Blackfoot Messiah

by William W. Johnstone

  Later in the afternoon, Preacher had opportunity to point out to Lieutenant Colonel Danvers all he had discussed with Captain Dreiling. The colonel barely suppressed his irritation. He did make one concession.

  “All right, Mr. Preacher. I’ll agree with you on one point. I have been studying the approach routes to the site. I’m ordering other palisades to be erected along the south and west faces. I’ve come to the conclusion that without them we are entirely too exposed. I’m certain that the sheer walls to the east side will take care of any threat from that direction.”

  “I’d give that second thought, too, Colonel. ‘Cause even if the walls are sheer, including being too steep to climb safely, unless they’re completely concave, there won’t be no such word as can’t in the heads of Injuns fixed on climbin’ up here.”

  “I’ll consider it, but it won’t be at the top of my list of priorities.”

  “Mayhap it had better be, Colonel. Because I’m sure it’s on their minds.” With a slow movement, Preacher raised his arm and, like the Specter of Doom, pointed a long finger at the figures of some forty mounted Cheyenne and twenty-five Lakota warriors watching in ominous silence from the hilltops in the near distance.

  Eve Billings could not believe the emotions that surged through her. At one moment, a girlish giddiness flooded her. The next, she sank into deep shame that she could imagine such thing so soon after poor Howard’s death, only to find herself awash with gloomy despair that she would never have what she so dearly wanted. Then euphoria surged again. She would hum old ballads, put a dance step in her walk, a sparkle in her eyes and a silly smile on her lips. Abruptly she broke off her self-examination to give Charlie’s shoulder a hard squeeze.

  “Charlie, sit still. I’m trying to cut your hair evenly all around.”

  “I don’t want my hair cut,” replied Charlie in a surly tone. “I want it to grow long so I can braid it.”

  Amazement washed over Eve’s face. “Why, Charlie, whatever for?”

  Charlie’s lower lip came out in a pink crescent of pout. “Indian boys have their hair braided.”

  “Charles Ryan Billings, your hair is as auburn as mine, and your complexion as fair. You are not an Indian boy.”

  Conscious of having gone entirely too far, Charlie could not meet her eyes. He inspected his feet, which in gratitude and relief, Eve saw were now covered. Although by moccasins he had acquired who knew where. “I wanna be.”

  “What put that notion in your head, son?”

  “I’ve been thinkin’. Indian boys get to ride and hunt and fish and swim whenever they want to. Preacher’s told me so.” Then he cut his dark eyes to his mother. “Preacher also told me that Indian boys’ folks don’t spank them.”

  Eve studied her son, conscious that he had aged beyond his years, yet remained emotionally a little boy. “Have you done something you think you might be spanked for?”

  Shock registered on Charlie’s face. “No! Yes. Er ... I mean, I don’t know.”

  “Do you want to tell me about it?”

  “I can’t. I promised. It’s a secret. Between him an’ me.” Whenever Charlie Billings suffered from guilt feelings, he spoke in short, incomplete sentences.

  “Who? Preacher?”

  “No, Mom. Not him. Someone . . . secret.”

  One hand on her hip, Eve shook her head in resignation. She would learn about it sooner or later, she knew with a mother’s certainty.

  A week went by with the logging detail required to go farther from the rudimentary fort each day. The present party of eighteen, twelve loggers and six guards, had only ridden out of sight when Preacher heard the thin, high keen of a war cry, followed by the muffled pop of gunfire. Quickly, he ankled his way across the crudely marked-out parade ground. He went directly to the large tent located in the center of an area that would become the future headquarters.

  He brushed past the sentries and strode straight to the desk behind which sat Lieutenant Colonel Danvers. “Sorry to bother you, Colonel, but from the sound of it, your loggers are gettin’ attacked.”

  Voice almost a squeal, Danvers bounded from his chair. “What! That’s impossible. They have an escort.”

  Had the situation not been so serious, Preacher would have laughed out loud. “I don’t think that means much to half a hundred Cheyenne.”

  Before Danvers could work up a reply, a mounted man thundered up to the tent. He shouted through the canvas. “Colonel— Colonel, we’re under attack. Injuns are swarmin’ all over us.”

