Blackfoot Messiah

by William W. Johnstone

  “Beer,” Preacher corrected. “One beer is about all I think I can handle.”

  “Très bien! Then let us go and get it now, before you change your mind, or your nursemaid comes along and forbids it. Allez vite!”

  Two more weeks went by before Preacher pronounced himself as fit as before the fight. He looked back on the duel with Tall Bull as he surveyed progress on the fort. He had not intended to kill the big Blackfoot. He had used the ploy of throwing aside his ’hawk in furtherance of that. But a Blackfoot was a Blackfoot. When Tall Bull threw the dirt in his face, Preacher knew he might not leave this circle of warriors alive. So, all bets were off.

  Old news, Preacher thought as he discarded his reflections and watched the last of the split logs being hammered into place on the second-floor roof of the headquarters. Somehow, panes of glass had survived the arduous trek to this promontory and amateur glaziers were gingerly fitting filled sashes into the lower floor’s windows. The front stockade had been completed, Preacher saw with relief.

  It consisted of a double palisade of foot-thick pine trunks, sharpened on the tops with a two-foot space of rammed earth between. Running the length of it, a five-foot-deep battlement had been installed, to provide for firing from the wall. The huge gates had been hung and now moved ponderously on thick iron hinges. Fully a third of the outer defenses extended along the west face. Some ten feet inside the main gate, a pounded ramp of dirt and granite boulders provided access to a platform of the same material at the top. The battalion’s three-pound field piece could be hauled up there to give covering fire. It stood now beside a flagpole which had been erected in front of the headquarters building in a circle of whitewashed rocks. More of the chalky stones marked out the parade ground and walkways to and from the buildings.

  “Danvers must have these poor devils working day and night,” Preacher observed to Eve.

  “Yes, he does. I overheard some of the soldiers talking. They said the colonel was setting a record in minor infractions’ punishment. The men who break minor regulations receive extra duty details after retreat— whatever that means.”

  Preacher turned an amused smile on her. “I think that’s when they fire off the little cannon and haul down the flag.”

  Perplexity lined Eve’s brow. “Oh, yes. But, why do they call it ‘retreat’? Isn’t that running from the enemy?”

  Preacher shrugged. “Same word, diff’rent meanings. That’s the Army for you.” They laughed together.

  “You’re coming to supper tonight?” Eve asked.

  Chuckling, Preacher spread his hands in submission. “A team of a dozen mules could not keep me away.”

  Something had gone decidedly wrong with the alliance between the Blackfoot, Cheyenne and Sioux, as it often did in such meldings of one-time enemies. The Cheyenne had been slow in coming in. Three large bands, including that of Cloud Blanket, had refused to join at all. The Sioux had sent only token numbers from the Brule, Oglala and Teton subtribes. Notable among those absent were the members of Red Cloud’s band. As a result, the planned great uprising did not happen on schedule. Iron Shirt fumed over it. At last he decided to take out his anger on the nearest whites.

  Accordingly, he stormed into the lodge occupied by Praeger, Gross and Reiker. He studied them in silence a moment, smelled their sudden outbreak of fear. What puny creatures, he thought to himself.

  “Where are your wagons of rifles? Where’s the powder?”

  “On the way, Iron Shirt,” Praeger managed calmly.

  Iron Shirt spat into the fire. “That is not good enough. We hold back and waste our energy in races and gambling. This war cannot begin without the weapons you promised. When will they be here?”

  Coldly Praeger responded. “I don’t know any more than you do. Besides, the other tribes have not come in as you expected. When the warriors get here, the guns will be here also. What you need is another show of big medicine. I think I might have just the thing.”

  Intrigued, Iron Shirt leaned toward the broad-shouldered, lean white man, his eyes fixed on the knife scar. “What is that?”

  “Give me time to get everything rigged up. Then, tonight at the dances, tell everyone that you are going to do a most potent dance. A spirit dance that will do wondrous things, like nothing they have ever seen. Use the dance you worked out last month, the one you were going to use as a victory dance when the white soldiers are destroyed.”

  Plentifully shrewd for all his lack of sophistication, Iron Shirt’s eyes held a gleam of anticipation. “What is it I am going to make happen?”

