SIXTEEN
Screaming, a portly Arapaho woman ran behind a brood of frightened children. She shooed them before her like a flock of chickens. Suddenly she stumbled and lurched forward when the head and half of a lance shaft entered her back between the shoulder blades and burst out her chest in a welter of scarlet droplets. Yipping his triumph, the Blackfoot warrior who had run her down yanked his weapon free and turned to overtake another fleeing Arapaho.
“This is easier than we thought, Black Hawk,” he shouted to a companion.
Black Hawk agreed. “The Arapaho have become women. They do not fight.”
“They do not have these fine new rifles, Gray Otter.”
Gray Otter’s face clouded a moment. “Yes. That is true, but the fancy-dressed soldiers have even better weapons than we do. They load without a ramrod, and fast, too. They punished us badly three suns ago.”
Black Hawk copied Gray Otter’s frown. “Men died. Is the medicine of Iron Shirt not as strong as he claims?”
Gray Otter spoke what would, under other circumstances, be considered blasphemy. “I do not think his is good medicine at all. For all its power, it seems to follow the way of the dark spirits.”
Black Hawk looked worried. “Do not let Iron Shirt hear you say that. He will have you stripped of the medicine and made a target for all men.”
For a moment Gray Otter could not believe what he heard. “Do you mean he would have me killed?”
Nodding thoughtfully, Black Hawk revealed something else to the new recruit. “It is possible. Iron Shirt has three white men for council. They wear our clothes, but they are white. I have seen them.”
“Then what do we do, Black Hawk?”
“Fight, and watch. The Great Spirit will show us what to do when the time comes.”
More screams attracted their attention, and they turned to join in the final roundup of the children. In the distance, the stolen pony herd kicked up a dense fog of dust. Flames flickered from several lodges. Moments later, a sharp, clear peal of brassy notes alerted Black Hawk and Gray Otter to an unexpected danger.
Preacher sent back word when he first heard the rifle fire. There should not be anyone out here, he reasoned. Twenty minutes later, he topped the ridge he now sat upon and looked down on what appeared to be an Arapaho village. What were they doing this far north? Never mind that for now, he decided. Another, bigger problem faced him.
Someone had attacked the Arapaho. Preacher could do nothing. He and the other two scouts could not turn the tide. A large force had swarmed into the village to kill, loot and carry off captives. In the distance he saw a large cloud of dust that had to be the pony herd. This would be a matter of waiting it out, or taking the entire battalion in to drive off the raiders.
To his credit, Lieutenant Colonel Danvers brought the column up smartly and wasted no time in bluster or examining options. “We’ll deploy as skirmishers and charge. From the sound of those rifles, I’d say we have encountered some of the renegades we’ve been informed of.”
“I reckon you’re right, Colonel.”
“Very well, Mr. Preacher— ”
Preacher winced. “It’s jist Preacher, Colonel.”
“Yes, as I was saying, Mr. Preacher, take your fellow scouts and reconnoiter our route of approach.”
“Which will be?”
“Straight down this slope and have at them.”
A fleeting smile turned up the corner of Preacher’s mouth. “Sounds good. The sooner the better, they’re stealin’ the children down there.”
When it came, Preacher saw the charge to be every bit as awesome as the first time he’d witnessed it. It caught the looters and slavers by surprise and riveted many in place, their hands coiled in the braids of small girls and boys. Several died that way before the spell dissipated and the survivors raced for their ponies. A dozen courageous ones formed a rear guard while their companions removed the captives. Then they swung astride their mounts and whirled away across the prairie. For once, Preacher found Danvers ready for continued battle.
“We should go after them, chase the savages down.”
“That’s not all that good an idee, Colonel,” drawled Preacher. “When troops split up and go in pursuit of a war party that size, there’s good odds they’ll be ambushed. Injuns love to run away, only to spring a trap. No, sir, if you don’t want to wind up staked out like those fools who chased their horses, you’d best let the Blackfoot get away with their new slaves.”
Three Crows Walking, a young Arapaho war chief, came up to the gathering of officers. He recognized the cut of the buckskin-clad trio, if not their faces. Accordingly, he addressed himself to them.