  “Here?” Danvers mouthed rhetorically.

  The wild-eyed Dragoon, his face slicked with fear sweat and mottled with dust burst through the flap. “It’s the detail, sir. There must be a hunnerd Injuns.”

  Surprising to Preacher, Danvers responded quickly. “Borden,” he snapped to the commander of Company A. “Assemble your men. Form a relief column. Extra cartridges for all. Be ready to ride in five minutes. Mr. Preacher, will you scout?”

  Preacher stifled a groan. “I reckon so, Colonel.”

  Dust and powder smoke boiled up from beyond the near swell on the breast of the Bighorn Mountains. Preacher ignored the rough trail already cut into the soil and took the most direct route. Streaming behind him in a column of twos, Preacher noticed with satisfaction, the Dragoons pounded hard over the ground. Seven minutes later, they came upon the rear of the left flank of a two-sided Cheyenne attack.

  Startled Indians in the grass turned at the sound of pounding hooves. Two of them started to swing their rifles into line as Captain Borden bellowed; “Echelon left and right, draw carbines ... aim ... fire!”

  Four warriors went down before a scythe of lead. Three others took wounds that disabled them. Preacher noted that a Dragoon sergeant had learned his lessons well. He skidded his mount to a halt and covered the injured Cheyennes with his revolver. Preacher faced front in time to drive the buttplate of his Hawken into the face of a snarling brave.

  “Pour it on, boys! Help’s come,” sang out the voice of Lieutenant Gresham of Company B.

  Gresham had been in charge of the logging detail, Preacher recalled. Quickly he cut his way toward the stalled wagons, his hand filled now with a Walker Colt. Gresham reared up and fired at a warrior who lunged from the back of his pony toward Preacher. Preacher’s . 44 ball reached his attacker at the same time as Gresham’s .54-caliber Hall carbine round. In the next second, the complexion of the battle changed entirely.

  With a hundred-twenty Dragoons rushing down on them, the forty-three remaining Cheyenne warriors lost interest in their no longer easy prey. They abandoned the attack and raced through the waving grass, to disappear down a draw. Odd, Preacher thought to himself, he could swear he had seen some Blackfoot among them. The two tribes had been enemies for hundreds of years. Preacher would have never believed he would see them fighting side by side.

  The Cheyenne might listen to the message of Iron Shirt, but Preacher could not believe even such a powerful prophet could weld a lasting alliance. Yet, he felt certain he had seen a Blackfoot pattern on a shield and in the decoration of a feathered lance. When the last warrior had left the field, Preacher trotted Tarnation over to Lieutenant Gresham.

  “You lose any men?”

  “No, thanks be. Not that they didn’t try damned hard. We’re going to have to take a larger escort.”

  “It’d be smarter if you didn’t go out at all. I’ve talked myself blue in the face tryin’ to get Colonel Danvers to see that. Don’t do much good, but I’ll try again.”

  “I wish you luck. And ... ah ... thanks for gettin’ the relief here so fast.”

  “You’re welcome. Ain’t your fault you’ve got yer neck stuck out a mile. Next time, you might not be so lucky.”

  Back at the fort, Preacher stormed directly into the headquarters tent to confront Lieutenant Colonel Danvers. So exacerbated had he become, his face bore the likeness of a thundercloud. He found himself forced to stand in impotent silence while Danvers dallied over an inconsequential r
eport. When at last the colonel glanced up indifferently, Preacher used every bit of will to curb his temper.

  “Colonel, according to what those fellers in Washington City writ to me, I was to advise you in all matters regarding the frontier, including Injun fighting techniques and the habits of the tribes. For the last two months, that is what I’ve been tryin’ to do. Only you seem determined to ignore what I say.

  “Now, unlike me, these boys has got to do as you say.” Preacher paused, then delivered his suspicions in clear and cogent speech. “What I wonder is why you remain so blind to the formidable danger everyone is being subjected to? Don’t you care? My point is, we have hostiles where there were none when I left for Jefferson Barracks. That could be exceedingly costly in the lives of these young men.”

