Iron Shirt cocked his head to one side, to show his disbelief. “You have had men die?” he asked in a chiding tone.
“Twenty-five,” Talking Cloud shouted. “In one battle. They went down like aspen in a whirlwind.”
Iron Shirt nodded thoughtfully, then gave Talking Cloud essentially the same answer Three Horses had given. After so doing, he suggested, “I think another Strong Heart ceremony is needed.” He took on a cheerful expression. “Gather your men and we can do it while the coals are still hot. Then you will see.”
That evening, when the nervousness and strain of the attack had eased, Eve Billings sought out Preacher, who sat with his companions, a plate of fatback and beans in his hands. She looked at the concoction with unease and forced a smile.
“You didn’t come to supper tonight. I know Charlie relayed my invitation.”
“Yep. That he did. An’ nope, I did not. Too much good cookin’ makes a man soft.” He set the tin plate aside and pinched his flat, hard abdomen. “Why, I reckon I’ve gained five pounds spongin’ off your generosity. I thought I’d take a day or two away from the delicious table you lay, so’s not to make a habit of it.”
Smiling, Eve reached out a coaxing hand. “I wouldn’t mind if you made a habit of it. Matter of fact, I’d like that a lot.”
Preacher sighed and roused himself. He joined Eve and they ambled off toward the southern edge of the large encampment. There they found the peaceful vista of a moonlit, rolling sea of grass that stretched out before them to the south, east and west. Eve sighed languidly and took Preacher’s right hand in both of hers.
“It’s so tranquil out there. You’d never know those savages are lurking out in the dark.”
Preacher shrugged. “I don’t reckon they are. They were Blackfoot. That means they were loaded up with that hokum of Iron Shirt’s. When we killed a passel of ‘em, they had to think the medicine failed ’em. They get spooked at that, so it’s likely they’ll go off an’ lick their wounds.’
“I hope you’re right.”
They stood silently for a long while then. After the stillness grew strained, Eve started haltingly. “About the other night. The . . . kiss. It was— it was brazen of me. But . . . I— I think it was . . . wonderful.”
She did a step turn and faced Preacher, her arms wide. He paused only a moment before he reached out and drew her into a firm embrace.
Iron Shirt stood before his lodge and scowled as Quinton Praeger and his two associates rode through the rings of lodges that made up this large encampment of Blackfoot, Cheyenne and some Pawnee who had left their country to the east to join in the battle against all whites. The Sioux would come to him soon. He believed that in his heart. Which intensified his displeasure at the return of these renegade white men.
“They should stay away,” he confided to Bent Trees who stood beside him.
A ghost of a smile flickered on the face of Bent Trees. “We could make them stay away.”
Iron Shirt put a restraining hand on the forearm of Bent Trees. “The time is not right to do away with them as yet, my friend. We must get the last of the weapons they promise, the powder and balls, the caps. Without them, we cannot win.”
“I heard about Talking Cloud. Will he stay after the new ritual?”
“I do not know. If not, we lose eight hands of warriors. It would weaken us.”
“The Cheyenne and the Sioux?” Bent Trees made the common plains sign of a slash across the throat to signify the Lakota.
Iron Shirt nodded. “They’ll come. Not all, as we had hoped. Cloud Blanket has taken his people away.”
Eyebrows elevated, Bent Trees pointed out the obvious. “If Talking Cloud leaves us, then we will be too weak for the final battle.”
A sudden flare of anger darkened the face of Iron Shirt. “No we will not. We will drive the whites past the Big Water river. My spirit guide tells”— a shaft of reality pierced his mind when he reminded himself of the source of his spirit wisdom— “me this is true.”
Bent Trees grunted. “Would that he told me the same.”
Startled by this lack of faith, Iron Shirt blurted, “You doubt my vision?”
“No— no. Only I think you should fast and visit with your spirit guide again. We do not know him. We have not heard him speak. Our strength, our faith, comes from you.”
Iron Shirt put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Perhaps you are right. I will think on it. First we must impress on our white friends the need for more rifles.”
