Preacher's Peace

by William W. Johnstone

“Do this for me, Art, and I’ll outfit you for free. A horse and two mules, food, gunpowder, lead, matches—anything and everything you need, I’ll furnish. And I’ll let you pick out your own livestock. Then, once you get the party upriver and make peace with the Indians, why, you can go off on your own. And because I’m giving you your personal outfit free, every pelt you bring back will be pure profit for you.”

  “Same price as you’re payin’ now?”

  “No guarantees—don’t know what the market will bear—but I can assure you I won’t cheat you, never would.”

  “If I agree, when do we leave?”

  “Leave whenever you want to. You’ll be in charge,” Ashley said.

  “All right. Have your party gathered up, ready to go by sunrise tomorrow morning.”

  Ashley smiled broadly, then extended his hand. “Thanks,” he said. “I’ll start getting your supplies together.”

  “Mr. Ashley, you’re a respected businessman in St. Louis. I expect you know just about everyone and everything about the town, don’t you?”

  “You mean, am I a busybody who sticks his nose into everyone’s business?”

  “No, I didn’t mean that.”

  Ashley chuckled. He took a pipe from a collection he kept on his desk, and began to fill it with fragrant tobacco. “I know you didn’t. I was just funnin’ with you, that’s all. Yes, I know quite a bit about what is going on in this ragamuffin town that some people call a city. Why do you ask? Do you have a question about someone?”

  “There’s a girl here in town . . .”

  “My, you work fast,” Ashley said, interrupting Art. Clearly he was impressed with the young man. “You’ve only been here a few days and you’ve already met a girl?”

  “Well, the fact is, I’ve known her for a long time,” Art said. “I would just like to know how she’s getting along.”

  “I’ll tell you if I know. What’s her name?”

  “Jennie.”

  “Jennie? What’s her last name?”

  “She doesn’t have a last name.”

  Ashley laughed again. “Art, what is it about you and last names? You don’t have a last name, now you’re asking me about a young woman who also doesn’t have a last name. Jennie, you say? Well, there must be a dozen women and girls in this town named Jennie.”

  “This Jennie lives in a big white house over on Chestnut Street.”

  “Well, that narrows it down a bit,” Ashley said. The smile left his face. “Wait a minute, a big white house on Chestnut, you say? Are you talking about the House of Flowers?”

  “I dunno. The House of Flowers?”

  “The House of Flowers is a big white house on Chestnut Street run by a girl named Jennie. But it’s a ... uh—”

  “Whorehouse?” Art asked.

  “Well, I wasn’t going to say that exactly, but yes. It is. Is that the one you mean?”

  “Well, yes, that’s the one I mean. Didn’t know it was called that. How does the town treat her?”

  “She’s a whore. How is the town supposed to treat her?”

  “She’s a good woman,” Art said. Before Ashley could reply, Art held up his hand to stop him. “I know she’s a whore, but she didn’t have much choice in that. But inside, she’s got a good soul, and I wouldn’t want to see her hurt in any way.”

  “Well, as far as I can tell, she isn’t being mistreated,” Ashley said. “She sort of minds her own business, so the only people who ever take note of her are the people who are her customers.”

  “She must be doing pretty well to own that big house,” Art said.

  “Yes, well, that’s another matter. There are some who say she might have bitten off more than she could chew when she bought that house. You see, she couldn’t buy it outright, so the bank holds the paper on it. And from what I understand, some of our . . . so-called decent folks . . .” Ashley just about choked on the word “decent.” He went on. “Well, the good citizens of the city of St. Louis are trying to get the bank to foreclose.”

  “Why?”

  “Why? Well, because St. Louis is becoming a very important city, and there are those who feel that having something like the House of Flowers is bad.”

  “Who are the ones that say this?”

  “Well, one name that comes to mind is Mrs. Sybil Abernathy. She is President of the Women’s Auxiliary of the St. Louis Betterment League. Betterment League,” he snorted. “A genuine bunch of busybodies is what they are. Put me to shame in that department.” He tried to make light of an unpleasant situation.

  “Is Jennie behind in her payments?” Art persisted.

