Blackfoot Messiah

by William W. Johnstone

  “That they are.”

  “White man’s law does not apply out here. We don’t have courts or hangmen. When an Osage kills another of his tribe, he is beaten and turned out of the camp. That is most likely what will happen to this pair.”

  Preacher puckered his lips and worried his tongue around his mouth a while. He didn’t like the idea of exile. “It’d be a shame if they died of their wounds, then.”

  Sergeant Stalking Elk cut his eyes to the pile of corpses once more. Thoroughly impressed with the fighting prowess of the mountain men, he offered up a bit of embarrassing news. “I read a book once about the legendary mountain man called Preacher. Never thought I would meet him in person.”

  Preacher blushed hotly. “Aw, shucks, them things is pure fancy. I’ve never done half the things they put in there. It’s jist stuff and nonsense.”

  “We will see to your living pair. I don’t suppose they will go adventuring again. Mr. Ryan can bury the dead. There is money from your government for such needs.”

  Preacher extended his hand. “Thank you, stalking Elk. We’ll stay and lend a hand.”

  “May I ask where you are bound for?”

  Keeping a straight face, Preacher saved himself from a lie by only a light exaggeration. “We’re set on seein’ Independence, then go on to Jefferson Barracks.”

  “Safe journey, then.”

  Takes Rain and Gray Eagle looked downslope at the laboring of the draft animals. A mixed train of mules and oxen trudged through the roiling red-brown dust of a sage-choked basin near the banks of the Yellowstone River. Soon they would stop to take food, Takes Rain knew. That is when the Blackfoot would take something else. A cold smile lifted the corners of his mouth. Before long his Bison Eaters society would test the power of the medicine given by Iron Shirt.

  “Wagons ... Whoooooa-UP!” came faintly on the light breeze that blew from the direction of the train toward the Blackfoot warriors waiting to strike.

  Those words had no exact meaning to Takes Rain. He only knew that it was what they said when the leader wanted the wagons to stop. Obedient to them, the rolling lodges began to slow and swing into a half circle. Women dismounted and their birdlike chatter lifted on the wind. Time to strike. Takes Rain cut his eyes to Gray Eagle and nodded. Both men came to their moccasins and released their ponies. Swiftly they mounted. Thirty other warriors did the same. Takes Rain raised the new rifle he had been given by the followers of Iron Shirt and waved it over his head.

  “Ki-yi-yi-yi!” he keened to sound the attack.

  Startled white faces looked up at them. Then the warriors hidden around the wagons, in the thick covering of sagebrush, opened fire with bows and arrows. Rifles cracked also. Three men went down, one gagging and clutching at the arrow that stuck out from his throat, front and rear. A woman shrieked and dropped the pot of beans she had saved from breakfast. A red stain spread on her ample bosom around the gruesome exit wound a .56-caliber ball had made.

  Shouting their war cries, and profane insults, thirty Blackfoot warriors thundered down the slope to flow through their comrades and bring more death and destruction. Several oxen went slack in their harness and sagged to their knees. A mule erupted in agony, its rump pierced by two arrows. Stunned by the suddenness of the attack, the immigrants finally began to react.

  Several men grabbed up rifles and returned fire. Their bullets seemed to avoid all the mounted Indians. Another volley had as little effect. Five men died before they could reload. Children screamed and ran in panic. Whooping warriors rode in among them, oblivious to the crack and moan of white men’s bullets. The Blackfoot bent low and scooped small boys and girls off their feet, then whirled away from the scene of battle.

  Seizing a flaming brand from a cookfire, Gray Eagle hurled it into the rear of a wagon. Screams of terror came from within. The flames quickly licked up. A woman with graying hair and two barely nubile girls tumbled out. The woman died from a lance thrust, the girls were dragged aside to provide later amusement for the aroused warriors. Unable to reload in the swirl of battle, Takes Rain slung his fine new rifle over one shoulder by a rawhide thong and drew his tomahawk.

