Preacher's Peace

by William W. Johnstone

  “As you can see, Constable Billings,” Abernathy said, taking in the papers and open ledgers with a sweep of his hand, “her loan is still outstanding.”

  “But how can that be?” Jennie asked, incredulous. She was trying not to be intimidated by these men and the situation. “I have paid off the loan.”

  “By bank draft, you say?” Billings asked.

  “Yes, four hundred and seventy-five dollars,” Jennie said. “I’m sure if you check the ledger, you will see where I issued an instrument of that precise amount.”

  “Oh, I agree, you wrote a draft for four hundred and seventy-five dollars,” Abernathy said. “For here is the entry, made on July twenty-third, in the year of our Lord, eighteen hundred and twenty-four. But, according to this entry, the funds were given directly to you. You’ll see as much right here.” He hefted the ledger to show her.

  “What? No,” Jennie said. “They were to repay the loan.”

  “Miss Jennie, do you have anything to prove that?” Billings asked. “A receipt, a letter, something to show that the loan was paid?”

  Jennie shook her head. She now regretted not asking Epson for a payment note and the title on the very morning she had paid him. “No, I don’t. Mr. Epson said he would take care of it for me, and I assumed that he would. Perhaps it was delayed by his departure to Philadelphia.”

  “You say you gave the money to Epson?” Billings asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, if you gave it to him, but there is no record of it, what do you think happened to the money?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know,” Jennie said. Although inside, she now had deep suspicions, and she was almost sick with fear and regret.

  “Oh, I’m sure you do know,” Abernathy said. “You kept it for yourself.”

  “No, I didn’t, I can assure you. I gave the money directly to Mr. Epson.”

  “And yet, clearly, there is no entry to that fact, your assurances notwithstanding,” McMurtry said, pointing with an ink-stained finger to the ledger book.

  “I wish there was some way we could talk to Mr. Epson. He would be able to clear this up, I’m sure.” Jennie looked from McMurtry to Abernathy, but saw no sympathy in either man.

  “I did talk to Mr. Epson,” Abernathy said. “Before he left, he informed me that if the bank received no more money from you by the next payment date, you would be in arrears.”

  “Mr. Epson told you that?” Jennie asked in surprise.

  “He did.”

  “But that’s not true. He knows that’s not true.”

  “Why, then, would he tell me such a thing?” Abernathy asked.

  “I hate to say this but, if he didn’t apply the money to my loan as I assumed he would, the only thing that could have happened to it is that he took it.”

  “You are saying that Theodore Epson stole your money?” Abernathy asked.

  “That’s the only conclusion I can come to,” Jennie replied.

  Abernathy let out a long, disgusted sigh, then shook his head. “You know what I think, Constable?” he asked, turning to address Billings. “I think that when this woman learned that Mr. Epson had left our bank to take employment back East, she figured that would be the perfect opportunity to make such a spurious claim. She seeks to defraud the bank at the expense of the reputation of as fine a young man as has ever graced our fair city. I wish there was more we could do to her besides confiscate the house. I wish we could throw her in jail for libel and slander and throw away the key!”

  “But I’m telling the truth,” Jennie pleaded. “I swear I’m telling the truth! I gave the money to Mr. Epson.”

  “Do your duty, Constable,” Abernathy said. “Evict this woman from my house.”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Jennie,” Billings said, and the tone and expression in his voice gave truth to the fact that he really was carrying out his duty under duress. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you, and your girls, to leave the house.”

  “But, please, Mr. Abernathy. If you turn us all out, where will my girls go?” For the first time in a very long time, Jennie felt desperate. It reminded her of her days as a slave, when she had absolutely no control over her own destiny, the days before the mountain man had purchased her freedom and given her a chance at a new, independent life.

  “Where you and your girls go is none of my concern,” Abernathy replied coldly. “However, I would remind you that, while St. Louis has no ordinance prohibiting a bawdy house, we do have a law against street solicitation for immoral purposes. And I intend to see that Constable Billings and his men uphold that law. So, I wouldn’t go out on the street if I were any of you.”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Jennie,” Billings said.

