Preacher's Peace

by William W. Johnstone

  “See, he’s not going to . . .”

  That was as far as McDill got before Dog darted quickly to intercept McDill. Putting himself between McDill and Art’s packs, Dog bared his fangs and growled.

  Matthews and the others laughed.

  “You still want to mess with Art’s things?” Matthews asked.

  “I wasn’t goin’ to do nothin’ but see what all he was carryin’,” McDill said.

  “I think maybe you should go back to your own bedroll now,” Hoffman suggested.

  “Come on, Percy,” Caviness said. “If that dog decides to go after you, he’ll have your windpipe pulled out before we can stop him.”

  “Ha, what do you mean before we can stop him?” Montgomery asked. “I don’t intend to even try to stop him.”

  “All right,” McDill said. He pointed at Dog. “But me and you’s goin’ to have an accountin’ one of these days.”

  * * *

  When Art approached the farmhouse he saw a tall, bearded man standing on the front porch. The man was dressed in homespun and holding a rifle.

  “Somethin’ I can do you for, mister?” the farmer asked.

  “I’d like to buy a couple dozen eggs, if you’ve got any for sale,” Art said.

  The farmer looked surprised. “Did you say you wanted to buy eggs?”

  “Yes, sir, I did. If they’re not too dear, that is.”

  The farmer stroked his beard for a moment. “You a fur trapper, are you?” he asked.

  “I am.”

  “Uh-huh, I thought so. They been comin’ through here right regular over the last few weeks. You’re the first one asked to buy eggs, though. The others tried to steal ’em”

  “Tried?”

  “They’s one of ’em buried over there,” the farmer said. “I yelled at him to get out of here an’ leave my hens alone, but he turned and shot at me. So I shot back. It’s a fearsome thing, killin’ one of God’s own, but I didn’t have no choice in the matter.”

  “It doesn’t sound like you did.”

  “So, you’re wantin’ to buy yourself a couple dozen eggs, are you?”

  “Yes, sir, if you have any to sell.”

  “I got ’em. What about twenty cents for two dozen eggs?”

  Art thought of the money he had collected. He didn’t know how he would divide ten cents up among six men. He could keep the money and no one would be the wiser, but he didn’t want to do that. “What about three dozen for thirty cents?” he asked.

  The farmer nodded. “I reckon I can do that,” he said. “Come around back with me, you can help me gather ’em. But you better stay close to me.”

  “Stay close to you?”

  “Over there,” the farmer said, nodding. When Art looked in the direction the farmer had indicated, he saw two dogs, both of them bigger than Dog. Though they weren’t growling, they were looking at him with dark, intense eyes. “If’n you had tried to come in here without me, them dogs woulda been on you.”

  “They look mighty fierce.”

  “They are fierce,” the farmer said. “That’s why they ain’t nobody got away with any of my eggs yet.”

  “I can see that,” Art said. “I’ve got a dog that’s been followin’ me around lately. He’s come in handy a time or two.”

  “Dogs is good things for a body to have,” the farmer said. He gathered up the eggs, wrapped them in a cloth bundle, then, held his hand out palm up.

  “Here you are,” Art said. “Thirty cents.” He dropped the coins into the man’s palm. The farmer wrapped his hand around the coins, then handed the eggs to Art.

  Carrying the three dozen eggs carefully in a cloth bundle, Art returned to the campsite.

  “Three dozen for thirty cents?” Montgomery asked. “You made a pretty good bargain.”

  “Ha,” McDill said. “I could’ve gotten ’em for nothin’. You should’ve let me do it my way.”

  Art smiled. “Yes,” he said. “Now that I think about it, I should have let you try.”

  * * *

  Junction of Platte and Missouri Rivers, Saturday August 14, 1824

  There were so many people gathered at the junction of the Platte and Missouri Rivers that it resembled a small town. Tents and temporary shelters had been erected, some of which were made of logs, chinked with mud, to take on a more permanent look. Several keelboats were tied up, or pulled ashore, awaiting future employment. There were even a few squaws and children of some of the mountain men, thus giving the encampment even more of the look, feel, and sound of a nearly civilized city.