  Horror filled the face of the white man who watched the grinning warrior with the war axe descend on him. Blackness quickly replaced the sight of the savage as the keen edge of the ’hawk blade sheered through the pilgrim’s forehead and mangled his brain. Then a man with a shotgun found one howling savage within range and gave out a load of 00 buckshot. Five of the nine . 32-caliber pellets pulped the chest of one Blackfoot, after shattering his hair-pipe bone war vest.

  Dismayed, the warriors nearest him looked on in disbelief while he slumped dead over the neck of his horse. This wasn’t supposed to happen, Takes Rain thought, his stomach churning. Maybe the medicine was not good against the many-balls guns. Sensing the loss of faith among his companions, Takes Rain signaled for the braves to follow him as he streaked away.

  They took the young women and small children with them. Only two adults had survived the attack. They stood in numbed despair as flames licked at four wagons. Slowly they looked around at the scene of slaughter. From over the rise they heard the shrieks and wails of the young women and girls as the savages used them in cruel and lustful ways. Helpless to do anything about it, the man and woman could only hug each other and weep.

  The torment went on for a long time. At last the Blackfoot had been drained of their urgent sap and split the skulls of their abused captives. Then they rode off with the children. Silence slowly returned to the banks of the Yellowstone River.

  EIGHT

  At an isolated trading post on the North Platte River, Praeger and his partners received a message from Washington City. Instructions written on the outside had told the proprietor to hold it until called for. Praeger, whose aggressive qualities and dominance had propelled him without dissent into leadership, split the wax seal, and opened the thick, three-fold paper. He read it quickly and then raised his mottled-blue eyes, the slight cast in the right one disconcerting as always, and smiled.

  “It is short and sweet, gentlemen. We are informed that arrangements have been completed for stage two. Those involved will be on their way within . . .” He consulted a calendar on the wall beside the bar. “A week from now.”

  Morton Gross rubbed pudgy hands together. “Wonderful. How long will it take them to get out here?”

  Praeger considered that. “I would imagine six weeks to two months. Unless they take the mail packet or some other steam-powered riverboat.”

  Gross worked his thick, rubbery lips in and out. “And our little . . . ah ... impediment?”

  “You mean Preacher? By now I assume he has been taken care of. Come, this calls for a celebration. Barman, do you have any champagne?”

  Mouth a black O in his thick, ebony beard, the bartender blinked in disbelief. “Any what? I ain’t seed no champagne since I moved out here.” He pronounced the word charnp-ag-nee. “Never saw none before that neither.”

  “Do you have a good rye?” Praeger asked suspiciously.

  “I got a small barrel from the Cumberland Gap country.”

  “That will do quite well.” To the others, Praeger said, “We have to get Iron Shirt to move faster on enlisting the Cheyenne. They are the key to the whole thing.”

  Across the Missouri now and drawing nearer to Jefferson Barracks each hour, Preacher felt downright uneasy. He spared no effort putting his discomfort into words.

  “It’s too crowded around here. Why, there’s actually more than one house per’ mile. Not fittin’ nor healthy for folks to live all shoved up against one another like that.”

  Intrigued, Three Sleeps chimed in. “What do you consider comfortable living space, Preacher?”

  Preacher did not even hesitate. “I reckon one per ten or twenty miles. That be the absolute limit I can tolerate. Among white folk, that is,” he elaborated.

  “Don’t keep them from being ornery,” Three Sleeps observed as he indicated a group of
armed men who sat astride the high road. The bulk of their horses blocked the advance of the mountain men.

  A big, ugly brute, with orange-red hair and matching beard, in the middle of the ragged formation, raised a hand and pointed one thick finger imperiously at Preacher. “What you fellers’ business?” he demanded.

  Preacher gave it a moment’s thought and decided what he had told Sergeant Stalking Elk would serve in this case equally well. “Why, friend, we’re on our way to ... ah ... Independence.”

  Thunder clouds writhed in the scowl produced by their interrogator. “It be back the way you came. So, you’d best turn around an’ light a shuck out of here. There ain’t no room for frontier riffraff the likes of you three among civilized folk here in Missouri.”

  Preacher had heard all he needed to. He worked his mouth a bit and produced a cud of Redman Premium Braid. “Well, then,” he observed as he spat the wad of tobacco at the hooves of the delegation’s horses, “we’ll just have to make room.”