  Jennie sighed, and with her eyes brimming with tears, reached out to put her hand on Billings’s arm. “I know this isn’t your fault,” she said. “You are just doing your duty”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Billings agreed. He pulled his arm from her gently, embarrassed at her gesture in front of the bank men. “I’m glad you see it that way.” He was caught in a bind, and hated what he now had to do.

  Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, Monday, August 16, 1824

  Theodore Epson sat across the desk from Joel Fontaine, the president of the Trust Bank of Philadelphia. They were in Fontaine’s office, and as a measure of the size of the Trust Bank, Fontaine’s office alone was as large as the entire River Bank of St. Louis.

  “I’ve never been to the teeming metropolis of St. Louis,” Fontaine said. “But I would dearly like to visit there sometime. How did you find it during your time there?”

  Epson shook his head in disgust and disappointment. “I assure you, Mr. Fontaine, you would not like it. St. Louis is a dirty, lawless, and barely civilized town. Its streets are filled with trappers and fur dealers who are little more than wild savages. Prostitutes conduct their business without fear of the law, though I am pleased to say that I put into motion a means whereby the most notorious of all the brothels will, no doubt, be closed very soon.”

  “Oh? And, how did you do that?” Fontaine asked with genuine curiosity

  “I denied them access to their ill-gotten gains.”

  “Good for you,” Fontaine said. “I’m sure the city of St. Louis was sorry to see such an upstanding citizen as yourself leave its precincts.”

  “No doubt,” Epson replied. “But I assure you, sir, that feeling was not reciprocated. I can’t tell you how happy I was to get your offer so I could leave that Godforsaken place.”

  Fontaine looked down at a piece of paper that lay on his desk. “And I see that you have just opened your own personal account for nine hundred dollars,” he said. “That is an impressive amount of money, so you must’ve done well by yourself while you were in St. Louis.”

  “Yes, I, uh, was quite frugal during my stay,” Epson said, pulling his heavily starched shirt collar away from his neck. Epson had kept the money given him in confidence by William Ashley, and he had executed the draft given him by Jennie, keeping that money as well. Even after the expense of moving from St. Louis to Philadelphia, he still had over nine hundred dollars left. All in all, a profitable enterprise—albeit with other people’s money.

  Some might consider what he did as dishonest, but Epson was convinced that he had performed a service for the city of St. Louis. It was clear that a majority of the citizens there wanted the whorehouse to be closed, and this would give them a way to eliminate it. He justified keeping the money from Jennie because it was obviously obtained as a result of her immoral and indecent operation. He also didn’t feel guilty about keeping the money given him by William Ashley because he was certain this money came from some businessman. The way he looked at it, everyone benefited from his action except for the two people: the whore, and her mysterious benefactor, who was obviously a hypocritical businessman. And no one would feel sympathy for them.

  “Mr. Epson?” Fontaine said.

  Epson had drifted away with his self-satisfied thoughts, and it wasn’
t until then that he realized that Fontaine was talking to him.

  “I’m sorry,” Epson said. “You were saying?”

  “I was just saying, on behalf of the bank, welcome to Philadelphia,” Fontaine said, sticking his hand across the desk.

  “Thank you, sir,” Epson said, accepting the handshake. He smiled. “I am very glad to be here—in fact, more than you’ll ever know.”

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

  There were tears, sobs, and expressions of concern for their immediate future as Jennie called all her girls together. She informed them silently that they were being forced out of the house.

  “But why, Miss Jennie? What have we done to anyone?” one of the girls asked.

  “We have committed no offense,” Jennie replied. “It’s just that there are some people who are all proper on the outside, but just plain mean on the inside. I fear we have made enemies of such a person.”

  “But how can they throw us out of the house? I thought you had paid the bank everything you owed them,” Carla said.

  “I have paid the bank what I owe them,” Jennie said. “But it would seem that Mr. Epson was not as honest as he appeared. He ran away with the money.”

