Preacher's Quest

by William W. Johnstone

The Indians rose early and ate breakfast, but again, they didn’t feed the prisoners. Preacher’s belly was empty, causing a gnawing sensation in his midsection. He was sure the other prisoners felt the same way. The fact that they weren’t being fed was a good indication of what their captors had in mind for them. Why waste good food on somebody who was going to be dead soon?

  Faith started whimpering as soon as she woke up. Carling hitched himself over beside her and said, “Don’t worry, dear. I’m sure everything is going to be all right.”

  “N-no, it won’t!” she blubbered through her tears. “They’re going to kill us all, and there’s nothing we can do to stop them! And . . . and I can’t feel my hands and feet anymore!”

  “I don’t imagine any of us can, since we’re all tied so tightly.”

  Sinclair rolled over so he could look at Faith. “I’m sorry, miss,” he said. “It’s my fault—”

  “Oh, shut up!” she snapped at him. “Whining about whose fault it is won’t change anything.”

  Sinclair looked hurt by her sharp words, but he fell silent.

  Faith began crying even louder as Bites Like a Badger approached her with a knife in his hand. She tried to scoot away from him, but was unable to move. Wearing a disdainful look on his face, Badger stooped and used the knife to cut the bonds around Faith’s ankles. The rawhide thongs fell away as they were severed, allowing blood to rush back into Faith’s feet. She gasped in relief that she hadn’t been murdered, then winced as the blood returning to her lower extremities brought pain with it.

  Badger went around the group, cutting the bonds on everyone’s ankles. When he came to Preacher and the other frontiersmen, several warriors stood over them with tomahawks poised to strike, just in case any of the prisoners tried to lash out at the chief with their feet.

  Pins and needles jabbed fiercely at Preacher’s feet as the feeling came back into them. He endured the pain stoically, knowing that it would go away after a few minutes. It was almost gone by the time he was lifted onto his feet by a couple of the Indians.

  Badger returned his knife to its sheath and grunted. “Now we go,” he said, in English this time. He turned and stalked away.

  All the prisoners had been hauled upright roughly. Now they were prodded into motion. Surrounded by their captors, they stumbled forward, weak from exhaustion and hunger, most of them worried about what was going to happen next.

  Preacher didn’t waste time or energy worrying. He was still determined to get himself and the others out of this predicament if he could.

  If he couldn’t . . . well, worrying wasn’t going to keep him alive.

  Tom Ballinger was forced to leave the body of his brother Ed behind for the scavengers. Wild-eyed with grief, Tom cursed the Indians bitterly, and for a few moments Preacher thought he was going to put up a fight and force the warriors to kill him, too. But then he subsided into his sorrow and began trudging along with the others.

  All morning long, the forced march continued. They didn’t encounter anyone else. Preacher had thought that maybe one of the trappers who frequented these mountains would spot them and fetch some help, but it didn’t appear that was going to happen. It was still up to him to get them out of this mess.

  Around midday, the group reached the spot where Preacher expected to find the Teton Sioux village. This large, open plain next to a twisting, fast-flowing stream was where the Tetons had had their lodges when Hairface was the chief of this band. Preacher was certain of that, because he had visited the place several times and he never forgot somewhere once he had been there.

  But now the village was gone and Badger kept his warriors and the prisoners moving as they headed east. They were going toward the valley of the Seven Smokes.

  “Hey, Badger,” Preacher called to the chief in the Sioux tongue. “What happened? Did you move the village after Hairface died?”

  Badger stopped and swung around to glare at Preacher. The fact that he had halted made all the other warriors stop, too, and surrounded as they were, the prisoners had no choice but to follow suit.

  “Hairface was not the only one killed by the fever,” Badger replied with a scowl. “Several others in the village died as well. It was decided by the elders that this had become an evil place and that the people should leave it and seek out a new home. I had a vision in which a badger, my spirit animal, came to me and led me to the valley of the Seven Smokes. So that is where the people went and where they live now.”