After another three long, satisfyingly uneventful days, Preacher guided his fledgling soldiers to the spot selected by Lieutenant Colonel Danvers. It was situated on a nice promontory overlooking a deep valley and the ringing peaks of the Bighorn Mountains. Tents went up with many joyful sounds of relief. Even in their permanent situation, Preacher noted, the civilians kept to themselves, erecting their spare wagon covers for tents. A surveying crew set up and began to lay out the fort. Gus Beecher started to assemble his smithy, leaving his family shelter to his wife and daughters to prepare.
With the only direct, easy approach up a draw and along the wide, sloping finger of land that led to the site, the main gate would be there. Also the only stockade. That bothered Preacher. He left the details of their camp to Three Fingers Norris and Antoine Revier and went in search of Danvers. He found the commander with the surveyors, in shirtsleeves, gesturing with wide, emphatic swings of his arms. When Danvers completed his vehement discussion, he turned to find Preacher patiently waiting.
“Pardon me, Colonel. I figgered now was the time to remind you of a few things. You may want to put up a stockade all around this place. Look there, over my shoulder. That’s a mighty high peak back there. I know it’s kinda steep. Even so, hostiles could come sweepin’ right down there and behind this wall. That’d trap you folks in back of your own device. Then there’s the water. This spine is pure granite. I don’t think you can dig a well. More likely a cistern would be the best you can do. A big pit, blasted out of the rock, an’ covered over could give you a good supply of rainwater and snowmelt. But not enough for year ‘round. An’ for trees to make buildings and yer stockade, you can see that outside that little stand over there, the nearest are out of range of your best riflemen. They’ll have no protection.”
Lieutenant Colonel Danvers gave Preacher a long, cool look up and down as though inspecting a tramp discovered in his back yard. “Your job with the Army is ended, Mr. Preacher. I have these problems in mind and can handle them adequately. If you so choose, you may leave.”
Preacher’s eyes narrowed slightly, and he pursed his lips to keep his true feelings from being spoken. “Is that your final word on this?”
“It most certainly is. Now, if you will excuse me?”
“Well, then, b‘god, I jist might pull out after all. Me an’ my friends.”
Danvers hastily informed Preacher, “Oh, but there is work for them if they wish to remain.”
Close to loosing the iron grip on his anger, Preacher responded tightly. “I think I can answer for them. Thanks, but no thanks.” With that, he stomped off.
Preacher felt duty-bound to explain his decision to Eve Billings. He went to her and stood, hat in one hand, over his heart, and informed her of his decision to leave the next day for his favored country in the Colorado Rockies. Eve’s eyes went wide when she understood what his rambling phrases meant.
“Oh, but you can’t,” she protested. “You have helped us so much. We would never have made it without you, dear, dear Preacher.”
And that was part of it, too, although a small part, Preacher told himself. He was beginning to feel entirely too fond of this wisp of a girl. No, he corrected himself, this stalwart young widow— and her children. Why, hell, he had no use for children. Even those he had sired among the Indian camps mattered not a jot to him. At least not until they grew old enough to go hunting, trapping and fishing with him. Nope, the settled life held no appeal to him. Only how to tell Eve that in a gentle way?
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“Er, the colonel don’t want me around anymore. He as much as told me to pack my saddlebags and haul out of here.”
“You are your own man, aren’t you? He is bound to protect civilians within the range of the fort. You could . . . could join us and he would be obliged to put up with you.”
“No— no, ma’am . . . er, Eve. I couldn’t do that.”
“And why not?” Eve spun on one heel and called loudly. “Charlie, Charlie Billings, come here at once.” When the boy arrived, she gave him clear, quick instructions. “Go find Mr. Warner and Mr. Tate. Bring them here. Mr. Beecher, too. Tell them it is very important.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Charlie replied and scampered away.
Preacher tried to derail her juggernaut. “Now, Eve, there’s no call to cause a fuss.”
Eve gave him an impish, though determined, look. “It’s not a fuss I’m figuring on. You must be convinced that we need you here, to teach us things to help us survive when we set off for Oregon Country again.”