  One by one, the girls came to Jennie, hugged her, then went back to their rooms to pack their few belongings. Jennie lingered in the foyer for a moment longer, allowing her hand to pass over the banister and looking at the crown molding around the room. She realized, with a pang of regret, how beautiful the house was, and how much she was going to miss it.

  Slowly, as if by delaying each step she could stave off the inevitable, Jennie climbed the stairs to the second floor and went into the bedroom. This was the same bedroom where, for many years, she had dreamed and fantasized about Art. Recently, as if a fantasy realized, Art had appeared out of nowhere. When she awakened the next morning she saw that it wasn’t a dream . . . he was still there. Now, after a glorious reunion, Art had gone back West, returning to the mountains. What if he came back looking for her? Without this house, he might not find her.

  Unable to control her tears, Jennie began packing her clothes.

  It was more than a loss of livelihood, or even the loss of a roof over her head, that made Jennie cry. The House of Flowers was the closest thing to a real home Jennie had ever had in her life. It had been her plan to make enough money to someday leave the prostitution business. Then the House of Flowers truly would have been a home. Perhaps even a home to which Art might some day come to live.

  Deep in her soul, she knew that it was very unlikely that Art would ever settle down in a city, but fantasies of such a future had occupied her thoughts for a long time.

  When Jennie came down to the foyer a while later, all five of her girls were gathered in the foyer with all their belongings, waiting for some direction from the woman who had taken care of them for so long.

  “What do we do now, Miss Jennie?” Sue Ellen asked.

  Jennie shook her head sadly. “I wish I could tell you,” she said. “I wish I knew what I was going to do.”

  “I know what I would do if I were a man,” Carla said. “If I were a man, I would leave St. Louis.”

  “Leave St. Louis and go where?” Lisa asked.

  “I don’t know. West maybe,” Carla said. “Yes, I’d go West.”

  At that moment, the front door opened and a white-haired old black man came into the house.

  “Miss Jennie,” Ben said, “I got the carriage drawed up out front. You want me to put your luggage in?”

  “Yes, I suppose . . .” Jennie said. Then she looked at the other girls and suddenly smiled. “West?” she said to Carla. “You would go West?”

  “Yes.”

  Jennie laughed out loud. “What a great idea!” she said. She grabbed Carla, hugging her as she danced around the foyer.

  “Miss Jennie, are you all right?” Millie asked.

  “All right? I’ve never been more all right,” Jennie answered, gathering herself and putting on her best face for the girls. “Ben?” she said to her driver.

  “Yes, ma’am?” Sam replied, as confused by Jennie’s antics as were the girls.

  “Do you think you can find someone who would trade us a good, sturdy wagon for the carriage?”

  “Miss Jennie, I ’specs you could get two fine wagons for this carriage. This is a fine carriage.”

  “Even better. Get two wagons, and four mules.”

  “Mules, Miss Jennie?”

  “Yes, mules,” Jennie said. She looked again at her girls. “Sue Ellen, Cindy, Lisa, Millie, Carla, we’re going West!”

  Ponca Village, Upper Missouri, Tuesday, August 31, 1824

  The Indians of the Ponca tribe went all out to welcome Artoor and his fellow travelers. The women made Indian fry bread and roasted game, the men performed dances, and Artoor was invited to join them in the inner circle of the council fire. When McDill started to sit in the inner circle as well, without being invited, a couple of warriors stood in his way.

  “Art, tell these ignorant savages to stand aside and let me sit down,” McDill said.

  “You can sit anywhere you want, McDill, except in the front circle,” Art said.

  “What do you mean I can’t sit in the front circle? I’ll sit any damn where I please.”

  Art, who was already seated, turned to look back toward McDill. “You can sit anywhere you want, McDill, except in the front circle.”

  “You’re sitting there.”

  “I was invited.”

  “Why wasn’t I invited?”

  “Perhaps it is because you presumed to sit there before you were invited.”