  In a flash the fight was on. Preacher leaped like a panther from the back of Tarnation. His powerful arms looped around the leader of the welcoming party and dragged the bigger man from the saddle. With a lithe twist, Preacher turned them in midair so that the carrot-topped brute landed on his back, with Preacher atop him.

  Wind knocked from his lungs in a loud grunt, the unfriendly lout went cross-eyed while Preacher sawed the lapels of his hairy cowhide vest across his throat.

  “Gah ... gah ... yer chokin’ me.”

  Preacher smiled down at him, his expression conveying that he was fully aware of that. “Now, we might not be the most sartorially splendid fellers you’ve ever seen, that I’ll allow. But you an’ yer friends are no prize winners yerselves. I’d appreciate it if you could find it in your heart to be more cordial in your greeting.”

  While this exchange went on, Three Sleeps Norris let out a whoop and sprang toward the pair nearest to him. His point of aim was a space between them, which he swiftly filled by a quick reach and grab. Then Three Sleeps swung his arms inward and filled the opening with their noggins, which made a loud clunk! as they met in midair. On the opposite side of Preacher, two of the local, lowbrow social arbiters had decided on the use of deadly force.

  Their hands barely touched the stocks of their rifles when they heard the double click of hammers. They looked up, startled to see the twin muzzles of a double-barreled pistol pointed levelly at them. Antoine Revier gave them a wide, knowing smile.

  With a roar, the huge man under Preacher heaved upright and freed himself. He drove a fist into the face of his opponent, which caused stars to explode in Preacher’s left eye. Preacher let the force of the blow carry him up and over. He hit on heels and shoulders and bounded upright.

  By then the brute who had dislodged him came at him with ham fists. Preacher dodged backward, only to come up against one of the pair Three Sleeps had dealt with. The groggy man stirred and then reached out with both hands to cling tightly to Preacher’s ankles.

  “Get him, Red,” he urged.

  “Thanks, Barney.” Red came after Preacher with punishing punches to the mountain man’s face.

  Preacher’s lips stung and swelled. His tongue explored and felt several loosened teeth. His left eye was almost closed. Then Red shifted weight to put a finish to the interloper. Preacher seized his chance.

  He put his shoulders and hips behind each smashing blow he drove into Red’s chest and gut. Although padded by fat, Red felt each one, and with increasing intensity. His arms drooped slightly. Enough so that Preacher could go to work on his face. Red’s lips split and his nose became a rose blossom before the bully could draw a refreshing breath. Knifelike pains filled his chest.

  Preacher sucked in air and spoke lightly to his friends. “I’d appreciate it if one of you would unwind this snake from my legs.”

  Three Sleeps sprang to the task. He hauled the slighter built Barney away from Preacher’s legs and spun him. His moccasin collided with the seat of Barney’s trousers and propelled the leech back down the road in the direction of home. Stumbling, Barney recovered quickly and turned on Three Sleeps.

  Norris set himself for the rush. When it came, he side-stepped and smacked Barney on the side of the head. Staggered, Barney turned in the wrong direction. Preacher popped him in the mouth and sent him on around to Three Sleeps.

  Laughing now, Norris pegged Barney on the left hinge of his jaw and the Missourian went rubber-legged. He collided with the flank of his horse when he went to the ground. Red roared again and reached for Preacher, while Three Sleeps walked over to one of the mounted men and yanked him from the saddle.

  “Reckon I can put this away,” Antoine speculated aloud.

  He released the hammers and did just that. Then he dismounted and hauled the other thug from his horse. Knuckles met flesh and a new brawl was on. By then, Red had brought himself upright and planted a fist between Preacher’s shoulder blades. It staggered the mountain man, who turned as he jolted forward.

  “Some fellers never learn,” he grumbled as he blocked a punch and answered with a short right.

  It gradually dawned on Preacher that fists would simply not do it with this brute. When Red bore in again, Preacher flexed his legs, cocked the right one and slammed the heel of his moccasin into Red’s exposed belly. Eyes bulging, Red did a pratfall that jarred his teeth. Preacher turned slightly and kicked Red in the side of his head. Bells and birdies went off inside Red’s skull. His eyes rolled up and he fell backward, arms widespread. His body stirred up puffs of dust, and he let out a soft snore.