  “Oh, I’m sure she isn’t. Duane Abernathy, Sybil’s husband, is chairman of the board of directors of the bank. Believe me, if Jennie was late in her payments, he wouldn’t hesitate to throw her out on her you-know-what.”

  “Then I don’t see how anyone can do anything against her.”

  “One would think so,” Ashley replied. He looked at the younger man and saw the naive kid who still resided inside the tall, strong, weathered exterior. Still, it made Art that much more likable and trustworthy. “But there is a clause in her contract that would allow the bank to call in the note at any time.”

  “Can a bank do that? I mean if you are paying on time?”

  “Yes, as long as that clause is in the contract. And that clause is put into many loans that the bank considers at risk. Whorehouses are considered at risk. Though why they are, I don’t know. They always seem to do a brisk business.”

  “How much does Jennie owe, do you know?”

  “I think it’s around five hundred dollars or so.”

  “Pay it off,” Art said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I want you to take five hundred dollars, or however much it takes, from my account here, and pay off Miss Jennie’s loan.”

  “Art, that’s a helluva lot of money. Are you sure you want to do that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, if you are going to do that, why don’t you just take the money yourself and give it to her?”

  Art shook his head emphatically. No question in his mind about this. “No,” he said. “I’d rather do it this way. That is, if you will do it for me. And I don’t want her to know that the money came from me.”

  Ashley paused for a moment; then he nodded in complete understanding. “Yes, of course I’ll do it for you,” he said. “You are a rare man, Art. A rare man indeed. And the rest of the money in your account?”

  “I’d like for you to just keep it on your books.”

  “You mean you want me to act as a bank for you?”

  “Yes, if you don’t mind.”

  Ashley smiled. “I don’t mind at all. Fact is, I do run sort of a bank here. You won’t be the only one to leave your money on the books.”

  “Thanks,” Art said. “I appreciate that, Mr. Ashley.”

  The two men shook hands, and without another word Art left Ashley’s place and wandered back down to the waterfront, where again the same talkative preacher was holding court. Dog, who had trailed Art at a close distance throughout the entire day, stayed with him every step. Art always kept him within sight from the corner of his eye, but didn’t seek him out or pet him or feed him. Dog was a survivor, for sure. Now, Art stopped to listen for a few minutes to the longest nonstop sermon he had ever heard—and he remembered a few from his childhood.

  “These here new-fangled steamboats is an abomination to the Lord!” the preacher said in his singsong voice. “I say now that all God-fearin’ people should rise up against them, for surely they will mean the end of us all.

  “Steam wilts the grass, so the horses and cattle cannot feed. The noise of those infernal engines keeps the chickens from layin’, puts the pigs off’n their feed, and makes our womenfolk barren.”

  He held up a Bible and pointed to it.

  “And it also poisons the water, for listen to this.” The preacher opened the Bible and began to read. “From the Book of Revelation, 9:11. ’
The waters became wormwood, and many men died of the waters because they were made bitter.’ ”

  He slammed the Bible shut, then stabbed at the air with a long, bony finger. “Hear the word of the Lord!” he shouted.

  Chuckling quietly and shaking his head, Art walked away. The preacher was still railing behind him.

  Returning to LaBarge’s Tavern, Art took the table that had become his during his time in St. Louis. He was eating a supper of beans and bacon when a shadow fell across his table. Looking up, he saw McDill and Caviness staring down at him.

  “Something I can do for you gentlemen?” he asked.

  “I’m told you plan to lead the fur-trapping party out of here in the morning,” McDill said.

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, you ain’t goin’ to do it.”

  “Oh? Why not?”

  “ ’Cause by rights that job belongs to me ’n my partner here,” McDill said. “So if I was you, mister, I’d just get on out of town tonight and forget about the fur trapping party.”

  “Sorry. I’ve already given my word to Mr. Ashley,” Art said easily. The more he saw of these two, the less he liked.

  “Maybe you don’t understand what I’m tellin’ you, boy. I’m tellin’ you you ain’t goin’ to lead no fur-trapping party.”

  “McDill, why don’t you and Caviness back away and leave that fella alone?” someone asked. “If Mr. Ashley chose him, it’s good enough for me.”