  “Tell them that you will make stars rise from the ground up into the sky.”

  Uncertain, Iron Shirt blurted, “Can I do that? I mean, what are you going to do to make it happen?”

  Praeger gave him an enigmatic smile. “Wait and see. I promise you it might even have you wetting your loincloth.”

  Praeger and his associates, along with Soures and three henchmen spent the rest of the day well beyond the large encampment of Blackfoot, Cheyenne and Sioux. They had the last tube in place shortly before dark.

  Praeger headed for the rear of one wagon. “We’ll fix something to eat out here. No sense in going back and drawing attention to ourselves, then having to come back after dark. Someone might follow and spoil the whole show.”

  “You’ve got it all figgered out, Mr. Praeger,” Blake Soures said, sincerely complimenting his boss. “Those Injuns’ll think the world’s comin’ to an end, sure enough.”

  Morton Gross raised a cautioning hand. “We do not want to terrify them into running away. This exercise is merely for the purpose of reinforcing the magical powers of our great prophet, Iron Shirt.”

  Aaron Reiker added his own praise. “Still, it was inspired of you to have ordered these pyrotechnics and to have had them shipped out here.”

  Praeger fought back a smirk. “We’ll soon see, won’t we?” He began to take food from a large woven reed basket and pass it around.

  Two hours after darkness fell, Quinton Praeger roused himself. “Better get ready. That’s the drum beat for Iron Shirt’s fancy dance. It’ll take about twenty minutes, then we let go the first shell.”

  When the time came, Praeger touched the glowing tip of a length of slow match to the short fuse near the bottom of a fiberboard tube. With a dull thud, a whoosh and a hissing roar the projectile leaped into the night sky. It burst when it reached the apex of its arc, showering the sky in smoky red streamers. By then the second star shell was on its way.

  This one erupted in green and white, with bright spots at the end of streamers of smoke that crackled and popped as their internal fuses burned down to the small charges. Most of the fireworks Praeger had arranged for consisted of three-pound star bursts. For the finale, he had something special. Following a simultaneous discharge of six star shells, he and his associates ignited and launched five aerial reports.

  Discs of white appeared one after another in the sky, each followed by a violent blast and an accompanying shock wave. When the awesome sound of the last one rolled away across the hills, Quinton Praeger heard the cackle of Blake Soures.

  “That’ll have them savages dribblin’ in their drawers for certain sure. What a hell of a show, Mr. Praeger. I’d call it brilliant.”

  Those in the camp did not share the enthusiasm of Blake Soures. Unable to contain them, the guards stood helplessly by while the pony herd stampeded. Many of the warriors abandoned their immense pride to hide, shivering under their bison robes. Some fell to the ground, stupefied, in superstitious veneration. The Great Spirit truly spoke through Iron Shirt, others exclaimed to their neighbors.

  Slowly the pandemonium subsided. Shaken to his core by the dreadful display, Iron Shirt had no words for those who gradually came to reaffirm their allegiance. He could only grip their forearms and nod and mumble. The coldly analytical part of his mind eventually asserted itself. Whatever the white men had done, it had restored his power over these fractious tribes.

  He turn
ed, smiling, to his most trusted subordinates, Two Moons and Bent Trees. “Trust me, my friends. With this great medicine, the mighty battle really will come.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  Preacher had become downright itchy-footed. Another week had gone by and still no major attack by the hostiles. There had been skirmishes against wood and water details, the fellers had been shot at from a distance and the newly erected sawmill had been thoroughly riddled with .54 caliber balls on two occasions. Preacher considered the damming of the swift little creek and the locating of the mill on its banks below the obstruction to be the height of stupidity.

  “Even dumber than buildin’ this fort out where it’s exposed to ever’thing,” he had been heard to opine frequently. At least one of his worries seemed to have somewhat worked its way to a solution.

  Every day, more of the pilgrims settled in to rest and wait out the year at the fort. Spring, they declared, would suit them fine to move on. They had listened to his tales and those of his companions about winter in the high country. None among them felt hearty enough to endure exposure to the elements in wagon boxes. Well and good, Preacher figured. It gave him more time to ponder on why the Blackfoot and their allies had not attacked in force.

