Preacher's Peace

by William W. Johnstone

  Art said, “Stay put for just a second. Look, they’re listening to the chief. I count a total of twelve. That’s not a lot, but twice as many as us. At least that’s how many we can see right now.”

  It looked pretty bad for Art’s men. He counted again: twelve, including the chief. “They look like Blackfeet,” Art surmised aloud.

  “Yeah,” Matthews said. “All painted up for war.” He tried not to sound as scared as he felt.

  * * *

  Earlier, Wak Tha Go had risen before dawn and said his prayers to the Spirit to guide him in his holy purpose, to wipe out these evil intruders on the sacred land of the red people.

  His purpose was simple: to kill them all. He would achieve this by a swift surprise attack at dawn. He outnumbered them two-to-one, and each of his braves had the fighting heart of five men! It would be a simple task to wipe them out long before the sun reached its zenith in the sky.

  He urged his followers to keep their horses quiet as they first approached the bluff that overlooked the enemy’s camp. They rode closely together and arrived at their destination in good time. In near-silence they all rode up to the top of the bluff, Wak Tha Go in the lead. He indicated that they should line up so they would be visible to the men below against the pink and red morning sky.

  When all were in place, Wak Tha Go let loose a long, loud war yell: “Yee-yee-iii-haa! Yee-yee-ii-haa!”

  The other warriors followed with their own shrieking cries that were meant to terrorize the enemy, who was presumably still in his bedroll. They smiled and laughed to each other. A good day for a raid! Too bad there were so few white trappers; they would have to fight each other for their scalps.

  “Go now,” Wak Tha Go ordered them, according to his plan of attack.

  He remained alone on the very top of the bluff, looking down into the camp of the enemy. He could see the forms of the men as they scrambled from their bedrolls. One in particular moved slowly, was not in a panic. It was hard to tell from this distance, but he appeared to be a young white man, tall, and there was a dog near him. This man looked up at Wak Tha Go. Did their eyes meet? Wak Tha Go was not sure, but he did know that he had sent a message of fear into this man’s heart—and into the hearts of the others as well.

  Wak Tha Go smiled to himself. Then he unleashed another powerful yell, which was the signal to his braves to move down the slope and around to the riverbed. He. pulled his own horse around and reluctantly moved away from the ridge top, where he had been skylined to those below. He would meet them face-to-face now, not from above....

  He was proud of these men who had stepped forward to go on this raid. They were the bravest of the brave from among the Blackfoot village where he had found refuge and purpose. He would proudly lead them into battle this day.

  When he got to the bottom of the bluff, he wheeled his pony around and went to the head of the column of warriors, then rode with them onto the sandy shoreline of the river. Again, he looked across to take the measure of the men who would die today, his enemy. They did not look like much. They were armed, seemingly ready to meet the attackers. The dog was still there, pacing back and forth, prowling like a wolf, not barking.

  The fierce Indian leader raised his own spear and lifted his voice in a shout. The others followed suit, raising a huge, eerie war cry. Wak Tha Go kneed his mount into action and plunged into the river. His men did likewise, their horses kicking up the shallow water.

  As he charged, Wak Tha Go threw his spear toward the man he thought was the leader of the whites. It missed. The Indian took up a rifle that had been loaded and primed and lay across the horse’s neck. He held it high, to keep it dry, and pushed his mount forward into the gunfire from the men on the island.

  * * *

  Art shouted to his men to hold their fire until the attackers came closer. He watched the tall, fierce warrior who led the party. The man’s spear came whistling toward him, and he ducked beneath the rock and scrub for cover. The spear missed. He lifted his rifle and took aim. When the charging leader was within about ten yards, he fired. He missed.

  The Indian whooped and the other defenders started to fire their guns. Art quickly reloaded and primed his weapon and lifted it again.

  In the first fusillade, one of the Indians was shot from his pony and fell into the shallow river. They kept yelling and kept coming. They released their spears, which flew just over the defenders’ heads.

  “Keep shooting!” McDill shouted from his position, the sound of panic in his voice.

  The young mountain man, Art, didn’t feel panic or fear. He knew what had to be done. He didn’t shout, just carefully aimed his rifle at another of the Indian riders and slowly squeezed the trigger. The weapon kicked him back and black smoke exploded from the barrel. The attacker, about the sixth along the line, fell from his horse. There were two down.

  Now the Indian leader wheeled his horse to the right, and just missed getting shot by Montgomery, who had been trying to get a bead on him. Montgomery’s gun roared and the ball shot past Wak Tha Go’s shoulder. The big Indian turned and smiled, as if to say, “You can’t hurt me!” He pulled his horse to the rear of the attacking party, then turned to charge again.

  The Indians kept coming, and now they had their own rifles and bows at the ready. Arrows thunked into the earth by Caviness, Matthews, and Hoffman. McDill frantically reloaded and lifted his gun, just in time for a ball from one of the Indians to whiz past his head, missing him by just a few inches.