  “Yeah, me too,” another said.

  “That goes for all of us,” another added.

  “Matthews, Montgomery, Hoffman,” McDill said, scoffing. He pointed at them. “Once we start up the river tomorrow with me ’n Caviness in charge, I’m goin’ to remember your sassy mouths.”

  Each of the three men took a step back.

  “What’s your name, mister?” Caviness asked.

  “My name is Art. Oh, and this is Dog.”

  So far, Dog had not raised his head.

  “Art? That’s all? Your name is just Art?”

  “That’s enough for me.”

  McDill snorted what might have been a laugh. “Art and Dog,” he said. He looked at Caviness. “Hey, Ben, which one of these two is a real dog?” he asked. He and Caviness laughed at his joke. McDill hiked up his trousers as if he were about to do something—but he didn’t make his move yet.

  “You know what I think?” Caviness chimed in. “I think we ought to just whup old Art here, just to show him who his master is. Don’t think he’s very smart.”

  “Yeah,” McDill said. “What do you say, Art? Shall we show you who your master is?”

  “There are two of you,” Art said.

  McDill flashed an evil smile. “Well, then, we’ll just take turns with you. First one of us will whup you, then the other. How does that sound?”

  “That sounds fair enough. Who is going to be first?” Art asked easily.

  “Who is going to be first? What difference does that make?” Caviness asked.

  Art smiled up at them. “Oh, it makes a lot of difference,” he said. “You see, under this table, I’m holding a charged pistol. I intend to shoot whoever is going to be first, then I’ll let Dog deal with the other one. Dog,” he called sharply.

  Dog woke up, sat up, and seeing that Art was being confronted by two men, let out a low intense growl.

  “Wait a minute now,” McDill said, taking half a step backward.

  “Come on, gentlemen, make up your mind. Who is going to be first?”

  “You ... you ain’t got no charged pistol under that table,” Caviness challenged. He had held his ground, but stood there with some uncertainty, looking back and forth between McDill and Art.

  “Try me,” Art said. He moved not a muscle, kept both men within his range of vision. Only his jaw clenched, and his enemies could see that.

  “McDill? Caviness?” LaBarge called from behind the bar.

  “You stay out of this, LaBarge. This here ain’t none of your concern,” McDill said in as blustery a voice as he could manage.

  LaBarge laughed. “Oh, I ain’t plannin’ on getting into it,” he said. “But I was just wonderin’ if you had any last wishes. I mean, after he and Dog kill the two of you, is there anyone you want me to write?”

  Matthews laughed. “Are you joking, LaBarge? There ain’t nobody who will miss either one of them after they’re dead.”

  “You’re probably right,” LaBarge said. “I just wanted to give them a chance.” He took a wet towel and began to damp down the bar surface, but kept an experienced tavern keep’s eye on the situation.

  “I don’t believe he’s holdin’ no charged pistol under that table,” McDill said.

  “I don’t either,” Caviness said, though not quite as forcefully as before.

  “You go first,” McDill said.

  “Me go first?” Caviness replied. “Hell, no, I’m not going first. You go first.”

  The two men stood there for a long moment, staring at Art, who was looking, without wavering, back into their eyes. By now the rest of the tavern realized that a potential life-or-death confrontation was reaching some sort of climax. A few chairs scraped along the rough-planked floor as men prepared to evacuate the battlefield if need be.

  “I seen him yesterday,” a voice said. “He was cool as a cucumber while Shardeen emptied both his pistols at him. Then, when Shardeen come at him with a roar, that fella never flinched. He just stood there waiting, and the next thing you know ol’ Shardeen was deader’n a polecat in a wagon rut.”

  Caviness began to sweat, and McDill licked his lips nervously.

  “Ah,” McDill said with a dismissive wave of his hand. He tried to force a smile. “We was only funnin’ with you, Art,” he said. “If you’re goin’ to be leadin’ us tomorrow, we just wanted to know that you’ve got the makin’s, that’s all. We didn’t mean nothin’, did we, Caviness?”

  “No,” Caviness said. “We didn’t mean nothin’. Uh, would you call your dog off now?”