  “That makes no sense. If they were going to invite me anyway, why not just let me sit there now?”

  “It is the Indian way,” Art said without any further explanation. His patience had long since begun to wear thin.

  Grumbling, McDill sat further back, joining the other trappers.

  Spotted Pony held his arms forward, spread shoulder-width apart, palms up. A shaman placed a lit ceremonial pipe into his hands, parallel with Spotted Pony’s shoulders. Gingerly, Spotted Pony lifted the pipe above his head and mouthed a prayer. Bringing the pipe back down, he turned it very carefully, pushing the bowl forward with his right hand, bringing the mouthpiece back with his left. He took a puff on the pipe, then used his right hand to wave some of the escaping smoke back into his face. Afterward, he held the pipe out toward Art, inviting him to smoke as well.

  Art smoked the pipe with Spotted Pony, being very careful to follow the same prescribed ritual. Art then passed the pipe around to the others in the inner circle, and only after all had smoked did the conversation begin. He wasn’t a regular user of tobacco, but he understood the importance of the pipe to the Indians.

  “You are the one called Artoor?” Spotted Pony asked.

  “Yes.”

  “You have killed many Indians, Artoor.”

  “Yes. I have killed many Indians, and I have killed white men. But I have only killed those who were trying to kill me.”

  A very old and wrinkled man leaned over to say something to Spotted Pony. This was the shaman, the medicine man who’d lit the pipe and placed it so carefully in Spotted Pony’s hands when the ritual began. The shaman spoke in a mixed guttural, singsong voice, nodding his head often as he spoke.

  Spotted Pony nodded as well, as the other spoke.

  “He Who Sees says that your heart is pure and your words are true, Artoor,” Spotted Pony said. “You have killed only those who try to kill you.”

  He Who Sees spoke again.

  “You and another were riding on a big canoe on the water when Arikara attacked you. They killed the one with you, but they did not kill you.”

  Art nodded, wondering how the old man knew. “They killed my friend, Clyde Barnes.”

  “You killed many of them.” It wasn’t a question, it was a statement, and Art saw no reason to reply.

  The shaman spoke again.

 
“But you have made an enemy of Wak Tha Go,” Spotted Pony continued.

  Art looked confused. “I do not know Wak Tha Go,” he said.

  “Wak Tha Go is the warrior who killed your friend,” Spotted Pony explained. “You killed many of his warriors and now, because the tepees of many were empty when he returned to the village, Wak Tha Go is no longer welcome among the Arikara, his own people. He is not welcome by the Ponca, the Mandan, the Sioux, or the Crow. The heart of Wak Tha Go is very hot, and cannot be cooled. He wants only to kill you.”

  “I hope to make peace with the Arikara, as I hope to make peace with the Ponca, Mandan, Sioux, Crow, and Blackfeet. I would even make peace with Wak Tha Go, if he would cool his heart.”

  “You have brought gifts for the Ponca?” Spotted Pony asked.

  Art smiled, grateful that Mr. Ashley had provided for this moment. “Yes. The fur chief who lives in St. Louis has sent many good gifts to show his appreciation for allowing trappers to take beaver.”

  “It is good that we should have peace,” Spotted Pony said.

  * * *

  From each village, an Indian messenger was sent ahead to the next, telling of the peace mission of the trapper known as Artoor. Because the messengers were sent ahead, every village turned out to welcome Art, and soon he had negotiated peace treaties with nearly all the Indians along the Missouri: the Poncas, Sioux, Cheyennes, Hidatsas, Mandans, and even the Arikara. The Indians all acknowledged the rights of the trappers and fur traders to take beaver on their land, and Art promised fair treatment to the Indians on all future trades.

  “No more will our people trade bad whiskey for good pelts,” Art promised with all sincerity.

  For his part, the Arikara chief known as The Peacemaker promised that the Arikara would make no more war, but, he also warned that Wak Tha Go, who had made his own personal war against Artoor, had left the Arikara and now lived with the Blackfeet, and called himself a Blackfoot.