“Shoot, anybody can do that for you. Don’t have to be me. The way I figger it, I’ve got about enough time to git back to the High Lonesome, stock up on supplies, then make it to my winterin’ place and settle in.”
Equally stubborn, Eve Billings put her hands on her hips and leaned toward Preacher. “Are you always this selfish? Don’t you ever consider giving others a helping hand?”
Preacher bent even closer. “Nope. I al‘ays had to make do for myself. An’ I’ve observed that those folks who get ahead in this world have done the same.
“Why, that’s awful. It’s so un-Christian.”
“I don’t recall layin’ claim to bein’ a Christian.”
Shocked by this admission, Eve arched her eyebrows. “For shame, Preacher!” Then her mind exploded with a realization. “Are we ... are we having our first fight, Preacher?”
Suddenly robbed of his self-defensive pique, Preacher abandoned his aggressive stance and began to chortle. “By dang, I think yer right. Looks like that’s what it is.”
Relaxed, and no longer feeling threatened, Eve joined Preacher in his laughter. He reached out for her and put one arm on her shoulder. They remained in a chaste, semi-embrace when the wagon-train leaders stormed up.
Beet-faced, Gus Beecher made the first complaint. “What’s so all-fired important to take me away from settlin’ in? I’ve my smithy to finish. We’ve a cave to dig, and sod walls to put up, a sod roof to add.” Then he cocked a gimlet eye at Eve Billings. “Or is it that the Widow Billings has chosen now to announce her engagement?”
Scandalized, Eve covered her mouth with one hand for a moment before she spoke. “What stuff and nonsense, Gus Beecher. Preacher is talking about leaving.” She went on to relate what he had told her of the confrontation with Lieutenant Colonel Danvers and his decision to leave.
That changed the tone of the men, except for Gus Beecher. “He can go any time he wants, for all I care.”
Hiram Tate saw it differently. “Preacher, you can’t leave us like this. There’s so much we need to learn. And, how can we ever get along with Colonel Danvers?”
“I reckon much like porcupines make love— very carefully.” Then Preacher blushed slightly and nodded toward Eve. “If you’ll pardon my language, ma‘am. As to goin’, I figger I’m free to do so when I take a mind.”
Isaac Warner made an open plea. “You’ll leave us helpless. Look at all you’ve done so far. We’ve learned how to make better time, how to effectively fight Indians, better ways to cook for the noonin’. Oh, so many things. An’ there must be more. How to better track and take down game, what to avoid on the trail. Such things make you a gold mine to us. Please, at least take a day or two to think it over. We haven’t much left, but we can pay you for your advice. Won’t you at least give it fair consideration, Preacher?”
Erasing the scowl on his high forehead, Preacher spoke quietly. “I’ll think on it some. No promises, mind, but I’ll let you know.”
TWENTY
By mid-morning the next day, the surveyor and his crew had driven stakes to set out the dimensions of the stockade and its headquarters. Also the corral and two outbuildings. Favorably noting this rapid progress, Lieutenant Colonel Danvers ordered felling crews to be detailed to cut down trees in the thick stands of pine down near the base of the finger-like promontory. Hearing of this, Gus Beecher came to the colonel and, toadying up as was his want, offered his services to forge hinges for the gate, along with bolts, spikes and other iron products as needed, at a reasonable price of course. To his credit, Danvers let his face show his distaste for the man, though he did hire him on a by-the-job basis.
The colonel learned of three men among the civilians who had sawmill experience. He interviewed them and, satisfied, hired them at once. “You are to inspect, set up and operate the portable saw that accompanied us from Jefferson Barracks. I expect a preliminary report by this afternoon.” He soon learned the full extent of the bad news.
Shortly after two o‘clock that afternoon, the three sawyers came to Danvers. The eldest, Tom Quigley, who had been a foreman, revealed the results of their studies. “The blade made it through nice as can be. Same for the other parts. The belts could stand a good oiling an’ they’ll be supple again. Only one problem.”
“What is that?”
Quigley wiped a damp brow. “How are we goin’ to power the saw? That blade has to be movin’ a fair clip to cut through wood, especially green wood.”
