Preacher's Peace

by William W. Johnstone

  “I wouldn’t take too kindly to it,” Art agreed. “I tell you what, give me another twenty dollars. I’ll collect the rest later.”

  Ashley counted out twenty more silver dollar coins, made another entry in the book, then handed them over to Art.

  “Now don’t spend that all in one place,” he quipped.

  “Why not?” Art replied, not understanding the joke that was tired even in those days.

  Ashley laughed, shook his head, and held up his hand. “Never mind. It’s your money, you can spend it any way you want to, with my hearty congratulations.”

  When Art left Ashley, he saw quite a crowd gathered down by the waterfront and, wondering what it was, walked down to see.

  “It’s the Marquis de Lafayette,” someone told him. “You know, the French hero who helped us gain our independence from England?”

  “I’ve heard of him,” Art said. “But I didn’t know he was still alive.”

  “He’s sixty-seven years old,” Art’s informant told him. “I read about him in the newspaper.”

  “What’s he doing in St. Louis?”

  “He’s touring America. From here, he is going to go downriver to New Orleans.”

  Nine carriages were waiting at the riverfront to carry the Marquis de Lafayette and his party of dignitaries to the home of Major Pierre Chouteau, where Mayor William Carr Lane would present the great Revolutionary War hero and confidant of George Washington with the ceremonial keys to the city. Lafayette’s boat had been spotted downriver, and a fast rider had brought the news to St. Louis. As a result of the early warning, not only the carriages of the official party were on hand, but so were a couple thousand St. Louis citizens, resulting in the crowd Art had encountered.

  A preacher, wearing a long black coat and a stovepipe hat, was working the crowd. He had a hooked nose and a protruding chin so that it wasn’t too hard to imagine the chin and nose actually touching each other. He was rail-thin. As he spoke, he stabbed at the air with a bony finger.

  “Hell and damnation, eternal perdition waits for every one of you. This is a city of sin and debauchery, a den of iniquity! Turn your backs on temptation, order Satan to get behind you. For if you fail to do this, if you close the door to God’s holy word, worms will eat your rotting body and maggots will gnaw at your innards.”

  The preacher delivered his sermon in a loud, singsong voice, pausing between every sentence for an audible gasp of air.

  “I am the way and the life, says the Lord, and only by me will you be saved!”

  The sound of an approaching boat whistle could be heard over the preacher’s sermon.

  “Here he comes!” someone shouted.

  Everyone rushed down to the wharf, including those who had been listening to the preacher, but the preacher was undaunted. He continued his delivery with as much zeal as he had displayed when he was surrounded by a large audience.

  Art joined the others who had gathered to watch the arrival of the Frenchman who had come to help the Americans during the Revolutionary War. Lafayette was old, with a shock of bright-silver hair, but he stood erect and moved with a sprightly step down the gangplank and onto the riverbank. He was met by Mayor Lane, who escorted him to the first in the line of carriages.

  “Thank you, General!” someone in the crowd called, and all, including Art, began to applaud.

  Lafayette waved at the crowd as his carriage departed. The team of matched white horses pranced saucily, making hollow clops on the cobblestone street.

  As the crowd began to dissipate, Art decided to go check on his furs. The preacher was still going strong, renewed and invigorated by the fact that he had regained much of his audience.

  Six

  Art spent the better part of the day just wandering around town, finding some parts of St. Louis that were familiar to him, and marveling at the tremendous growth of the city since he was last here. Mid-afternoon found him back down by the riverfront, where he saw the same preacher he had seen in the morning. The preacher was still going strong, railing loudly against all the sins of man and underscoring those sins with very vivid descriptions of them.

  Art stayed to listen for a few minutes, marveling at the strength of the preacher’s voice, then turned away to continue his survey of the town. That was when he heard it.

  KABOOM!

  The explosion was so loud that it shattered windows all over St. Louis. The shock wave rolled through the town, and Art could feel it in his stomach.