  An exception to the settling down of the immigrants was the subtle campaign still waged by Eve Billings and Isaac Warner to get Preacher to commit to leading them through the wilderness. It manifested itself again that evening at a supper presided over by Eve and Rebecca Warner. After a satisfying meal featuring roast venison, Isaac Warner sopped the last of a rich brown gravy from his plate with a delicate, yeast-raised bread roll, leaned back and patted his fledgling potbelly.

  “Yessir, I’ve come to see spring as the ideal time to move on. We can learn a lot in the meantime, and the animals will certainly be more fit.”

  Preacher accepted a cheroot from the wagon captain which he tipped toward his benefactor before he lighted it. “Couldn’t do a better thing. By then, it might be this fuss with the Injuns will be ended.”

  Isaac touched a burning ember to his own cigar. “Only one thing is left undone, then. We will still be in need of a guide, competent scouts, that sort of thing.”

  Preacher tried to be evasive. “When word gets around about this fort, there’ll be all sorts of folk drop by. You can find someone easy.”

  Warner was not to be put off so easily. “Fact of the matter is, myself and the committee are set on it bein’ you and possibly your friends, Revier and Norris.”

  “Nope. Ain’t possible. Soon’s this Injun ruckus is over with, I’m on my way to the Shinin’ Mountains.”

  “We can pay well. If not all in advance, then when we reach the Oregon Country.”

  Shaking his head, Preacher made to leave. “Sorry, Mr. Warner. I ain’t in the guide business. I leave that to them that enjoys it.” He gave his thanks for the good meal and walked away.

  Eve excused herself and quickly followed. When she caught up to Preacher she scurried around his broad-shouldered frame and halted in his path. Every bit the auburn-haired image of determination, she came right to the point.

  “Preacher, for the life of me, I don’t know what you have against leading us to the Northwest. Mr. Warner said we could pay well. Forgive me for being far too bold, brazen even, but let me tell you this. Along with the monetary reward we can give you, there can be other, more pleasant rewards, if you agree.”

  Stifling a groan born of inner turmoil, Preacher put his big hands on her tender shoulders. “Eve ... Eve, what’s a body to do? By jing, the truth is, I’d plow an’ plant a garden for one of your smiles. For a kiss, I’d do handsprings from here to the Grand Tetons. If ... if I heard you right, for that, I’d take on those Blackfoot single-handed and whup them all. But I can’t— I won’t let myself be harnessed up and put in charge of a wagon train. I’m sorry. I know I’ll regret it tomorrow. Only it’s jist the way I am.”

  Disappointment registered in Eve’s hazel eyes. “That’s the longest, and most eloquent, speech I’ve ever heard you make. I’m sorry over your stubborn refusal, but I think I can understand. You’ve always been a free soul. Any sort of harness, and I’m afraid that includes matrimony, would only chafe. But, now that I’ve said it, Preacher dear, the offer remains open. Good night.”

  Five double hands of Lakota warriors had set up a camp near their Cheyenne cousins. In spite of their earlier promises, they had failed to join with the Blackfoot for a large raid on the soldier-place. Iron Shirt went to visit them, his patience at an end. They welcomed him warmly enough and, after the customary meal, got down to serious talking.

  “We are coming. It has been decided, and we will be there,” Spotted Horse, the Lakota’s principal war chief stated patiently.

  Iron Shirt barely held his impatience in check. “Yes, but when?”

  Spotted Horse made a gesture of indifference with his bead-decorated turkey-wing fan. “When we get there. Why are you in such haste, Iron Shirt? Going to war requires deliberation and careful planning.”

  That loosed a spill of heated words. “The planning is done; there is nothing difficult about it. We must not let this soldier-place be built. Like all white men, once they come, they never leave. Do you want all of your bison killed? The soldiers will do that. They shoot them for trophies. As you know, I have three tame white men in my village. They tell me this is a true thing.”

  Spotted Horse nodded sagely. “I have been told they scratch the ground, tear up the grass to put in seeds.”

