Frontier America

by William W. Johnstone

  Tyler’s involvement changed things a little, Jamie thought. He had just met Tyler the day before, but he felt an instinctive liking for the second lieutenant. Even though the mission sounded like a fairly simple one, the way Captain Croxton had described it, if there was a way to foul things up and put the soldiers in danger, more than likely Edgar Davidson would find it. Jamie didn’t want anything bad happening to Tyler or any of the other dragoons assigned to the detail, if it could be avoided.

  Besides, if he refused to go along, he would be handing Davidson exactly what he wanted. That idea didn’t sit well with Jamie.

  The thought crossed his mind that maybe Croxton had slyly maneuvered him into this position, knowing that he wouldn’t be able to stand it if Davidson came out on top. Jamie didn’t know if Croxton was that cunning, but he wouldn’t put it past the man.

  “If there’s nothing else, Captain . . . ?” Davidson began.

  Jamie held up a hand and said, “Hold on a minute. Maybe I was a mite too hasty.”

  Croxton sank back into his chair, and Jamie could tell that he was trying not to grin in triumph.

  Davidson turned sharply toward Jamie and demanded, “What are you talking about? You’ve already stated that you have no intention of coming along.”

  “And maybe I ought to think about that some more.” Jamie nodded across the desk toward Croxton. “The captain and I are old friends, and I wouldn’t want to let him down.”

  Davidson’s mouth began opening and closing slightly, as if he desperately wanted to say something but couldn’t come up with the words.

  “Besides,” Jamie went on, “there could be a lot riding on this treaty with the Crow. I wouldn’t want to see a war break out with those folks. The less violence and bloodshed there is on the frontier, the sooner the whole place gets civilized.”

  In truth, Jamie wasn’t so sure he thought the spread of civilization across the West was a good idea. He had seen much of this country the way it was originally, or at least the way it had been before the white men started crowding in.

  But there was no stopping the so-called march of progress, and so the best thing to do was try to hold down the damage on both sides. Maybe he could help by going along with the detail Captain Croxton was sending out, Jamie told himself.

  Looking pleased with himself—the sly dog—Croxton said, “I’m very pleased that you’ve changed your mind, Jamie. I’ll add you to the post’s roster as a civilian scout. I’m afraid I won’t be able to issue you any wages until you get back . . .”

  “So if I don’t come back, the army’s not out any extra money. Sounds like a good deal.” Jamie glanced at Davidson, who was still standing there looking dumbfounded. “A really good deal.”

  Croxton got to his feet again and said in a brisk tone, “Now that that’s settled, we need to go over some details. If you’ll come over here, gentlemen . . .”

  Croxton moved to a large map on the office wall and rested a fingertip on the parchment, in an area on the eastern slope of a mountain range angling down from the main body of the Rockies.

  “This stream is called Bishop’s River on the map, after the trapper who first explored it,” the captain said as his finger traced a winding line on the map. “I’m sure the Crow have some other name for it. There’s a large village here”—he tapped a spot on the map where the river made a large bend—“and other villages scattered throughout the area to the north. This main village is the one we’re interested in, because of rumors of a nearby pass that might allow wagons to get through the mountains.”

  Jamie shook his head and said, “There’s no such pass, Captain. The more I think about it, the more sure I am of that. There are trails through the mountains, and maybe with some work one of them could be fixed up to where wagons could use it, but it would be a big job.”

  Davidson said, “And I’m sure the army surveyors and cartographers responsible for this map know more than you do about this subject, MacCallister. Pardon me, Mister MacCallister.”

  The correction managed to be even more insulting than the original statement.

  “I trust your judgment and knowledge, Jamie,” said Croxton, “but again, that doesn’t affect the orders I’m supposed to carry out. It’s the treaty we’re concerned with, not whether there’s actually a viable wagon train route through the mountains in that area.”

  Jamie’s broad shoulders rose and fell as he said, “Fair enough.”