  “What was that?” someone called.

  “It come from Dunnigan’s store. Look down there!” another said.

  When Art looked in the direction pointed, he saw a huge cloud of smoke billowing up from one of the buildings. Fire was leaping from the roof.

  “We better get down there. Those folks are going to need help,” another shouted.

  A crowd gathered quickly around Dunnigan’s store, and Art went with them, watching as the building burned furiously. From up the street he heard the sound of a clanging bell and galloping horses.

  “Here comes the fire engine!” someone shouted.

  “Ain’t nothin’ left they can do,” another said.

  The team pulling the fire wagon came to a halt in front of the burning building. The driver and his assistant jumped down from the wagon seat and began playing out the hoses.

  “You men . . . get on the pumps!” the driver shouted and a half-dozen men, three on each side, began pumping the handles to build up the pressure. Within a shorter time than Art would have imagined, a powerful stream of water gushed from the hose toward the fire. Others present grabbed buckets and began replacing the water in the tank that was pumped out by the men on the pump handles.

  After several minutes of diligent application of the water, the men gained control of the fire. The flames drew down, then disappeared altogether. After several more minutes, even the large billows of smoke were gone, replaced by a few smoldering embers. The building was totally destroyed, but quick action had prevented the fire from spreading to the adjacent buildings.

  * * *

  In LaBarge’s Tavern that evening, Art learned that, in addition to the storeowner, Danny Dunnigan, four other men had lost their lives in the explosion and fire.

  “One of ’em must’ve been smokin’ a pipe,” someone said. “You’d think a fella would have better sense than to smoke a pipe while he was workin’ around gunpowder.”

  “McDill, I done seen you smokin’ around gunpowder lots of times,” someone said.

  At the mention of the name, Art looked up to see who McDill was. McDill, he knew, was one of the two men who had created the problem with the Arikara.

  McDill was a big man with a flat nose and a scar that hooked down across his left eye, causing a deformation of the eyelid before it disappeared into a bushy, red beard.

  “Well, I’ll tell you this,” McDill said. “I got me enough sense to know how to do it without gettin’ my fool head blowed off, which is more than you can say for Thompson now, ain’t it?”

  “Thompson was one of the men killed?” another patron asked. “George Thompson?”

  “One and the same.”

  “Why, Thompson was supposed to lead Ashley’s trading party, wasn’t he?”

  “He was supposed to,” McDill said. He chuckled. “But I don’t reckon he’ll be doin’ that now.”

  “Who you think Ashley will get to lead the party, now that Thompson’s got hisself killed?”

  “Well, I reckon it’ll either be me, or Ben Caviness there?” McDill said. He pointed to one of the men who was sharing his table. That man was nearly as big as McDill, but dark-haired and clean-shaven. “Either one of us could do the job all right.”

  “Better’n all right,” Caviness said, his massive arms crossed against his chest.

  Ben Caviness, Art knew, was the other man who had traded whiskey to the Arikara. The damage he and McDill had done had set back relations between the Indians and the whites, possibly for good. At least it would take
some sincere talking and trading to win back the trust of the tribes who had once been friendly to the white fur trappers.

  “Percy McDill, there ain’t no way in hell William Ashley is goin’ to let either one of you lead that party,” a patron said. “Ever’body knows you two is the ones that caused all the troubles with the Indians last year.”

  “ ’Twas a misunderstandin’ is all,” McDill said. “There wa’nt nothin’ wrong with that whiskey. Only mistake we made was in givin’ whiskey in the first place. Indians can’t handle whiskey. I know that now.”

  “Yeah, you know it now, but it took a war for you to learn your lesson.”

  “Wasn’t that much of a war,” McDill said. “And in the long run, it was probably a good thing.”

  “How can a war be a good thing?”

  “It taught the Indians better than to mess with us,” McDill insisted. “They’s slow learners anyhow, seein’s they ain’t got no proper schools and such. So they need to be teached proper.”