  Put off balance by Preacher’s erudite delivery, Danvers gaped a moment before he waved a hand in easy dismissal. “They volunteered for the Army, every man jack of them. As for my lack of surprise, I must say that after all, I didn’t expect the savages to come down and greet my troops with open arms. I learned that from you on the way out here. It is something we all have to take in stride, or get out of the game. Now, is there anything of importance you have for me?”

  Preacher bit off his furious reply. “I want to scout that raiding party, see where they’re goin’ and what they’re up to.”

  “That’s quite all right with me. Be ready to make a complete report when you return. And leave at least one of the other scouts for duties around the fort.”

  An hour later, Preacher and Antoine Revier left the fledgling fort. They traveled light, with only what their saddle- and possibles-bags could carry. Once clear of the finger of land and out of sight of the fort, the wilderness swallowed them. To some, the silence and vastness would be intimidating. Not so the mountain men, for Preacher and Antoine, a welcome blanket of tranquillity settled over them.

  They picked up the trail of the fleeing Cheyenne easily and began to follow it. Conscious that they were being watched every inch of the way, Preacher had an intense itching sensation between his shoulder blades.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Preacher and Antoine trailed along behind the war party at a leisurely pace. That way it took two days to catch up. Preacher saw the first sign of the hostiles. The point and part of the shaft of a feather-decorated lance seemed to float on the horizon. Within a few strides, a mop of black, braided hair rose into view. A single eagle feather protruded upward from the back of the head. Preacher made a sign to Antoine Revier and they reined in their mounts.

  Preacher cupped his chin in one hand. “We’ve found ’em, right enough. Now what are we gonna do with them?”

  “I figger you’ve got an idee or two up yer sleeve, Preacher. Me, I could use a nice snooze between now and full dark.”

  “Right. We eat now and wait ’til nightfall to move in closer.”

  After staking out their horses to graze, the two mountain men leaned against their saddles, which they propped against the thick trunk of an ancient oak. They gnawed on strips of softened jerky. Cold biscuits and a pot of beans, provided by Eve Billings, filled out the meal. Preacher’s jaw continued to work as, with a slender wild onion he had pulled from a bunch that grew nearby, he pointed in the direction taken by the Cheyenne.

  “Them fellers ain’t gonna throw out a welcome blanket for us. So, I figger we need to get in real close tonight and find out what they’re talkin’ about. Get the lay of the land, so’s to speak. Then we can decide what to do.”

  Antoine washed down beans with cold water from the creek. “Suits. I ain’t exactly anxious to go mix in with them. How’s yer Cheyenne?”

  “Good enough, though a mite rusty. I reckon I can make out what they’re sayin’ among themselves.”

  “Good. How’s it feel to be away from those soldier-boys an’ on yer own for once?”

  Preacher heaved a long sigh of relief. “I ain’t felt this good in three months. Jist about got the stink of white folks out of my lungs. Why is it there’s so many of them has such an aversion to keepin’ clean? A good Injun nose could smell ’em comin’ a good quarter mile away.”

  Antoine snorted, amused at the image he had created. “Can you imagine the mess it would make in a crick if all them soldiers, an’ the pilgrims, took a bath every night?”

  Preacher wrinkled his nose. “Never thought of it that way before. Might be you’re right. All that soap and stench floatin’ downstream would tell an Injun jist where to look. No matter, it’s good to be out here. Now I’m gonna pull me a tomcat and catch a few winks.”

  Only the pale, frosty light of the stars broke up the black blanket of a moonless night later on when Preacher and Antoine fastened their horses to ground anchors and eeled through the tough, wiry grass to within twenty feet of the Cheyenne camp. Low, small lodges had been set in a semicircle around a large, central fire. Preacher extended his spyglass and swept the rows of seated men.

  Sure enough, he was not pleased to note, there was more than one Blackfoot among the Cheyenne. One of them stood before the assembly and harangued them in their language. His Cheyenne was imperfect, and Preacher found it hard to understand. What he did make out alarmed him.

  “When Iron Shirt and our people join you and your cousins, the Lakota, it will be easy to kill all the white men on the bluff. Then we will sweep across the plains with rifle and firebrand and drive the rest out of the country of our brothers forever.” He paused to strut proudly in front of the rapt Cheyenne.