  “So my assignment is to negotiate a treaty with the savages?” Davidson asked.

  “Your assignment is to bring the Crow chief back here to the fort so that representatives from Washington can negotiate a treaty with him,” Croxton said.

  The eager expression fell off of Davidson’s face. He must have been thinking that this mission would result in him having a place in history, minor though it might have been. He said, “Oh,” then recovered from his disappointment with a visible effort and went on, “Very well, sir. Rest assured that I will deliver the redskin here as ordered, whatever it takes.”

  Jamie said, “I think you’re supposed to convince him to come to the fort, not take him prisoner and drag him back here. He won’t be in much of a mood to sign a treaty if you do that.”

  Davidson looked to Captain Croxton for clarification. The captain cleared his throat and said, “We don’t want to spark a war with the Crow, Lieutenant. Keep that in mind at all times. But I believe if you explain the situation in a satisfactory manner, the chief will come with you.”

  That dodged the question, thought Jamie. He asked, “Do you know anything about this chief?”

  Croxton shook his head and said, “Very little, only what some of the trappers who have worked in that region told us. His name is Broken Pine. He’s supposed to be a relatively young man, which leads me to hope he might be more reasonable and open to discussion than some of the elders in the tribe.”

  The captain was wrong about that, and Jamie knew it. It was the young warriors who were the firebrands, the ones with unshakable opinions that often led to conflict and even war. The old men had already seen their share of violence and destruction and were more likely to want to avoid such things in the future.

  But that was why he was going along, Jamie supposed, to put such knowledge to good use, and serve as a wise, experienced advisor to Lieutenant Davidson.

  Who wasn’t likely to listen to a damned thing he had to say, Jamie thought grimly.

  “Now, it should take you a week to ten days to reach the Crow village,” Croxton went on. “It’ll probably take a day or two of discussions with the chief before he agrees to accompany you back here. So I’ll expect you to return in approximately three weeks.”

  Lieutenant Tyler spoke up, asking, “The wagon train that left here more than a week ago, was it headed in the same direction?”

  “I believe the wagonmaster intended to cross the mountains somewhat to the south of your destination,” said Croxton. “It’s not likely that you’ll overtake them, but I suppose it’s possible if anything happened to delay them. That wagon train doesn’t really have anything to do with your assignment, though, Lieutenant.”

  “Understood, sir,” Tyler said with a nod.

  Davidson asked, “Am I to have the ability to pick the men I want to form this detail, Captain?”

  “You’re taking B Troop, Lieutenant Tyler’s troop,” Croxton replied with a nod toward Tyler.

  Jamie could tell that Davidson didn’t like having that decision made for him, but after a moment, Davidson nodded in acceptance of it. Then he said, “In that case, sir, I request that Sergeant O’Connor be reassigned to B Troop so that he can come along.”

  “O’Connor?” Croxton raised an eyebrow in surprise.

  “He’s an experienced man, sir, and you yourself spoke to the need for experienced men on this mission. Besides, I’ve worked well with Sergeant O’Connor in the past and have found him to be an exemplary noncommissioned officer.”

  “But the man’s been locked up for
fighting!”

  Davidson looked coolly at Jamie and said, “For fighting with Mr. MacCallister, who is coming along on this mission, I believe.”

  “He’s got you there, Captain,” Jamie said dryly. “If you think I might object, don’t worry about that. It doesn’t matter to me who comes along. I intend to do my job, and as long as everybody else does their jobs, I won’t have a problem with them.”

  Croxton thought it over for a moment, then nodded.

  “All right,” he said. “But I’m holding you responsible for O’Connor’s behavior, Lieutenant.”

  “If I’m to be in command, sir, won’t I be responsible for the behavior of everyone in the detail?”

  “That’s right, you will be. And don’t forget, Lieutenant, you’re also responsible for helping to keep the peace here on the frontier.”

  “Of course, sir,” Davidson replied with a smirk, and Jamie thought, God help us all . . .