  It was a pretty long speech, and in the Indian’s language it was longer still. When Badger finally finished, Hodge asked Preacher, “What’s he saying? Why did we stop?”

  “We stopped because this is where their village used to be,” Preacher explained, “and I asked him what happened to it. He said there was sickness here, so they decided to move. Their village is now in the valley of the Seven Smokes.”

  “Say!” Rip exclaimed. “We were plannin’ on goin’ there. You mean we would’ve run into this bunch even if they hadn’t jumped us?”

  Preacher nodded. “Sounds like it. This expedition was a mite cursed to start with.”

  “I wish now we’d never come,” Willard Carling said. “I just wanted to paint the wilderness and the savages who live here. Now it doesn’t seem worth it.”

  “Not worth our lives?” Faith said in scathing tones. “Imagine that!”

  For the first time, Carling showed a touch of impatience toward his sister as he said, “I didn’t know this was going to happen, Faith. I certainly didn’t set out to be captured and mistreated and ultimately killed by heathens.”

  “Nobody’s dead yet except poor Ed Ballinger,” Preacher pointed out. “No point in givin’ up now.”

  Jasper Hodge said bleakly, “It’s hopeless and you know it, Preacher.”

  “I don’t know nothin’ of the sort. If folks were quick to give up, there wouldn’t even be a country over here. We’d still be a colony, lettin’ the British run things any way they wanted to, fair or not. If ol’ Dan’l Boone gave up, he wouldn’t have crossed the mountains back East and showed folks there was a whole heap o’ new territory to explore out here. The Wilderness Road never would’ve been carved out. Lord, if people were to give up on doin’ what’s right just because everything ain’t perfect right away . . . well, hell, what would be the point in ever tryin’ to do anything?”

  “Noble words,” Hodge said bitterly, “but they won’t stop these savages from killing us.”

  Preacher couldn’t argue with that. Hodge was correct that words wouldn’t save their lives. It would take action for that.

  And Preacher was going to be ready for that action, as soon as he got the chance.

  Chapter Sixteen

  It was late afternoon before the group reached the valley of the Seven Smokes. Preacher smelled the place before he could see it. The hot springs that dotted the valley gave off a fire-and-brimstone smell. Farther north was an area where such hot springs were even more common, including some where boiling water shot out of the ground at intervals, rising in a towering plume. In other springs, mud bubbled and roiled. About twenty years earlier, the mountain man John Colter had visited that area and from the descriptions he brought back, some folks decided that the place sounded like the gateway to Hades. So they started calling it Colter’s Hell.

  Other folks just figured that John Colter was crazy and had imagined the whole thing.

  Preacher knew better. He never met John Colter because the famous trapper and buckskinner had died before Preacher came west, but over his years in the mountains he had known other men who were acquainted with Colter, and their stories were enough to make Preacher believe that Colter wouldn’t have lied about such a thing.

  Not only that, but Preacher had been to the place known to some as Colter’s Hell, and had seen for himself the bubbling mud pits and the majestic geysers erupting from the rocks. It was a well-known area now.

  The valley of the Seven Smokes wasn’t as impressive, but the hot springs located th
ere gave off the same sort of sulphurous odor that the ones farther north did. Preacher wasn’t surprised when the group of weary, starving prisoners were prodded over a pine-covered ridge and found themselves stumbling down into the valley.

  “I . . . I don’t know if I can go on,” Faith gasped.

  “It ain’t much farther now,” Preacher told her. “That’s the valley where their village is located, right in front of us.”

  “When we get there, will they feed us?” Hodge asked. The prisoners had been allowed to drink at some of the streams they came to, but they hadn’t had any food for more than a day and a half.

  Preacher didn’t answer Hodge’s question. He didn’t know if the Indians would feed them. That would depend on how long Badger planned to keep them alive.

  The sun was almost down by the time they reached the Teton Sioux village. As usual, the gathering of tepees had been located on the bank of a stream that flowed fast and cold, fed not only by springs but also by snowmelt from the towering peaks that surrounded the valley. The creek was lined with aspens, cottonwoods, and willows, while pines grew thickly farther up the slopes. It was a beautiful place, marred only by the faint smell of sulphur in the air, and Preacher figured the Indians had gotten used to it and probably no longer even noticed it.