“The Blackfoot do not fight like themselves.” Then, in the best English he had, he repeated himself to make certain they understood. “The Blackfoot fight like crazy men. Not afraid of bullets, not afraid of arrows. Fight like Great Spirit watch over them. Crazy men.”
Preacher nodded and cut his eyes to Danvers. “What is it you had on this Iron Shirt feller?”
“He is promising to drive out all whites, bring back the white buffalo. He is supposed to have some sort of magic that makes him bulletproof.”
Not ‘magic,’ Colonel. Medicine. Powerful medicine,” corrected Preacher. “An’ I’m willin’ to bet he’s told his followers that if they keep to his ritual, maybe eat an’ drink certain things, or don’t eat or drink some others, they’ll be jist like him. It’s big stuff among the Injuns.”
Danvers made a puzzled frown. “We’ve killed them, haven’t we?”
“We’ve been fightin’ Pawnee. These are Blackfoot, accordin’ to ... ah . . . ”
“I am called Three Crows Walking.”
Preacher nodded. “Accordin’ to Three Crows Walkin’. And, accordin’ to these here . . .” Preacher bent to retrieve two arrows with red paint markings. “There was some Cheyenne mixed in among ’em. This thing is spreadin’, Colonel. I think you’ve got your first job already cut out for you.”
More than you know, Lieutenant Colonel Danvers thought to himself. “Are you suggesting we interrupt our march to pursue, round up and punish these renegades?”
“Naw, Colonel. Nothin’ like that. Partic’lar we got these pilgrims with us. We’ll jist go along, keep a sharper eye and see what develops.”
What about the behavior of these Blackfoot in the face of armed resistance? Have you ever encountered anything like that before?”
Preacher considered a moment. “Nope. Not personal. I’ve heard of Injuns chargin’ into the mouths of guns like that some while back. Comanche, it was, down south in Texas. They had them a war chief name of Iron Shirt, jist like this one, who wore one of those Spanish iron breastplate things.”
Captain Edward Dreiling stepped up to provide the correct term. “Cuirass. It’s called a cuirass.”
“Whatsomever, he could stop a ball from a flintlock musket, even some of the earlier caplock rifles. Feller who stopped him, he was a Texas Ranger, shot him right betwixt the eyes. His medicine didn’t work too good against that.”
Captain Dreiling had a question, which the colonel should have asked. “Preacher, do you think that is the answer in this case?”
“Sure enough. If you can get these grass-green youngsters to hold steady and hit what they aim at. Now, we’d best be doin’ what we can for the survivors. Most special, that includes a big pot of coffee.”
“Very well. Then we will push on in the morning.”
Eve Billings hastily removed her stained apron and dabbed at a smudge of flour on her nose. She rinsed her hands and walked quickly to where the guides had their small gathering, putting on her best smile and patting back a stray strand of auburn hair. When the men looked up from the coffee they shared with two fierce-looking Indians, she repressed a shudder and spoke lightly, trying not to reveal in her tone the importance the invitation held for her.
“Preacher, it would greatly please me if you would take supper with my children and myself this evening.”
Before he could make reply, she stumbled on. “There will be another guest. Captain Edward Dreiling has graciously accepted an invitation.”
Preacher rolled that around in his head a moment. “Well now, there’s a couple of things I’d like to take up with him, he bein’ the only officer in that outfit with a lick of sense. I thank you for the invite, and I’ll be pleased to be there. What time?”
“Oh, say an hour before sundown. I’ve made a dried apple pie.”
“Yer a treasure, Miss Eve. I’ll bring along a little jug to wet our whistles.” Preacher gave her a big wink.
After she departed, Three Sleeps Norris and Antoine Revier rolled on the ground, holding their sides in merriment. “Well, lah-di-dah! Formal invites from the little lady,” Norris choked the words out over laughter.
“Best look out,” advised Antoine. “She’s set to make you the rooster in her henyard.”
For a moment, Preacher looked thunderstruck, contemplating the future that promised. He rejected the notion out of hand. “I don’t believe that for a minute. Naw, sir, not for a minute. She’s only bein’ friendly.”
Antoine would not let it go. “Last time, when we all went, that was being friendly. Mark me, Preacher, she’s got her cap set for you.”