  CHAPTER 8

  The Crow village

  A couple of very enjoyable days passed for Preacher as he continued his visit with his son’s family. He and Hawk roamed the forests, sometimes just the two of them and sometimes in company with Broken Pine, Big Thunder, and other old friends.

  During those jaunts, Preacher saw that what he had been told was true: game was surprisingly scarce. Preacher didn’t believe there was any way that could honestly be blamed on the wagon trains coming increasingly closer, but he didn’t see any point in stirring up arguments, so he kept his mouth shut about that.

  He also spent quite a bit of time with Eagle Feather, telling the boy tall tales about his adventures that occasionally had Butterfly frowning in disapproval when the stories became too lurid.

  He even got his extremely shy granddaughter, Bright Moon, to be more comfortable around him and actually talk to him, telling him about her friends and the games they played and all the things Butterfly had been teaching her about the work a woman of the tribe had to do.

  Preacher was having a good time here and was in no hurry to leave, but then Broken Pine sought him out and said, “Three of our men ventured out onto the plains yesterday in search of buffalo, and they saw many of the white men’s wagons traveling toward the mountains.”

  “The wagons are headed this direction?”

  “South of here,” Broken Pine replied, “but well north of the river white men call the Sweetwater.”

  Preacher knew the Sweetwater River very well. He had trapped up and down its length many times and also traveled along it when he was on his way to the annual rendezvous fur trappers held on the Green River, a ways farther west. The stream rose near the broad, level valley known as South Pass, where most of the wagon trains had been crossing the Rockies in recent years. A wagon train moving north of there had to be aiming for a different route.

  That was the way some folks were—never content to follow the established trails, to walk in the footsteps of those who had gone before them. They had to break out of the established routine and find their own path . . . even though sometimes those paths led straight to disaster.

  “I’ll go talk to them and find out what their plans are,” Preacher told Broken Pine. “I really doubt that they’re much of a threat to you and your people, though.”

  “When Many Pelts and those who believe as he does hear about this, they will want to confront the wagon train and make the whites go another way.”

  “It’ll be your job to keep them from doing that, Broken Pine.”

  “And they will do as I say. I am still chief here.”

  But for how much longer, if Many Pelts continued stirring up trouble, Preacher asked himself.

  Maybe he could help the situation by finding out why the wagon trains kept pushing farther and farther in the direction of the Crow village and hunting grounds.

  “I will come with you, Preacher,” Hawk said.

  The mountain man frowned and said, “I don’t know if that’s necessary—”

  “It would be a good thing,” Broken Pine said. “Hawk That Soars is one of us. Some of our people will be more likely to listen to him than to you, Preacher, even though he is half white.”

  Preacher supposed that made sense. Hawk had won over the Crow, despite his status as a half-breed, because he was such a fine warrior and good man. When it came to convincing somebody like Many Pelts to be reasonable, Hawk would have an advantage because of the Indian blood that flowed in his veins.

  “All right, fine,” Preacher said. “I’m always glad to have you ridin’ with me, Hawk.”

  “I will tell Butterfly, and we will leave now.”

  Preacher nodded.

  “I’ll go get Horse saddled up.”

  They set out less than ten minutes later, with Butterfly and the two children standing in front of the lodge and solemnly watching them go. Preacher and Hawk might be back that night, but they were taking supplies with them in case they weren’t able to return until the next day.

  They followed the river, which gradually curved until it flowed eastward through the foothills at the base of the great peaks. Preacher knew that once the stream reached the prairie, it would make another bend, southward this time, and eventually flow into the Sweetwater, which in turn merged with the North Platte far out on the Great Plains.

  As they rode, Hawk said, “I remember what St. Louis was like when you and I went there, Preacher. Will there be cities like that out here someday? Cities with so many buildings that you can no longer even see the earth? Places where the air stinks of too many people?”

  “I reckon there’s a good chance of it,” Preacher admitted. “It’s already like that all over, back east. You might find a little piece of wilderness here and there, but before you know it, you’re surrounded again.”

