Blackfoot Messiah

by William W. Johnstone

  Another came at him, screaming defiance, tomahawk raised. Preacher turned to meet the threat.

  Short Tail and three others took the brunt of the Dragoon charge on the opposite side from Preacher. Led by Three Sleeps Norris and Antoine Revier, the soldiers under the command of Lieutenant Brice swept along the rear of the Army column and caught the Blackfoot by surprise. Short Tail made to swing away, only to find his way blocked by a grinning man in buckskin.

  “Gonna run out on yer friends, eh?’ Three Sleeps asked Short Tail in incomprehensible words.

  “May your mother’s Entrance to the World, through which you came, rot and fall off,” Short Tail cursed back in Blackfoot.

  Three Sleeps knew only enough Blackfoot to catch the drift of the insult. “I love you, too, you horse’s patootie.” Then he shot the tomahawk wielder through the breastbone.

  An expression of consternation and disbelief washed over the warrior’s face. How could this be? He is a white man, his bullets can do no harm. A moment later Short Tail learned that the truth ran radically contrary to his belief.

  Three Sleeps sidestepped his mount as the Blackfoot fell dead at the side of his pony. He turned in the saddle and triggered off the second barrel of his pistol. The big, .60-caliber ball shattered another brave’s shoulder joint, rendered his left arm useless and sent his pony in a frightened sideways dance ending in a frantic dash away from the sounds and smells of battle.

  Two Moons witnessed the swift, sure deaths of eight of his warriors. Quickly the number of wounded mounted to thirteen, with another two dead. He could not believe that this could be happening. What of Iron Shirt’s medicine? Had the shaman lied to them, deceived them as to how much power his rituals, dances and dunkings in the river contained? In a tortured half minute, fanatic belief changed to repudiation. Hooting the recall signal, Two Moons rallied his warriors and led the way from the sure and certain death that prowled among them at the hands of the bluecoats and their plainsfolk allies.

  Charlie Billings stood on the outside edge of the night camp, legs widespread, body bent forward and down. His stomach cramped, lurched and shot forth another spew of bitter, slimy liquid. Tears of shame and misery coursed down his face. The misery came from his appalling sorrow over having taken a human life. The shame came from his reaction to what he had done.

  He had actually killed one Blackfoot, shot him right through the heart. He had wounded two others; one of them had spewed blood from his mouth as he fell away from the wagon.

  God, this is awful! Whimpering like a sissy, Charlie thought desperately. How could he ever face himself, or anyone else, again? He tensed as he heard the rustle of a footfall in the leaves behind him.

  “Takin’ it hard, are you, son?” The warm, gentle voice of Preacher flowed over the boy who fought to hold back a sob of relief.

  Misery returned in an instant. “Don’t look at me.”

  “Why not, Charlie? D‘you think you’re the first and only man who’s been upset by killin’ someone?”

  Preacher’s praise— he had called Charlie a man— was unmarked by the boy. “Yeah, but, I’ll look like a sissy to everyone, especially you. ”

  “ ‘Yeah, but,’ ”—Preacher put the words back on the boy— “do you think I didn’t puke my guts out the first time I killed a man? An’ I was four years older than you.”

  Amazement arrested Charlie’s anguish for a moment, “You did? You were?”

  Preacher took a slow step forward, reached down and put an arm around the boy’s shoulders. Gently, he raised him to an upright position. “Yes. You might not believe it to see me now, but I went through everything you’re experiencing. Trust me, it’s never an easy thing. You saved your mother’s life, and your sister’s. You should stand tall Charlie, be proud. Yer a man now.”

  Charlie blinked his dark eyes. “I am? I mean . . . I am. I really am. I ... I ... ah ... thank you, Preacher. I was so scared. I wanted to throw up all the time we were fighting. I wanted to run away and never hear a gun go off again.”

  “That’s natural.”

  “But I ... thought there wasn’t that much difference between killing an animal or a man. That it would be easy.”