  “Welcome to Missouri,” Preacher panted and the trio of mountain men chuckled sardonically. Then, “Think they’ve had enough?” Preacher asked his companions.

  “Just about,” advised Antoine as he drove a hard left to the jaw of the last standing Missourian. His target flopped onto the ground and lay still. “Now they have.”

  It worked for them like it did for the Spanish on the Llano Estocado. Eve Billings thrilled at the sight of the fifteen foot shafts, their colorful cloth pennants fluttering in the hot breeze that blew across the sandy soil of the Great Basin. From the ridge where her wagon rested, she could see a line of them leading back to their starting place and on into the distance beyond. Progress had been slow at first.

  They’d barely made seven miles a day the first three days because the neophyte scouts frequently dashed back with alarms that proved unfounded. Such a misgiving had stopped them at the saddle of this ridge not half an hour ago. Davey Honeycutt had galloped a lathered horse back, his eyes as enlarged as his mount’s.

  “Injuns!” he had shouted. “Injuns not five miles ahead.”

  From the color of his face one would suspect they were the ghosts of Indians. A party of armed men rode forward to investigate. Eve could see them returning now, small, black specks against the blasted earth. Beside her, Charlie stirred on the seat and shifted his rifle.

  “They’re not wavin’ a red flag, Mom.” Charlie sounded disappointed that the agreed-upon signal to warn them of hostiles was not fluttering above the riders.

  “We can thank the Lord for that,” his mother responded.

  “Aw, Mom, I want to shoot an Injun.”

  Shocked, Eve almost slapped the boy’s face. “No you don’t, Charles Ryan Billings. You don’t want to shoot any human. Hunting for food is a necessity, killing someone is a horrid crime.”

  “Even if they are tryin’ to kill you?”

  That left Eve speechless for a long moment. “You’re just a boy, Charlie. Leave those sorts of things to grown men.”

  Some of the less alarmist among the travelers started their wagons out toward the approaching men. There would have been shots, after all, had there been Indians. Overall, Eve remained highly pleased at their progress. Even better, the game which had been absent on their first attempt now seemed to have come back in abundance. Anna was growing stronger every hour, and Charlie had become quite an expert shot, adding to his credit
deer and antelope as well as rabbits. She put the Bridesburg Arsenal rifle aside and turned to Charlie.

  “Put your rifle up, Charlie. We’re heading out.”

  “Can I take Star out and hunt a little?”

  “No need today, son. Remember those plump rabbits Damion Brewster brought us?”

  Charlie did not sound enthused over that. Damion, an acne-riddled youth with a crush on his mother, was a pain in the butt. “Oh, yeah, those.”

  Charlie replaced his rifle in the wagon bed and scampered out to his usual place, astride Jake. His bare heels bounced with the churning rhythm of the stolid animal. Once again Eve surveyed her world and found herself entirely at peace. Then she looked up from the rumps of her team to see a solitary Indian sitting on top of a close-by mound.

  Sudden cold clutched at her heart. Could he be the forerunner of the Indians the Honeycutt boy thought he had seen? If not, where had he come from? She tensed and reached for the rifle at her feet when the Indian slowly began to raise his lance. Extended to full arm’s length, the Indian moved his lance from side to side.

  Fearing that to be the signal for an attack, Eve filled her lungs for a cry of alarm, only to realize that it was only a friendly wave, backed up by a broad smile.

  At Jefferson Barracks at last, Preacher found the situation and the troops even sorrier than he expected. The Dragoons turned out to be raw and green, barely aware of what was expected of them. While Preacher and his companions walked their horses through the gate, sergeants bellowed at the hapless soldiers, their faces scarlet with their fury.

  “No, damnit, Mallory! Far the love of Jazus, how many times do I have to tell ya? Ye mount so yer facing the same direction the horse is, ye do.”

  Mallory made the mistake of whining. “I don’t know why I get so mixed up, Sergeant Muldoon. Honest I don’t. Maybe I ain’t a horse person.”