  Dogs ran out from the village to greet the party with frenzied yapping. The sight of the curs made Preacher think about Dog, and about Horse as well. He knew that by now Horse would have pulled free from the sapling where his reins had been tied. There was a good chance both animals had followed him from the spot where he had been captured. Dog would never lose his scent, and the stallion would follow along wherever the big cur went. Preacher had been keeping an eye on their back trail, thinking he might catch a glimpse of them, but so far he hadn’t seen either of the animals. Still, he believed there was a good chance that if he let out a shrill whistle, they would come a-runnin’.

  He wouldn’t do that, though, as long as he was a prisoner. He didn’t want his friends to fall into the hands of the Indians.

  Alerted by the barking, youngsters hurried out of the lodges, followed by their mothers and old men and women. The warriors who had been left behind by Badger to guard the village while the chief and the rest of the war party were away strode out as well, carrying bows and tomahawks. One of them clasped wrists with Badger in greeting and cast a satisfied look toward the prisoners. “You had good hunting, Bites Like a Badger,” he said.

  Badger nodded and turned to point at his prize captive. “The one called Preacher,” he announced.

  That caused a sensation in the village. All of the Indians had heard of Preacher, and many of them had seen him before when he visited this band while Hairface was still chief. Preacher watched them staring and exclaiming over the fact that he was a prisoner. He thought that a few of the Indians looked disturbed by that, and wondered if they were remembering that he and Hairface had been friends. He sensed that not everybody in this village supported Badger’s decision to put on paint and go to war against the whites.

  But no one spoke up in protest as the prisoners were herded into the village and taken to one of the tepees. They were shoved inside the conical hide dwelling, which was bare of furnishings. Not even a solitary buffalo robe lay on the ground. The only thing inside the tepee was a fire pit filled with cold ashes.

  The prisoners sat down awkwardly, since their hands were still tied behind them. With nine of them crammed into the tepee, quarters were rather tight. This late in the day, it was dark and gloomy inside, adding to the mood of despair that gripped most of the prisoners.

  Chester Sinclair wasn’t ready to give up, though. He said quietly to Jasper Hodge, who was seated next to him, “Turn around a little, Mr. Hodge, and I’ll see if I can reach your bonds and untie them. If just one of us can get loose, then he can free the others.”

  Hodge hesitated, but then said, “I suppose it can’t hurt to try.” He scooted around until he and Sinclair were sitting almost back-to-back. Sinclair strained blindly with his hands, and after a moment he said, “I’ve got them. Now, let’s see if I can . . . uh, untie them . . .”

  Sinclair was wasting his time, Preacher thought. Badger and his warriors weren’t novices at this sort of thing. The rawhide bonds were tied tightly enough that Sinclair could work at them for days without loosening them. But Preacher didn’t point out how futile the effort was, because at least it gave Sinclair and Hodge something to keep them busy, so they weren’t thinking about the grisly fate that might well be in store for them.

  After a while, Hodge asked, “How’s it coming along, Chester? Are you making any progress?”

  “Not . . . much,” Sinclair admitted. “My fingers are . . . so numb . . . I can’t really feel what I’m doing. But I’ll . . . uh . . . keep trying.”

  Night continued to settle down over the valley of the Seven Smokes, and soon it was almost pitch black inside the tepee. Only a tiny sliver of light came through the narrow gap that was left when the flap of tanned hide was pulled closed over the entrance. That dim glow came from the light of fires in the village.

  Preacher happened to be looking in the direction of the entrance when the light coming through the gap suddenly brightened and took on a flickering, reddish hue. Someone was approaching the tepee with a torch.

  A moment later, the flap was thrust aside, and the glaring light from a burning brand spilled into the tepee. Badger stood there with a torch in one hand. He waved the other hand at the prisoners and said, “Bring them.”