Preacher remained adamant. “Not by a long shot. You wait and see. That gal’s jist bein’ nice.”
Preacher timed his arrival at Eve’s wagon to coincide with that of Captain Dreiling. Eve greeted them warmly, showed them to straight-back chairs she had dug out of her household goods and had had Charlie dust to a suitable turn. Playing the good hostess, she accepted a very watered-down whisky from Preacher. The mountain man and the Dragoon officer took theirs straight and tall.
“Are we far from where you are going?” Eve asked to make conversation.
“Only a week or so, give or take a few days,” Preacher responded, distinctly uncomfortable after the ragging given him by his companions.
“I must admit, I am grown quite weary of living in a wagon. What will it be like going on to the Oregon Country?”
Edward Dreiling smiled weakly at Eve Billings. “I’m afraid I can’t help you there. Army travel is quite different.”
“As I have observed,” Eve answered, then added to soften the snippy sound of her words, “Riding free and easy on a horse, living in a tent. It seems so ... romantic.”
“Believe me, Miss Eve, it is far from that,” Dreiling felt compelled to advise her. “Even for us, accustomed to going on horseback, it took a week after leaving the steam packets to rid ourselves of saddle sores.”
Eve’s light laugh rang musically. “My, sir, the image that presents. Should I be scandalized?” she asked rhetorically. “No, I think not.”
As the evening progressed, Eve flirted with them both outrageously. She secretly wanted to strike sparks of jealousy from Preacher. To all outward appearances, her plan failed miserably. Preacher was charming and gracious, and entertained all present with tall tales of his trapping years. When the time came to end the gathering, Charlie asked permission to accompany Preacher to his fireside.
Once the boy had the mountain man out of earshot of his mother’s wagon, he crooked an index finger to draw Preacher down to his level. Preacher hunkered down. Then Charlie spoke earnestly, in a low whisper.
“You’d best look out, Preacher. My mom’s tryin’ to kindle the fires of romance in your heart. I know so, ’cause I heard her tellin’ Mizus Honeycutt.”
A low chuckle came from Preacher’s throat. “Why, shucks, son, I know that. Women have been hatchin’ such schemes since the first Eve kissed a snake.”
Charlie widened his eyes in shocked indignation. “But, don’t you just hate it? How can you abide a woman who’d sneak about and plot behind yer back?”
“No problem at all. Truth is I sorta hanker after the affection of a pretty woman now and again. That ain’t all that bad, is it?”
Hesitant, Charlie studied his toes. Given his age, his first response was predictable. “Girls ain’t good for anything.” He paused, considered a moment. “No . . . I guess not,” he replied. “If— if you don’t mind.”
“How about you, son? Would you object to my bein’ around your momma somewhat?”
Feet forgotten, Charlie glanced up with a bright, happy expression. “Oh, no, sir. Not at all. I’d like to have you around more.”
“Well, then, don’t let all of it fret you. Ol’ Preacher can manage for himself right enough. Now, good night.”
Early the next morning, the Dragoons prepared to move on. The wails of the mourning Arapaho women, those few who were left, trembled in the air. Tight-faced, Three Crows Walking and five braves, one slightly wounded, came to Preacher.
“If you would have us, we would come with you, help to scout. Maybe we find the ones who did this.”
Preacher hid his smile behind a pensive pose, hand over his mouth. “Now, I don’t know about that. You’d have to provide eats for yerselves. Army won’t feed you. Won’t pay you, either. But, I might find a few coppers, some silver you can rub together when this is over.”
Comprehension brightened the face of Three Crows Walking. “You would pay us? White man’s wampum?”
“You do a good job, I sure will.”
Three Crows Walking explained to his fellow Arapaho and they all produced expressions of eager approval. With that settled, they mounted the ponies they had managed to save and fanned out ahead of the column which was forming. They rode out of sight to the northwest.
Preacher gave them half an hour, then he and his companions mounted, ready to set off. But not before Lieutenant Colonel Danvers had his say. “Mr. Preacher, I trust you have made it entirely clear to the immigrants that the same fate as befell these peaceful Arapaho will be theirs if they fail to keep up?”
Preacher could not keep his disregard for Danvers out of his expression. “They’ve got eyes. I didn’t need to put it quite that way. They’ll keep up, be sure of that.”