  “Yes, they plant for food, like the Navajo,” Iron Shirt spat in disgust. “We must attack this evil place and burn it to the ground.”

  Spotted Horse pursed his full lips, then nodded curtly. “It is agreed. We will come at the next moon.”

  Exasperated, Iron Shirt sprang to his feet. No! It must be now. We leave for the soldier-place with tomorrow’s sun. Meet us there.”

  For want of something to do, Preacher rode out with Lieutenant Judson of Company C the next morning on the water detail. The youthful officer, Preacher was willing to bet he did not shave more than every other day, had matured considerably since their encounter with the Pawnee. Lines had appeared on his forehead and cheeks, where none had been before. He didn’t talk as loudly, nor move with nervous energy like a youngster in his teens. Privately, he shared Preacher’s opinion of the water situation. With construction nearly complete at the fort, he felt secure in bringing up the subject to the mountain man.

  “Our engineering officer, Major Vickers, has completed his tests for building a cistern. I for one will be glad when we don’t have to come out every day to water the horses. For some reason, I can’t shake the prickling sensation that Blackfoot eyes are watching my every move.”

  Preacher chuckled deep in his throat. “That outlook’ll keep you alive a whale of a lot longer than some others I could mention.”

  Vickers read Preacher correctly. “Colonel Danvers certainly does have an optimistic attitude. Not that I’m criticizing, of course.”

  “Ain’t for me to be bearin’ tales, Tom. Right now, I’m jist an unemployed scout.”

  “Then why do you take these risks like the others?”

  Preacher rubbed his square chin. “Keeps my edge keen. Fastest way to get yourself kilt in the High Lonesome is to take to thinkin’ you’re nice and safe.”

  “Is it really that wild out here, Preacher?”

  “It is at times. Thing is, you never know for certain when those times have come around. Injuns is moody, and changeable. The closer you are to them, the more they give you cause to play guessin’ games.”

  Lieutenant Judson cast a nervous glance around the hillside above the creek bed. “And we’re mighty close to them down here.”

  “Yep. There’s three Cheyenne watchin’ us now, right up in them pines.” Preacher jutted his chin to indicate the direction of the observers.

  Tom Judson jerked as though wasp-stung. “I’d better alert the others.”

  A restraining hand wen
t to his arm as Preacher drawled in a low voice. “Nope. I wouldn’t get all stirred up and make ‘em think we’re the hostiles. If they had any thought to lift our hair, they’d not let me get an eye on ’em.”

  Judson cut his eyes to Preacher’s face. “How can you be so sure?”

  “I ain’t. But I’ve jist never seen warriors sit their horses right quiet like that an’ then attack.”

  “What should I do then?”

  Preacher did not even hesitate. “We’ll jist mosey right slow along the crick, tell the watering detail as we go. No hurry. Them Cheyenne ain’t gonna leave until after we do.”

  Half an hour later, Lieutenant Judson heaved a heavy sigh of relief as the watering detail rode away from the creek. He reported their discovery to the Battalion Sergeant Major upon their return. BSM Muldoon doubled the number of the second detail to take horses out for water.

  “It’s Injuns now, is it?” Muldoon developed a faraway look in his blue eyes. With a limited supply of old John Barleycorn, his nose had lost much of its ruddy glow. He had leaned down some, also. Preacher noted the changes approvingly. Fat might be all right for a politician, but a man on the spare side moved faster in a fight.

  “Three Cheyenne. One of them was a mere boy.”

  “But Mr. Judson said he never laid an eye on them, sure an’ he did.”

  “I saw them, that’s all that mattered, Muldoon.”

  “Right ye are, Preacher.”

  Preacher changed the subject. “Judson says the engineer is about ready to blast out a cistern.”

  “That he is. By all the saints, they’re goin’ at it backward as usual. What I mean is, what are we to do with all these winders in place? One mistake in the amount of blasting powder an’ we’ll have glass flyin’ all over the inside o’ this room, we will.”

  Preacher laughed. “Board them up, Sergeant Major.”

  Muldoon cocked his head to one side. “Ye ever see how fast a chunk of rock moves with a big bang behind it?”