  “He’s not my dog,” Art said. He looked over at Dog and nodded. Dog eyed Art, then the two bullies, and gave up his threat position; he lay down again with one eye shut, the other open wide.

  “If you’re planning on going on this trip, be in front of Ashley’s at sunrise tomorrow,” Art said.

  “Yeah, yeah, we’ll be there. You, uh, can put away your pistol now,” McDill said.

  “Oh, yeah,” Art replied. With a smile, he brought his hand up from under the table. He was holding a fork. “As it turns out, you were right. I wasn’t holding a pistol.”

  Everyone in the tavern began to laugh then, as much from a release of tension as from the humor of the situation. LaBarge unthinkingly used the soiled towel to mop his own brow.

  “Why you . . .” McDill sputtered.

  “Come on, McDill, Caviness,” Hoffman said. “He got you, that’s all.”

  “Yeah,” Montgomery added. “He got you good.”

  Scowling, McDill and Caviness turned and marched out of the tavern, chased by laughter, whistles, and catcalls.

  Art, the mountain man, returned to his meal, using the fork-pistol to shovel in the food that would be his last city meal for a long time to come.

  Seven

  Friday, July 23, 1824

  It was just before sunrise, and in the east the sky was pearl-gray, laced with streaks of pink. The Mississippi River was glowing a silver-blue, as if it had its own internal source of light. Roosters were crowing, and in the backyard of a nearby house a cow bawled to be milked.

  Although Art had told everyone to be in front of Ashley’s place by sunup, they all arrived even before the sun rose. Art, who had picked out his livestock the night before, now saddled his horse, then checked the harness on his pack mules. Neither of his mules was heavily loaded now, as they were carrying only the supplies he would need for the winter, as well as some trading material for the Indians. Ashley had furnished a goodly amount of trade goods, so much that these items were equally distributed
among all the mules in the party.

  After Art checked his own animals, he went down the line looking at the others, and meeting the men who would be traveling with him.

  “What’s Ashley doing, giving the Indians all this stuff?” McDill asked as he worked on his animals. “We give them all this stuff this time, they’re going to expect it every time. And if we show up empty-handed, there’s going to be hell to pay.”

  “Yeah,” Caviness replied. He too was working on the loads of his mules. “If we had any kind of leader, he’d tell Ashley what a fool he’s makin’ of himself.”

  Art knew that McDill and Caviness were talking for his benefit, but he paid no attention to them. Instead, he just looked over the harness and the load. The loads were skillfully packed, evidence that McDill and Caviness knew the business. Art hoped he would have no more trouble with them.

  Third in line was Don Montgomery, followed by Joe Matthews. Montgomery and Matthews were first cousins, about twenty-two years old. They were a little green, but they seemed willing enough. Last was Herman Hoffman. Hoffman was a big Hessian, and at fifty, the oldest of the group. Hoffman had fought in the Napoleonic Wars, and any misgivings Art might have had about whether or not Hoffman would follow a much younger man were dispelled when Hoffman spoke. Hoffman was a military man, used to the structure of command, and in his mind, Art was his commander, pure and simple.

  “Have you been trapping before?” Art asked.

  “Nein,” Hoffman said. He held out his large, rough hands. “But I am strong and good worker. I will do what you tell me and I think all will be fine.”

  Art smiled. “I think all will be fine as well.”

  Looking down the street, Art saw William Ashley moving toward them, having walked up from his home. Although the sun had not yet risen, there was enough light for Art to recognize him from some distance away. Reaching the group, Ashley lit his pipe before he spoke.

  “Well, Art, you have your party together, I see. Have you met all of them?”

  “Yes. McDill, Caviness, and the others.”

  Ashley chuckled. “Yes, I heard about your little run-in with those two last night. But from what I hear, you handled it very well. I don’t think you’ll be having any more trouble from those two. And they are good trappers. I probably would have had one of them lead the group if you had refused. It’s just that they . . . well, you saw how they are last night. And this is as much a peacemaking trip as anything else. After what happened last winter, I don’t think I could trust either one of them to make a lasting peace with the Indians.”