  Preacher patted him affectionately. “You had best thank yer God it wasn’t easy for you. Those what find it like snappin’ their fingers are plum crazy. They’re bound to meet a bad end.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. I oughtta know. I’ve brung more of ’em to that bad end than I care to count. Now, come on, yer maw has supper ready.”

  After the meal, Eve confided in Preacher. “That was the worst thing that’s ever happened to us. Those . . . those Indians didn’t seem to care. They kept coming, no matter how many of us shot at them.”

  “They believe themselves to be bulletproof. It’s some crazy, Injun medicine thing,” he dismissed the fanaticism of the followers of the Blackfoot messiah.

  “Please, don’t misunderstand, Preacher. It’s not that I fear for myself. It’s only . . . only if some harm came to my children I could not bear that. I’ve heard the stories. H-How the savages use children in horrid practices. They have their way with girls as young as seven. Anna is eight. Some, I’ve been told, even use boys in the same manner.”

  Keyed to the intensity of her emotion, Preacher could still not refrain from being truthful. “I’ve never seen or heard of such-like happening to the younger children. An’ it’s only a few tribes practice such vile things. Mostly, the younger ones, like Charlie and Anna, are used as slaves, or to take the place of a child who has died for one reason or another. Especial if the kids show some spirit. Why, the way Charlie fought off those warriors, he’d be a prize to them Blackfoot. One of them would adopt him, certain sure, an’ have him in a loincloth and moccasins, with a pony of his own, an’ his hair in a braid in no time.”

  That prospect registered more horror on the face of Eve Billings than the possibility of abuse and eventual murder. Quickly, she put her emotions into words. “What a terrible fate! How could he possibly endure such a miserable life?”

  He’d take to it like ducks to water, Preacher wanted to tell her, but refrained from doing so. “You gotta understand, men are kings amongst the Injuns, even when they’re little kids. Most boys who are captured don’t want to give it up when they’ve got the chance. They have ponies of their own, which makes for how rich a body is among the savages, and they learn to use a bow, set snares, all sorts of things civilized folk have forgotten how to do.”

  In a sudden shift of mood, Eve nervously tittered, then spoke. “That’s not exactly reassuring, Preacher. You’ve described my Charlie exactly.”

  Preacher showed surprise; then his lips turned down. “Well, I was only tryin’ to show you that somethin’ else could be at hand in such an event.”

  “And bless you for it. It’s only . . . only that I— I’m so frightened for my children.”

  Although he still did not fully understand, Preacher recognized her position and acted with alacrity. When tears brimmed in her eyes, he took her protectively into his arms to calm her trembling. Eve let go then. She stifled harsh sobs against his broad shoulder. Unconsciously, she pressed her body tightly against his.

  Awkwardly, Preacher stroked her long, auburn hair, circled her trim waist with a strong, reassuring arm. Instead of tensing, as did so many women in the arms of a powerful man, Eve melted into his chest. Slowly her sobs diminished, grew less violent, to finally cease. She gasped for air and fought inwardly to regain composure.

  Her eyes still shone from the recently shed tears when she tilted her head upward to gaze into Preacher’s eyes, alight with concern. At a loss for words of appreciation, Eve rose on tiptoe and placed her lips on those of Preacher. It started out as an expression of gratitude, then quickly changed into a long, hungry kiss that sent tendrils of fire through both of them.

  When it ended, both were breathless. Eve said not a word, only freed herself from Preacher’s embrace and hurried into her wagon. Hi
s lips tingling, Preacher walked off to his blankets, thoroughly confused. That had been the best kiss he had shared in ... what? Maybe ten years? Yeah, that was it. There had been that Cheyenne gal . . .

  Camped alone for the first time in six months, Praeger, Gross and Reiker experienced an overpowering sense of relief and safety. They paid little attention to the splendor of the Bighorn Mountains. What commanded their concentration glowed dully in the light of a coal-oil lantern. Its main attraction centered on size. Fully as large as the third knuckle of Praeger’s middle finger, the gold nugget lay on a square of black velvet that perfectly set off its splendor. Praeger reached out and caressed its smooth, warm surface. Then he nodded to the chunk of gold.