For all his assurances, by nine o’clock in the morning, a considerable gap had developed between the Army freight wagons and the civilian train. Something about the specter of the Arapaho village must have influenced Isaac Warner. He became more aggressive in setting the pace for the cumbersome vehicles. Constantly, he urged greater speed. At times his shouts to his mules could be heard far ahead by Preacher, in the stillness of the high plains.
By the nooning, it took only ten minutes for the pilgrim train to catch up to the Dragoons. After stretching their legs and working the kinks from their backs, the civilians ate in the shade of the Conestogas and drank water to wash down the food. Warner actually had his charges ready to depart before the soldiers had completed their meal.
To Preacher’s surprise and satisfaction, he calculated they had made fifteen miles. shortly after Preacher and Antoine Revier took their places ahead of the column, which had gotten under way without complaint or delay, a faint ripple of gunfire came from the rear. Preacher had a sinking sensation that it was not hunters out to bag fresh game for the evening meal. His suspicion was verified shortly when a messenger came pounding up from the head of the column.
“The Blackfoot. They’ve come back.”
SEVENTEEN
Warriors of the Iron Shield Society raced their ponies along the high-sided wagons of the immigrants. Fired with confidence by the medicine of Iron Shirt, they abandoned any of their usual caution. It came as a total surprise to two of them when young Davey Honeycutt leveled his side by side, 10-gauge Greener and pumped thirty 00 buckshot pellets into them.
Instant fire erupted in the lungs and belly of the first Indian Davey shot. Shock-borne blackness swept over him and he slumped forward onto the neck of his churning pony. The right side of his chest and face shredded, his jaw hanging from a single hinge, the other Blackfoot flew off his mount when Davey loosed his second load.
Ahead of the Honeycutt wagon, rifles began to crackle as the well-armed Blackfoot poured a stream of lead into the stout veh
icles of the immigrants. After several confused minutes, it appeared the hostiles would buy an inexpensive victory. Eve Billings had been caught up in the middle of the fighting. Huddled low behind the three-inch-thick oak sideboards of the Conestoga, she made good use of the Model 40 Bridesburg Arsenal rifle and a shotgun. Hunkered beside her, Charlie industriously reloaded and handed the weapons to his mother as she fired at the Indians.
“Faster, Charlie, there’s a whole lot of them out there.”
“Sure, Mom, I know that.” He paused in the act of ramming a ball home in the Model 40 as a warrior leaped at the open front of their wagon.
Swiftly, Charlie snatched up his .36-caliber squirrel rifle and popped a cap on the invader. A small, black hole appeared in the left side of the Blackfoot’s chest and his grip on the dashboard relaxed. Screaming, he fell under the steel-tired wheel on the right front.
“Oh, sweet Jesus, Mom, I shot him,” Charlie wailed.
Eve didn’t consider this the time for commiseration. “Good boy.”
Control came out of the confusion as Preacher and his companions, accompanied by Captain Dreiling and some of his company turned back and fell on the Blackfoot. The hostiles saw them coming and those in the lead on both sides of the column reined in sharply. Several fired at the soldiers, while others reared their mounts and turned about. Few cared to run the gauntlet of the settlers again, yet the prospect of clashing with the soldiers held even less appeal. Preacher quickly pointed out their apparent milling confusion and hesitation.
“We got ’em bottled up betwixt us,” he shouted to Captain Dreiling.
“Looks like it. I only hope those amateurs know enough to shoot at the Indians and not us.”
Preacher quickly allayed his concern. “We’ll be pushin’ the Blackfoot hard. Likely those pilgrims won’t have time to shoot at anyone.”
Within a breath’s span, the mountain man and those with him clashed directly with the hesitant Blackfoot. Their faltering ceased abruptly when face-to-face with the white troopers. Unable to reload, the Blackfoot soon discovered themselves to be at a terrible disadvantage. Armed with a dozen immediate shots each from the big Dragoon pistols, the soldiers blazed into the faces of the enemy. Preacher, too, unlimbered his Walker Colt and fired point-blank into the eagle wing-bone breastplate of a screaming warrior.
Blackfoot Messiah Page 15