  The more substantial structures belonged to employees of the Eastern fur dealers. These men would buy the pelts here, at a reduced price, then boat the pelts back downriver next spring. Until such time as there were furs to buy, though, they supplemented their income by providing liquor and goods from stores they had brought with them.

  Most of the goods the mountain men bought weren’t paid for at the time of purchase, but were put on an account. The account was settled when the trappers brought in their winter’s catch. The representatives of the fur dealers would merely deduct from the pelt count so that, while a trapper might bring in fifty pelts, his indebtedness could cause him to be credited with only twenty-five or less.

  As Art led his party into the encampment, he was greeted by hellos from dozens of other mountain men.

  Art returned the greetings, then swung down from his horse. He looked back toward the ones who had come in with him. “Get your horses unsaddled, and take the load off your mules,” he called. “We’re going to be here for a while.”

  “How long are we going to be here?” McDill asked.

  “Two, maybe three days,” Art answered.

  “If I was leadin’ this outfit, we wouldn’t spend no more’n a day here. I think we should get on up into the mountains, get us a head start on the others.”

  “You want to go ahead on your own, McDill, go ahead,” Art said. “I’m not keeping you.” Art had already unsaddled and ground-staked his horse, and was now quickly and skillfully relieving his mules of their burden.

  “I didn’t say nothin’ ’bout goin’ on by myself,” McDill replied.

  Art walked over to a fallen tree trunk where a couple of men were sitting. A small campfire blazed in front of the downed tree, and one of the men tossed a few cut-up branches into the fire. McDill and the others were still working with their loads. Dog went with him.

  “Hello, Art,” the older of the two said. This was Jeb Law. Before Art went out on his own, Jeb had wintered in once with Art, Pierre, and Clyde.

  “Hello, Jeb,” Art replied. “Ed,” he said, nodding to the younger of the two.

  When Art sat, Dog settled down in front of him.

  “How’d you come by the wolf?” Jeb asked.

  “I didn’t come by him, he come by me,” Art said. “He just sort of attached himself to me.”

  “You gotta watch makin’ pets of wolves. They don’t ever get over their wild.”

  “I figure he’s at least as much dog as he is wolf, and the dog part is pretty smart.”

  “Say, where at’s ol’ Clyde?” Jeb asked. “Did he decide to stay back in St. Louie?”

  Art shook his head. “Clyde didn’t make it,” he said. “We was jumped by some Arikara. Clyde was killed.”

  “Oh,” Jeb said. “That’s a damn shame. Clyde was a good man.”

  “Yes, he was.”

  Jeb picked up a jug of whiskey from behind the log, and offered it to Art. Art pulled the cork, hefted it to his shoulder, and took a couple of drinks. When he brought the jug back down, he opened his mouth to suck in some air.

  “Whooee,” he said. “Where did you come by that poison?”

  “McGhee’s sellin’ it,” Jeb said, speaking of one of the furrier agents. “It’s not so bad, once you get used to it. I think he puts a little mule piss in it to add to the flavor.”

  “That explains its kick, then,” Art said.

  Jeb laughed out loud. “Its kick.
Hey, that’s a pretty good one.”

  “You get your furs sold in St. Louis?” Ed asked.

  “Yes. I sold them to William Ashley”

  “I figured you’d go to him. Get a good price, did you?” Ed asked.

  “I did.”

  “Might think on doin’ that myself this year.”

  “It’s not an easy journey,” Art said.

  “No, I reckon not, what with it getting Clyde killed and all,” Ed replied. “Still, it might be worth it for the higher price.”

  Jeb nodded toward the men who had ridden in with Art. “So, what’s with these men?”

  “I made a deal with Ashley to lead these fellas up to the head of the Missouri. I will also be making peace with the Indian tribes.”

  “Makin’ peace with the Indians, huh? Well, I reckon if anyone should try and make peace it’s Ashley. It was his men got ’em all riled up in the first place.”

  “It was a couple of men who were working for him,” Art said. “But it wasn’t none of Ashley’s doin’.”

  “A couple of men workin’ for him, huh? Well, I’d like to get my hands on them two, let ’em know what I think of ’em.”