  “It weighs a bit over six ounces.”

  Avarice glowed in the eyes of Morton Gross as he spoke. “Where did it come from?”

  “The area I told you about before. It came out of the Lolo Range of the Rocky Mountains, near the Continental Divide. There are more like this, lots more,” Praeger assured his partners.

  A sudden rustle at the tent flap drew their attention and Quinton Praeger quickly concealed the nugget. Blake Soures, dressed in Blackfoot garb, entered. “The men are ready to ride out, Mr. Praeger.”

  “Where this time?”

  “There’s a clutch of Psalm Shouters nestled down to the east of here. Near the headwaters of the Tongue River. I figgered we ought to pay ’em a visit. We’ll leave enough living behind to swear it was Blackfoot who did it.”

  Praeger beamed and came to his boots to shake the hand of Soures. “Excellent. Be sure that no one knows you are white men. That could be a disaster.”

  Brother Frankel could not sleep. He sat alone by the dying embers of the central fire in the circle of wagons. Behind him, the mules and horses of their wagon train milled about in drowsy stubbornness. None wanted to lie down and sleep. Like himself, the good brother thought.

  Not a man familiar with the ways of horses, Brother Frankel failed to note when the animals became silent at the soft whuffle and stamp of hoof from the most dominant beast. Two more laid back ears and stomped the ground in warning. Still it went unnoticed by him. Reacting as though to an invisible pressure from beyond the circle, the livestock began to move inward. They exerted increasing pressure on the single strand of rope that restrained them.

  At last, Brother Frankel looked up, affected by the unrest that emanated from the usually placid creatures. A yellow-orange streak suddenly arced through the blackness of night. A shooting star, Brother Frankel thought at first. While he was in the process of eliminating that due to its closeness to the ground, three more arcs of fire fluttered through the air. Two struck a wagon’s side and the canvas top burst into flame. Jerkily, Brother Frankel came to his boots. Throat churning, he fought to get out the words.

  “Indians! We’re under attack. God protect us.”

  For two long minutes nothing happened. Brother Frankel continued to cry the alarm, though with little response. Then six burning brands shot through the night and struck two wagons. Shouts of alarm came from the three burning Conestogas. From beyond the crude stockade came raw yelps— war cries— followed by a steady stream of war paint-decorated savages who flowed into the unprotected center. One, armed with a rifle, took time to aim and fire a bullet at Brother Frankel. It pierced his skin low in the belly. He went down with a shriek of incredible agony.

  By then, his fellow evangelists had roused from the stupor of sleep. Yelling in fright, the men and women poured from their rolling homes to spill onto the ground. There they cowered in the dirt, quaking in absolute terror. They died that way, cut down by arrow, tomahawk or bullet. Screaming children, the younger ones, peered out over tail gates to have their brains dashed out by war clubs and already bloody ’hawks.

  Only at one point did some resistance show. The train captain, scouts and cook took up firearms and fought a desperate, no-win engagement. By the light of burning wagons they clearly saw their enemy. The attackers looked to be Blackfoot, the experienced frontiersmen agreed. Three of the savages died in less than a minute after the trained men returned fire.

  “Stupid goddamned fools, I told them they needed guns out here,” the captain spat out in useless anger.

  “Lot of good that would do,” the cook retorted. “Chances are, they’d try to pray these heathen scum into peacefulness.” He took careful aim with a Hawken and shot another Blackfoot off his feet.

  “Ain’t no prayin’ gonna get us out of this,” a surly guide scoffed.

  More howling Blackfoot shoved into the melee. The horses and mules had broken free and added another hazard to the confused struggles of the nonviolent missionaries. It did not take the invaders long to subdue the wagon folk. The slaughter was fierce and methodical. When it ended, the only evangelists left standing consisted of the nubile girls, those newly ripe, and those not long in that state. Under the rough direction of one big, burly savage, they were herded aside.