  “Yeah, well, that ain’t the way I look at it, and I don’t think that’s the way Ashley looks at it either. You notice, he didn’t send nobody out to Northwest to buy furs this year. Like I say, there’s no way he’s goin’ to make you head of his trapping party.”

  “I’d like to know just who it would be then, if not me or Caviness,” McDill said. “Who? Matthews? Montgomery? Hoffman?” McDill snorted what may have been a laugh. “Them three is greener than a spring sapling. Couldn’t none of ’em find their way up the river and back. Me ’n Caviness is the only ones that’s made the trip more’n one time.”

  “I’m afraid McDill may be right,” another said. “I reckon when it comes right down to it, Ashley won’t have no choice but to put one of the two of ’em in charge.”

  Caviness laughed, speaking at greater length than he had in a long time. “Why so glum? You gotta find the furs if you want to make any money, and best way to do that is go with someone that knows what he’s a-doin’. Very few of us around anymore, what with Injuns murderin’ and accidents a-happenin’. Come on, boys, me ’n McDill will set all of you up to a drink.”

  After that oration, several crowded up to the bar to get a refill.

  Art, who was sitting by the stove that still had Shardeen’s bullet hole in the pipe, watched the whole thing with little interest. He noticed, however, that the two men sitting at the table next to him made no effort to join the others at the bar. One of the two men was the one who had spoken up for him yesterday, when the constable was investigating the incident with Shardeen. His name, Art remembered, was Joe Matthews. The other man at the table with Matthews was the one who had challenged McDill when McDill suggested that he or Caviness would lead the trapping party.

  “I’ll say this,” Matthews said, speaking quietly to his table companion. “There ain’t no way I’d go up the river with either one of them no-’count bastards in the lead. Ain’t neither one of them worth a bucket of warm piss.”

  “Yeah,” the other agreed. “If they didn’t get you lost, they’d more’n likely get you kilt by Indians. Besides which, they’re goin’ to make life miserable for anybody that’s under them.”

  “Still, McDill is right. There’s no one else in St. Louis, right now that Ashley can get to lead the party. The good ones has already left.”

  “Gents,” Art said. “Since you two aren’t drinking with McDill and Caviness, maybe you’d let me buy you a beer. Least I can do, in thanks for your speaking out for me,” he added to Matthews.

  “Well, that’s very generous of you, mister,” Matthews said.

  “I remember your name is Matthews,” Art said. He looked at the man with Matthews.

  “The name is Montgomery,” he said. “Don Montgomery.”

  Art signaled to Carla and she brought three beers to the table.

  “I take it you men aren’t too fond of McDill and Caviness,” Art said as they began drinking.

  “Fond of them? I doubt their own mothers are fond of those two. Do you know them?”

  Art shook his head. “No. But I had a run-in with a couple of Arikara because of them.”

  “You’re lucky you still have your scalp,” Matthews said.

  “Was the fella right when he said Mr. Ashley wouldn’t have any choice but to make one of them two the head of his party?” Art asked.

  “Yeah,” Matthews said disgustedly. “I’m afraid he was. All the good ones have left already.”

  “Too bad,” Art said. He sat in silence for a couple of minutes, then finished his drink. “It’s been nice talking to you,” he said. The two men watched him leave, then fell to talking between themselves again.

  Departing the tavern, Art walked back down to William Ashley’s fur trading post. Seemed he couldn’t stay away from the place. Again, the little tinkling bell over the doorway announced his entrance.

  Almost instantly, William Ashley appeared from the back room where he had been working. He smiled at Art, as if he were genuinely glad to see him.

  “Well, if it isn’t the man called Art.”

  “Hello, Mr. Ashley,” Art said.

  “What can I do for you, Art?”

  “It’s time for me to get my supplies laid in for the winter,” Art said. “But . . .”

  “But what?”

  Art made a motion in the general direction of the burned-out store. “Dunnigan’s store got burned down. And Dunnigan was killed in the fire. Don’t know where I can get outfitted now.”