  “In two sun’s time, all of the Iron Shield Society will join us here and the massacre will soon follow. Those who died in the attack on the wagons did not have strong enough faith in the medicine of Iron Shirt. Look about you. The faces you see are of those who, like you, believed. With strong hearts like yours, we cannot fail.”

  Preacher had heard enough. He tugged at the sleeve of the hunting shirt worn by Antoine Revier. When Antoine cut his eyes to Preacher, the latter motioned for them to draw back. Cautiously they began to move away from the Cheyenne camp. They made it halfway to their horses without incident. Then, as he crawled past a large sage bush, Preacher found himself looking at five pair of coppery knees.

  Slowly he raised his gaze to take in the warriors, all of whom competently held modern rifles, pointed directly at him. He froze and sucked in a deep breath. From beyond the obscuring brush he heard the soft voice of Antoine Revier. “Preacher, dang me, but I think we’re caught.”

  Preacher’s heart rate increased rapidly, driven by the fight or flight reflex, as adrenaline pumped into his system. Suddenly he lashed out at the nearest pair of legs.

  Thrashing sounds across the sage told Preacher that Antoine had chosen to resist also. Preacher had the Cheyenne warrior off his legs in no time. He snatched up the dropped rifle and used it clublike to knock the knees from under another brave. Then the other three jumped him.

  Preacher fought silently, and with a controlled fury that left one Cheyenne with a broken jaw. Another warrior came at him from the front, prepared to do a kick to Preacher’s face. Preacher dodged and slapped the leg to the side. Then he came upright and split the upper lip of the unprepared Indian. Grunts and the soft impact of fist against flesh told him Antoine was holding his own. A knee to the groin toppled the bleeding Cheyenne.

  Preacher started to follow up with a knockout punch, only to have his arms grabbed from behind. A sturdy warrior held him tightly while the last of the group kicked him in the belly. Stomach juices burned their way up Preacher’s throat. He gagged and retched while he struggled to free himself.

  It did little good. The next instant, blackness washed over him and pain erupted in his head from a blow with a rifle butt. His knees went slack and he hung from the grasp of the Cheyenne who held him.

  Preacher and Antoine Revier came to in the center of the Cheyenne camp. Spread-eagled and staked to the ground, they had been stripped of their clothing and moccasins. A tidal surge of pain churned in Preacher’s head. Through it, he vag
uely heard a stirring beyond his bare feet. A blurred figure came into view and Preacher tried to blink his eyes into focus.

  When the image came clear, it turned out to be a man Preacher recognized. “Swift Bear,” he grated rustily in Cheyenne. The effort caused him another tsunami of pain.

  “It is truly you, White Ghost?”

  “Yes, it is, Swift Bear. Yer warriors caught me fair and square.” With that admission, Preacher set out on a plan that had only begun to form in his mind. It was one he hoped would save their lives. After another hard swallow, he began to bargain.

  “You know me, Swift Bear, an’ you know I do not lie.”

  “That is so. What is it you wish to talk about lying there on the ground?”

  Preacher stalled a moment. “Glad you mentioned that. I would feel better about it if I was sittin’ upright, so I could talk like a man, instead of a deer laid out for dressin’. Could you do that, Swift Bear?”

  After due consideration, the Cheyenne war chief nodded in agreement. “Since it is you, I shall allow it. Release his arms.”

  Now he was getting somewhere. When the rawhide thongs had been severed, Preacher flexed his fingers to restore feeling, and levered himself up into a sitting position.

  Preacher made a nod of his head and proceeded politely. “White Ghost thanks Swift Bear. Now, what you’ve got here is two fellers who have been friend to the Cheyenne for many winters. Why, I even took me a Cheyenne wife, had two sons by her. ’Cept she got took off by sickness.”

  “The white man’s curse,” Swift Bear provided.

  “Yep. Smallpox. Nothin’ could be done about it. But, my boys are being raised as Cheyenne in the band of Cloud Blanket. It is as the Great Spirit sees best. What I’m gettin’ at is that since we’re friends, more or less, maybe you would cut us loose and let us go on our way?”