  Once the livestock had been gathered and corralled again, the raping began. The screams and wails, sobs and moans of the young victims filled the night, bearing witness to the unending horror of the brutalized girls. Unnoticed, one of the guides, the cook and the captain slipped away into the night while the raiders wallowed in their lust. One of the rapists, who would be heard by no one in the attacked party who would be left alive, commented on the object of his bestial attention.

  “Mighty sweet. I sure do thank you, Blake, for lettin’ me be first to pleasure myself with this one.”

  “Think nothing of it,” Soures responded. “You did a good job, you deserve a reward.”

  When the gang of murderous whites had expended their churning appetites, they fired all the remaining wagons, took the livestock and rode off. Blake Soures made certain that ample items of Blackfoot manufacture remained to be discovered by those who found the remains of the unfortunate missionaries.

  EIGHTEEN

  Lieutenant Colonel Danvers counseled with Preacher and the mountain men at noon the next day. “We are to turn northward after our mid-day meal and head for the Powder River. Our objective, as I have explained before, is where the Powder cuts through the lower foothills of the Bighorn Mountains.”

  One long, soft, artist’s finger pointed to a spot on the crude map. “Right here. There’s supposed to be an ideal bluff on which to build the fort.”

  Preacher knew the country well. He studied the indicated location, gave it several moments’ thought, then shook his head. “Nope. I wouldn’t recommend it. Trees are scarce in those parts.”

  “Why, I’ve been assured the trees grow right down onto the bluff.”

  “May well be true. But, after you build your fort, you’d be required to go outside every day or so for firewood. An’ another thing. From what this map shows, that bluff is exposed to higher ground on all but one side. Well, one side, an’ part of a second. A feller could fire right down into the fort. Won’t matter much for a while. Only consider this: what happens when the Cheyenne get their hands on some of those new rifles like we took off the Blackfoot t’other day?”

  Danvers raised his voice. “That is not your concern. Your job is to see we get there.”

  “True. Only pointin’ out some things. Like for instance, unless you don’t want to dig a well down sev’ral hundred feet, you’d have to take the livestock out daily to water at this little creek that feeds into the Powder, an’ haul more water to have some for people.”

  “That’s nonsense. You don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve been given assurances from the United States Survey Office, backed up by the highest authority. They have assured me there is ample wood for lumber— and for cooking and heating— lush grass and easy access to water.”

  Preacher agreed readily. “Sure, so long as you don’t rile the Injuns. That’s Cheyenne country, an’ the land of their cousins the Sioux. Now, they don’t look on owning land the same way we do, but they’re mighty territorial jist the same. An’ I ain’t even men
tioned the Crow and Blackfoot.”

  Danvers loftily dismissed that argument. “Savages are savages. We will be prepared to take them in stride. Let it suffice that this is the location chosen at the War Department, and it is where we will build.”

  All through the next day, Preacher and his companions found plentiful Indian sign. It took little time to come to the obvious conclusion. They were being watched. Three Crows Walking returned to the column to report the same.

  “What do we do now?” the Arapaho war chief asked.

  Preacher had an answer ready. “Make real certain of every lump you see on the ground. Some of them might breathe.” Three Crows nodded knowingly. “Also, I’d have my weapons at hand ever’ minute. Never can tell.”

  “My thoughts exactly. We already keep watch on dust clouds in the sky.”

  Preacher reached over and clapped the Arapaho on the upper arm. “Good man, Three Crows. With you as our eyes out front, we don’t need to worry.”

  For the rest of the afternoon Preacher rode along in higher spirits, though not oblivious to the plentiful sign of a Blackfoot presence. After camp had been made for the night, he walked away from the bustle of soldiers and pilgrims to find a little solitude for himself. He had only pulled a twisted, black, dry-cured cigar from the pocket of his buckskin shirt when he looked up and spotted three Cheyenne warriors on horseback. Silhouetted against the ruddy ball of the setting sun, they sat at ease, one bent forward with a hand on his bare knee. Preacher’s eyes narrowed as he studied them.