  Art chuckled. “If you’re serious ’bout getting your hands on them, there they are.” He pointed to McDill and Caviness.

  “What? You mean that’s them?”

  “Yep.”

  “Well, all I can say is, they got some brass comin’ out here now, after all the trouble they caused. Was they part of the deal you made with Ashley?”

  “Yes,” Art answered. He told Jeb and Ed of the arrangement he’d made with William Ashley, in which he would lead Ashley’s trapping party up to the headwaters of the Missouri, and would also parley with the Indians in an attempt to make peace.

  “Why would you agree to such a thing?” Jeb asked.

  “Well, if we don’t have peace with the Indians, we’re going to wind up spendin’ so much time lookin’ back over our shoulders that we won’t get any trapping done,” Art explained. “I don’t want to see any more of my friends get killed. And Ashley agreed to outfit me, including livestock, if I would do it. So, here I am.”

  Jeb nodded, then pulled a pipe from his pocket. He stuck a long stick into the fire, captured a flame, and lit the fire. “Well, I don’t blame you none, I reckon. Sounds like a pretty good deal to me.” Jeb took several puffs from his pipe. Not until the bowl was smoking did he continue. “Parleying with the Indians might be a little harder than you think, though.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “According to the squaws, a good number of the Arikara has gone to live with the Mandan. And you know how Indians is. The enemies of their friends are also their enemies.”

  “What about the other tribes? The Ponca, the Sioux?”

  “Haven’t heard anything from them. They might open their lodges to you. On the other hand, they may scalp you as soon as they see you. You’re up here now. If I was you, I’d just forget about the rest of the deal you made with Ashley, and cut them boys loose to go on their own.”

  Art shook his head. “Can’t do that,” he said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because, for one thing, I gave my word to Ashley. And I’m not one to go back on my word. And for another, if I cut ’em loose now, McDill and Caviness will take over.”

  “The ones who started all this trouble in the first place?” Jeb asked. “Why would they take over?”

  “That’s just the way of it. And I’d hate to turn them loose on Matthews, Montgomery, and Hoffman.”

  “That’s the other three?”

  “Yes, and they’re green as grass. Wouldn’t take much for McDill and Caviness to prod them into doing about anything they ordered.”

  “Who’s the big fella?” Ed asked.

  “That’s Herman Hoffman. He’s a Hessian.”

  “He looks like he could take care of hisself pretty good,” Ed said.

  “I expect he can. Only trouble is, he’s a man who believes in authority, and if he figures that McDill or Caviness are giving the orders, he’ll follow them.”

  “You don’t plan to trap with those men, do you?” Jeb asked.

  Art shook his head. “No. Soon as I make peace with the Indians, I’ll go out on my own. Thought I might head up toward Wind River.”

  “Ought to be some good pickin’s up there this winter,” Jeb agreed.

  “Fight, fight!” someone shouted.

  Looking around, Art saw several people running toward the center of the camp area.

  “Art, it’s Percy McDill!” Matthews said, hurrying to find him.

  “Damn, it didn’t take him very long to get into trouble,” Art said, getting up from the fallen tree trunk. By the time he reached the center of the commotion, he saw that the fight was over. McDill was sprawled on his back, and the man he had been fighting with was standing over him.

  “You want ’ny more?” the man asked McDill.

  “No,” McDill replied sullenly. He had his hand on his chin, moving it back and forth as if testing to see if his jaw was broken.

  “I reckon that’ll teach you to mess with my squaw,” the victorious brawler said, brushing his hands together as he turned his back to McDill and started walking away.

  The man shouldn’t have turned his back because McDill leaped to his feet with his knife in his hand.

  “Dog!” Art shouted.

  Dog leaped up and clamped his jaws down on the wrist of McDill’s knife hand. With a roar of pain and surprise, McDill dropped his knife.

  “Get away!” he shouted. “Get away from me!”

  “Dog,” Art said again, and at this command, Dog let go. McDill stood there, rubbing his wrist.

  “What the hell?” McDill said. “What did he do that for?”

  “Because I told him to,” Art said.