  Badger stepped back to let his warriors enter the tepee. One by one, Preacher and the other captives were dragged out and stood up.

  “They’re going to kill us now,” Faith moaned. “I just know it.”

  Badger spoke to Preacher in the Sioux language. “Tell the fire-haired woman to still her flapping tongue.”

  “He says for you to be quiet, ma’am,” Preacher told her, passing on the message.

  “But they’re going to kill us!” Faith wailed.

  “Maybe not,” Preacher said slowly. He sensed that something about the situation had changed. Badger didn’t look nearly as happy as he should have if he was about to torture and murder some of the whites he hated so much.

  The prisoners were taken to a large open area in the center of the village. A thick post about six feet tall, made from the trunk of a young pine, stood in the center of the clearing, where it had been driven solidly into the ground. Broken branches were piled around the base of the pole, and Preacher knew why they were there. Indians got a great deal of enjoyment out of tying a captive to a post like that, piling wood around his feet, and setting it on fire. Even the most stoic of prisoners would scream in agony when they felt themselves starting to cook in their own juices.

  Preacher’s mind went back to that time he had told Snell and his friends about, several years earlier, when he had faced a similar fate as the prisoner of Brown Owl’s Blackfoot band. Just like now, he had been bound to a tree then, and the Indians hadn’t quite decided how they were going to kill him, only that he should die, but chances were they would have burned him to death as these Tetons planned to do.

  That’s when he had taken his big gamble and had begun to preach, too.

  A day later, his voice had been raspy and tortured from hours upon hours of talking without stopping. But at last the Blackfeet had let him go, thinking him touched by the Great Spirit, so that it would cause them to lose their medicine if they harmed him. He gained not only his life but a new name as well.

  He honestly didn’t believe that tactic would work again, but if things got down to the nub, he would try it. He wouldn’t have anything to lose.

  Things didn’t go as Preacher anticipated, however. Badger pointed to Rip Giddens and uttered a curt command. Two warriors grabbed Rip’s arms and manhandled him over to the post. Rip looked angry, but his rugged face didn’t show any fear as his arms were first freed and then jerked cruelly behind his back and around the post, where his w
rists were tied together again with rawhide thongs. Being bound like that forced him to stand up straight against the post.

  “Damn it!” Preacher said to Badger. “Rip ain’t done nothin’ to you. You know he’s always been a friend to your people, just like me!”

  “No white man is a friend to the human beings,” Badger said, reiterating each tribe’s belief that they were the only true humans and that all other people, especially the whites, were inferior.

  “You know that ain’t true,” Preacher said.

  “What about all of the warriors you have killed?” Badger shot back at him.

  “Never killed nobody who wasn’t tryin’ to kill me first, or who didn’t have it comin’ for some other reason,” Preacher insisted.

  “What about Walks With a Limp, Gray Sky, and Tall Like a Pine?” Badger asked. “You stole their lives from them last night.”

  Preacher knew the chief had to be talking about the warriors who had been killed when he tried to free the prisoners. He said, “They met their deaths in an honorable fight, as did one of our party, the brother of one of my friends. Both sides have suffered. This does not mean we cannot be friends again.” He raised his voice so that it carried over the large gathering of Tetons around the clearing in the center of the village. “Hairface was my friend, and so were others who are still here. I wish no harm to your people, and neither do those who are with me. Release them and welcome us as guests, and let there be peace between us.”

  He could tell from the looks on the faces of some of the men that they would like nothing better than to call a truce and be friends again. But Badger was the chief here, and while he was not the absolute ruler of these people—he could be overruled by a council of elders and wise men—his wishes carried a great deal of weight. The others would go along with what Badger wanted for as long as they could.

  Badger sneered. “You talk of peace, Preacher, you who are known by some as the Wolf Who Stalks in the Night, the slayer of human beings, the enemy of our people.”

  “I am not your enemy,” Preacher said steadily. He had to keep pounding home that message, or at least trying to. He didn’t know if it would do any good, though.