Danvers scowled at this setback. “I was given to understand that everything necessary had been included. Surely, you’ve overlooked something.”
“Nope. Not a blessed thing. Oh, it’s all there, disassembled and the parts numbered. Ya see, Colonel, this mill was designed to be run by a waterwheel.”
Suspicion registered on the face of the colonel. “There was no wheel with the saw parts.”
“Nope, we have to build it. The metal fittings are all there,” Quigley informed him.
“How’s it all operate?”
“Well, Colonel, there’s this big ol’ flywheel that attaches to the spline of the waterwheel, and a little one that goes on the shaft of the saw blade. The problem is we’ve got to have a water source to use it.”
Danvers slapped the gloves he carried in his left hand against his outer thigh. “I am constantly beset with obstacles. Why is that, do you suppose, Mr. Quigley?”
Quigley ducked his head in embarrassment. “I wouldn’t rightly know, sir’, bein’ I ain’t been in the Army. But, from those I know what have been, it seems that’s the way of it, Colonel. If it ain’t one thing goin’ wrong, it’s six others.”
Lieutenant Colonel Danvers produced a warm, genuine smile, the first, save those he gave to Eve Billings, he had ever given to one of the settlers. “Quite right, Quigley, quite right, indeed. That has been the bane of my existence since I attended the military academy. Not once has anyone put it so succinctly. But that’s not my immediate problem. Why did those idiots in the Quartermaster Corps provide us with a water-powered sawmill when we were coming into this godforsaken country?”
Quigley shrugged. “It is mountainous, sir. Maybe they thought you’d find a waterfall, which would be dandy for this kind of mill.”
Danvers grunted. “Those fools have never seen beyond the west bank of the Potomac, let alone the real West. Can you convert it to a treadmill?”
“Not easily, nor likely, Colonel. Best bet is we dam up that creek down below to build pressure and put the mill wheel in the spillway.”
Danvers seemed doubtful. “Can that be done?”
“Easy as can be. Your engineer officer an’ someone with knowledge of artillery could do the figgers and draw up what’s needed. The surveyors could lay it out.”
“Then, get to it. I’ll assign the men you asked for to your supervision. We need that mill operative as soon as possible. By all means, long before winter.”
Preacher decided to take one more look around at the operation Danvers h
ad put in motion before making his final decision. What he saw only convinced him further of the folly of the entire project. The fellers had moved a good three-quarters of a mile from the site of the fort. Well out of range of covering fire, the only protection they had came from half a dozen Dragoons assigned to them. Already the detail assigned to limbing the logs and dragging them down to the area of the stockade had run into trouble.
Dragoon horses, unaccustomed to working in harness, rebelled against the strangeness of heavy loads that pulled against their necks. They clashed into one another, reared, whinnied and occasionally balked. For most of their journey, they remained out of rifle range from the fort as well. Preacher found Captain Dreiling watching the neophyte lumberjacks through field glasses.
Preacher addressed him in a low, confidential tone. “Jist betwixt you an’ me, Edward, this is one hell of a mistake. Those fellers out there are as exposed as a baby’s bare bottom on birthin’ day. You’re all near a thousand miles from any other soldiers, jist about as far from any white man. Supply will be difficult, impossible in winter, and the colonel’s plans for water are nonexistent, or plum silly at best.”
Dreiling turned to Preacher. “Are you wound down now, my friend? For all the good it’ll do, I agree with you absolutely. Putting a fort here, on this impossible plateau, in the middle of Indian country, is what I call downright suicidal.”
Preacher shrugged. “I told the colonel he’d be wise to make a large cistern in the middle of the fort area. That’d give you a reliable supply most of the year. If he ran that stockade around the whole place, it would even be safe to draw water durin’ an attack, too.”
Dreiling brightened over that. “A cistern would work? Tell me about it.”
For the next half hour Preacher enlarged his idea. Although in conclusion he returned to his main theme. “The smartest thing to do would be to get clear the hell away from here and set up somewhere else.”
Blackfoot Messiah Page 18
