Once again, Art raised his rifle and took aim. He took a breath, let half of it out . . .

  “Don’t get nervous now,” Eby said, purposely trying to make him nervous.

  “No fair, Eby. Let the boy shoot without your blathering,” someone said.

  Art let the breath out, lowered his rifle, looked over at Eby, then raised the rifle and aimed again. There was a moment of silence; then Art squeezed the trigger. There was a flash in the pan, a puff of smoke from the end of the rifle, and a loud boom. The bottle that was his target shattered. Like the other bottle, the neck remained, though only about half as much of this neck remained as had been left behind from the first bottle.

  “Yes!” Jennie shouted in pleased excitement. Quickly, she covered her mouth before Eby looked toward her. He wouldn’t go easy on her if he knew she had been cheering for his opponent. Fortunately, the applause and cheers of the crowd covered up Jennie’s response.

  The organizer handed the money over to Art. “Looks like you won your bet,” he said, “but the outcome of the shooting match is still undecided. Gentlemen, shall we go on? Or shall we declare it a tie?”

  “We go on,” Eby said angrily. “Put two more bottles up.”

  “Wait,” Art said.

  Eby smiled. “Givin’ up, are you?”

  “No,” Art said. He pointed toward the cart. “We didn’t finish them off. The necks of both bottles are still standing. I say we use them as our targets.”

  “Are you crazy?” Eby asked. “You can barely see them from here. How are we going to shoot at them?”

  “I don’t know about you, but I plan to use my rifle,” Art said.

  The others laughed, and their laughter further incensed Eby.

  “What about it, Eby?” the organizer asked. “Shall we go on?”

  Once more, Eby looked toward the cart. Then he saw that the neck from his bottle was considerably higher than the neck from Art’s bottle. He nodded. “All right,” he said. He raised his rifle, paused, then lowered it. “Only this time he goes first.”

  Art nodded, and raised his own rifle. “The one on the right,” he said.

  “No!” Eby shouted quickly. “You have to finish off the target you started. You have to shoot at the one on the left.”

  “I thought we could call our own targets,” Art replied.

  “You can. And you already did. Like you said, we didn’t finish them off. You called the bottle on the left, that’s the one you’ve got to finish.”

  “I think Eby’s right,” one of the spectators said.

  “All right,” the organizer agreed. “Your target is what remains of the bottle on the left.”

  “A hunnert dollars he don’t do it,” someone said.

  “Who you goin’ to get to take that bet?” another asked. “Ain’t no way he can do it.”

  “What about you, mister?” Eby asked. “You want to bet whether or not you hit it?”

  “No, I’ll keep my money,” Art said.

  “Tell you what. You wanted the girl a while ago. I’ll bet her against a thousand dollars you don’t hit it.”

  Jennie felt a sudden flash of hope, followed by a feeling of guilt. If Art could hit the target and win her, she would be free of Bruce Eby. On the other hand, if he missed—and this target was very small—then he would lose the one thousand dollars, which was, in all likelihood, every cent he had. Part of her begged him to accept the wager, and yet she prayed that he would not.

  Art looked over at Jennie and she saw that he was going to take the bet. She took a deep breath and held it. Could he hit the target? It was mighty small, and it was a long way off.

  “What do you say, mister?” Eby taunted. “Is it a bet, or isn’t it?”

  “I don’t want the girl to come to me.”

  Jennie felt a sudden draining of all the blood from her face. She had allowed herself to think that he might win her from Eby; now that hope was dashed.

  “You don’t want the girl? Then what do you want?” Eby asked.

  “If I win, I want you to set Jennie free.”

  Jennie gasped, and her knees went weak. Could this be? Could it really be that for the first time in her entire life, she would be free?

  “All right, boy, you hit that sawed-off piece of a bottle neck on the left there, and I’ll set her free,” Eby promised.

  Art nodded. “You’ve got a bet.”

  Everyone expected to wait for a long moment while Art aimed, but to their surprise he lifted the rifle, aimed, and fired in one smooth, continuous motion. The bottle neck shattered. The reaction from the crowd was spontaneous.

  “Did you see that?”

  “Hurrah for the boy!”

  “Who woulda thought . . .”

  Jennie saw Eby raising his rifle, aiming it at Art. “Art! Look out!” she screamed.

  Almost on top of Jennie’s shouted warning, there was a loud bang, followed by a cloud of smoke. When the smoke rolled away, Eby was lying on his back with a large bullet wound in his chest. Turning quickly, Jennie saw another mountain man standing there with a smoking rifle. He had shot Eby.

  “Clyde Barnes! Where did you come from?” Art asked.

  “I decided to come on in early as well,” Clyde said as he held his still-smoking rifle. “I couldn’t let you have all the fun.”

  “Ever’ one seen it,” the organizer of the shooting match said. “Eby was about to shoot the boy when this fella shot him. We ain’t got no judge nor law out here, but I say it was justifiable homicide.”

  “Hear, hear!” another shouted.

  “Anyone say any different?”

  There were no dissenters.

  “Then let’s get this piece of trash buried and get on with the Rendezvous. Oh, by the way,” the organizer said, looking over toward Jennie. “I reckon we also heard the bet. Girl, you’re free.”

  “Wait, you can’t do it like that,” someone else shouted.

  Once again, Jennie felt a sinking sensation in her stomach. Was this all to be a cruel hoax? Was she destined to remain a slave?
But if so, who would be her master? Eby was dead.

  “What do you mean you don’t do it like this?”

  “Someone is going to have to draw up a letter of manumission.”

  “Manumission? What is that?”

  “It’s a letter that says this here girl has been given her freedom.”

  “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.”

  The House of Flowers, St. Louis, Tuesday, June 22, 1824

  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.

  Four

  On the Missouri River, inside the Missouri State Line, Monday, July 5, 1824

  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.”