  “I can outfit you, Art. I have all the things you’ll need right here. Including livestock.”

  “Is that a fact? Well, I may just have to take you up on that.” Art frowned and frankly eyed the successful fur trader. “Though I reckon, now that Dunnigan’s place is gone, you’ll be wantin’ to charge a body an arm and his leg to do business with you.”

  “Well, a fella has a right to make a reasonable profit,” Ashley said. “But I won’t hold you up none, I promise you that.” He opened the ledger book and took a quill pen from the inkwell. “You just tell me what you need and I’ll . . .” Ashley stopped in mid-sentence, then closed the ledger book and stared at Art for a long moment. “On second thought, I’ve got a proposition for you. I won’t charge you anything at all if you’ll do a favor for me.”

  “What kind of favor?”

  “I want you to lead the trapping party upriver,” Ashley said.

  Art chuckled. “The way they’re talking over in the tavern, you’ll be asking McDill or Caviness to lead the party.”

  “Well, truth to tell, I figured I was goin’ to have to ask one or the other. What with Thompson dead, they’re near ’bout the only ones left in town that could find their way upriver and back without wearing a quiver of arrows in their backs. But they are a couple of the biggest no-accounts that ever drew a breath, and I hate the thought of putting either one of them in charge.”

  “Why would you ask me to lead the party?” Art asked. “You don’t know anything about me.”

  “I know you brought in the largest catch of any single man this season,” Ashley said. “And they were all fine pelts too. I’ve been through ’em all. Most folks will try and pass off ten or twenty bad pelts, but you culled them out, had all the lower-quality plews together. That’s plumb unusual in my experience. Why’d you do that, Art?”

  “I figure if a man wants honest treatment, then he needs to be honest.” The young mountain man had remembered the lessons taught to him by his father and mother, and even some of the preaching he had heard in church of a Sunday many years ago.

  “That’s a good policy. But it’s not just the pelts you brought back that makes me think you would be a good man. I checked around on you, Art. There’s some fellas in town say they remember you from the war. They say you was at New Orleans with Andy Jackson.”

  “That I was.” It was the experience of a lifetime, and Art had been but a boy, fighting in a man’s war. He drank up knowledge of men and weapons like a sponge, which had stood him in good stead in the
later years.

  “And they say you was made a lieutenant even though you was only fifteen years old.”

  Art chuckled. “I don’t know that I was a real lieutenant,” he said. “I think they may have just done that to be nice.”

  “Well, real or not, everyone who’s ever heard of you has nothin’ but good things to say about you. Plus, there’s no denying that you can handle yourself if it comes down to it. Your run-in with Shardeen yesterday proved that. That’s all I need to know that I’d like you to lead my trading party upriver.”

  “I’d like to do it for you, Mr. Ashley,” Art said. “But I work alone.” It was truer than Ashley or any man could ever know, just how alone a man he was. Except maybe now that he had Dog in his life . . .

  “Oh, don’t misunderstand me, Art. I’m not asking you to trap with the team. You can still work alone. All I want you to do is to lead my party upriver and”—he paused for a moment before he continued—“make peace with the Indians.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Ashley stroked his jaw. He could see he had the mountain man’s interest, but he needed to convince him that only he was the right man for this job. “You see, Art, that’s the whole of it. Truth to tell, McDill or Caviness either one could lead the party upriver, but because of what happened with the Arikara last year, there’s likely to be even more Indians now that don’t want us comin’ into their territory. I need somebody that can parlay with them, work out a way that our men can trap in their country without getting their scalp lifted. I sure can’t count on McDill or Caviness for that.”

  “I don’t know,” Art said, considering every angle of this proposition, and not liking it much. “There’s a lot of Indians up that way: Poncas, Sioux, Cheyennes, Mandans, even the Arikaras that I could probably deal with. But there’s also Blackfeet, and they are about the gol-darned orneriest people there are in creation.”