  “What’s going on here?” McDill’s adversary asked, turning around at the commotion.

  Realizing that he had lost his advantage now, and not wanting to press the issue any further, McDill waved his hand in irritation.

  “Nothing,” he growled. “Nothing’s going on. Just go on about your business.”

  “Yeah, I’ll do that,” the other man said. He pointed at McDill. “So long as you stay away from my squaw.”

  “He won’t be bothering your squaw anymore,” Art said. “I can promise you that. Come on, McDill, I expect you better keep yourself out of trouble until we leave here.”

  “I don’t understand you, mister,” McDill growled in anger as they walked away from the confrontation. “I mean, we come out here together. I figured that should make us pards, of a sort. And pards is supposed to look out for one another.”

  “I was looking out for you, McDill. The fella you braced is one of the best-liked trappers out here. If I had let you kill him, you would be hanging from a tree limb by nightfall.”

  Eight

  The House of Flowers, St. Louis, Monday, August 16, 1824

  A beautiful cabriolet carriage, pulled by a team of matching white horses, stopped on Chestnut Street in front of the House of Flowers. Duane Abernathy, well turned out in a gaberdine suit with silver-buttoned vest, beaver hat, and white gloves, was the lone passenger in the magnificent carriage, as befitting his elevated station in St. Louis.

  Constable Billings, mounted, had ridden alongside the carriage, eating its dust. When they stopped, he looked over at Abernathy

  “Are you sure you want to do this, Mr. Abernathy?”

  “I’m sure, never surer of anything in my life as a man of business,” Abernathy said. “Before he left, Mr. Epson disclosed to me that the occupant of this house was in arrears on her payment. Serve the warrant, Constable. I want her, and all the trollops who work with her, out of the house by noon today. Serve the blessed warrant, my man.”

  “Perhaps if you would give her an opportunity to pay off the loan in one payment,” Billings suggested. He had pleaded with the banker before, when he had first learned of Miss Jennie’s financial pr
oblem.

  “She cannot pay off the loan,” Abernathy said. “I have reviewed her bank account. It is nearly depleted. In fact, she recently withdrew an amount of money exactly equal to what she owes my bank. One who was seriously trying to avoid arrears would have used that money to clear the debt. Do your duty, Constable. Serve the warrant, I say again.” Abernathy sat back in his comfortable carriage seat and pulled his hat more snugly onto his head. He called to the driver to take him back to the bank.

  With a sigh, Constable Billings tied off his horse at one of the several wrought-iron hitching posts in front of the fine white-painted house, then went inside. Jennie met him in the foyer.

  “Constable,” she said, greeting him with a genuine smile.

  Constable Billings removed his hat and rolled it in his hands for a moment before he spoke. He had never been in such an uncomfortable situation in his life. His heart was bleeding.

  “Miss Jennie, I hate being the one to do this, but I’ve been asked to serve a warrant of eviction.”

  “Eviction?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Billings said. By now, several of Jennie’s girls had gathered in the foyer as well, to see what was going on. They could see this wasn’t good.

  “But I don’t understand. How can I be evicted from my own house?” Jennie asked. Her dark eyes were wide with question and disbelief.

  “Well, ma’am, that’s just it,” Billings replied. “This isn’t your house anymore. According to the loan contract at the bank, it can be foreclosed at any time if a payment is late. And you are late.”

  Jennie shook her head vigorously. “But that’s not true, Constable. I don’t even have a loan at the bank anymore. I paid it off—in full.”

  Billings’s eyes opened wide in surprise. “You paid the loan off? When?”

  “Why, back in July,” Jennie said. “I wrote a bank draft for the full amount to Mr. Epson.”

  “Miss Jennie, would you come with me?” Billings asked. “Perhaps if we went to the bank, we could get to the bottom of this.”

  “Yes, I would be glad to come with you,” Jennie said.

  * * *

  Constable Billings, Duane Abernathy, and Logan McMurtry, the new chief of tellers, stood in the little fenced-off area that was the office of the chief of tellers. His mahogany desk was covered with correspondence, bank papers, and open ledger books. Several inkwells held inks of black, blue, and red.