  “I would never want to go there.”

  “I don’t plan on goin’ back, unless somethin’ mighty important comes up.” Preacher paused, then said, “The good part about the whole thing is, by the time it gets that bad out here and the frontier is gone, I will be, too. Dead and gone for a long time.”

  “But what about the children,” Hawk asked, “and the children’s children?”

  Preacher shook his head and said, “I reckon they’ll have to find their own ways of dealin’ with it. Folks always do, because things never stay the same. There just ain’t no gettin’ around that.”

  The conversation made both of them a little melancholy, and so they rode in silence for quite a while.

  It was the middle of the afternoon before Preacher and Hawk spotted the long line of wagons up ahead. The arching canvas covers over the backs of the large vehicles gleamed in the sunlight. Preacher and Hawk urged their mounts to a faster pace, and Dog bounded ahead.

  Someone with the wagon train must have seen them coming. Four men on horseback broke away from the caravan and rode out to meet them.

  Preacher had the Sharps with him, of course, as well as the brace of Colt Dragoons. He reached down to the guns and made sure each revolver slid smoothly in its holster.

  Hawk noticed that and asked, “Do you expect trouble from these men, Preacher?”

  “Nope, not at all,” the mountain man replied. “But it’s always a good idea to be ready for it, whether you expect it or not.”

  Hawk didn’t say anything in response to that, but he touched the knife and tomahawk stuck behind the belt at his waist.

  One of the men approaching them wore buckskins and a coonskin cap. Two had on rough work clothes. All three of those riders carried rifles across their saddles in front of them.

  The fourth man, who led the little group, was dressed in a sober black suit and hat and collarless white shirt. He looked more like a minister than a wagonmaster, but he rode with an unmistakable air of command about him. At first glance he didn’t appear to be armed, but as they came closer, Preacher spotted the handle of a big knife, probably an Arkansas Toothpick, sticking out from under the man’s coat.

  The leader of the welcoming party reined in and raised
a hand in a signal for the others to stop. Preacher and Hawk slowed their mounts and walked them forward until only fifteen feet separated the two groups. Dog had come to a halt, as well, and stood there stiff-legged, with the fur on the back of his neck ruffled up a little.

  “I’m guessing that’s not actually a wolf, since he seems to be traveling with you two fellows,” the man in the black suit greeted them.

  “Oh, he’s probably part wolf,” Preacher drawled, “but I reckon he’s mostly dog. That’s what I call him, in fact. Dog.”

  “We won’t shoot him, then,” the man said.

  “Best you don’t,” Preacher said.

  The man in the black suit was burly, with a barrel chest and powerful-looking shoulders. A thatch of white hair stuck out from under his hat, and a thick white mustache bristled under his prominent nose. Bushy side whiskers framed the deeply tanned face of a man who had spent most of his life outdoors.

  “I’m Major Frank Powell,” he introduced himself, “the wagonmaster of this here immigrant train. My scouts”—he inclined his head toward the other three men—“Jethro Haines, Tom Nolan, and George Ogden.”

  Each of the men nodded in turn as Powell said his name. Gray-bearded Jethro Haines was the one in buckskins. Preacher thought he looked vaguely familiar and figured they had crossed trails sometime in the past. Haines hadn’t made any threatening moves with the flintlock rifle he held, though, so Preacher didn’t reach for his guns.

  Haines had something to say, though. He drawled, “A white man and a Injun travelin’ together . . . That ain’t somethin’ you see ever’day. That redskin your slave, mister?”

  Hawk bristled, but Preacher gave him a glance that told him to control the reaction. Then the mountain man said, “This man is my son, Hawk That Soars. And folks call me Preacher.”

  Haines knew the name, and so did the other two scouts, Nolan and Ogden. Preacher could tell that by looking at them. Powell seemed to recognize the name, too. He confirmed that by saying, “I’ve heard a lot about you, sir. I didn’t know if you were still alive.”