  In a huge explosion of gunpowder and shot, the island defenders fired almost simultaneously, causing the Indians’ horses to rear and wheel madly, splashing and snorting. Another man fell. The trappers were cutting down the odds with each passing minute.

  The braves circled and fell in behind their leader and charged again. The arrows flew and buzzed. One arrow struck Hoffman in his right arm, just below the shoulder. It passed through his flesh and left a bloody pulp. But he barely flinched as he reloaded his rifle, ramming a ball into the barrel.

  Art saw the blood streaming down the German’s arm, but couldn’t stop to respond. He fired again at the attackers, missing his target as the Indian weaved out of harm’s way.

  In the melee, a couple of the Blackfeet had managed to pull the bodies of the fallen braves from the river and put them on the riverbank, so they wouldn’t be trampled by the repeated charge against the island. All the whites could see was the splashing and the oncoming arrows as the Indians kept up the attack, even in the face of strong gunfire.

  It was a miracle that Art had not lost a single man yet. He looked around and saw that his men were fiercely concentrated on doing their best to fire, reload, fire, and reload—again and again, almost like machines. He was proud of them, but there was no time for sentiment. He focused on his own job, and was able to get off another shot. This time he hit one of the horses, which went down in a violent, trumpeting death. The rider leaped off in time, and ran back to the other side of the river.

  * * *

  Wak Tha Go was unhappy at this turn of events. He had expected to wipe out the whites with the surprise attack, but instead he had lost three men and the whites none. He called to his men to take the three fallen braves away, back to the far side of the bluff where they had come from in the morning. He cursed the white men who had killed the Blackfoot warriors.

  Secretly, he wondered if he had done something to offend the Great Spirit of Breath who protected his people. What had he done wrong? The bullets of the whites had cut down three brave Blackfeet. This was not the way it should be.

  He left two men to watch the defenders so that they would not escape. Then he led the others, with the bodies of the fallen braves, to a camp about a quarter mile away, in a tree-sheltered area where they could regroup and plan the next attack.

  One of his men came to Wak Tha Go and said, “Why have we lost these warriors, my chief? Were we not supposed to kill the evil white ones? Instead, they have killed our men.”

  “This I know,
my brother, and I will pray for an answer to your question. I do not know what is in the mind of the Spirit who guides and gives life to all His creation.”

  The brave rode ahead with his head down, leading a horse with one of the corpses draped over it. There would be sadness back in the village when they returned with the dead.

  Wak Tha Go knew that his grandiose promises must be fulfilled. He must wipe out these men on the island, or else he would lose face with the village, and with his own men. Hatred and vengeance flared up inside his soul like a roaring campfire. He must go and pray and think about what to do.

  He rode off away from the other men after instructing them to make camp and prepare the bodies of the dead for eventual burial by their families and the other people of the village.

  He was gone for several hours. At dusk he returned. The warriors awaited him. They had kept up their watch on the island. The whites were hunkered down in their defensive positions, expecting another attack. But the warriors couldn’t move without Wak Tha Go to lead them, so they had stayed in camp and mourned their dead. They all jumped up and greeted him when they saw him riding in.

  When he had dismounted, he said to them: “Tomorrow we will attack again. The Spirit has told me that victory is ours. We will avenge our dead brothers with the scalps of the evil men.”

  * * *

  Clouds covered the moon. Art was grateful for this as he sneaked out of the island camp at the far end of the island from where the Indian sentries watched through the night. He had blackened his face with charcoal and dirt to take off the pale shine that could be seen by a sharp-eyed watcher.

  He carried only his knife and had pulled his hat low over his eyes. He half-crabbed, half-swam to a stand of cottonwoods on the bank about a hundred yards upstream from the scene of the day’s fighting. He moved slowly but steadily so that he would not create any unusual movement in the water and so that he could blend into the night shadows.

  Dog watched him with one eye, seeming to understand that he had to go out alone.

  He had not told the others what he was going to do. They did not even know he had sneaked away. Caviness and Hoffman were standing watch, and he had successfully eluded even them. That idea didn’t make him very happy, but he put it aside and kept moving, stealthily, until he came to a point where he could cross over the river and step onto the rocky bank.

  Once on dry land, he darted toward a sheltering rock and then circled around in a wide arc through some trees to the other side of the black bluff, careful that he didn’t make a sound as he moved through grass and underbrush. His moccasins trod over the earth like feathers and carried him to within about fifty yards of the Indians’ encampment.

  There he waited. The moon eventually fell lower in the sky, below the treetops that ringed the quiet camp. The horses were tethered nearby, and Art avoided them, staying downwind as much as he could.

  He knew what he had to do, but it would be the most difficult thing he had ever done in his life. He must kill the Indians’ war chief and end their siege of the island. The cool night wind blew over his still-wet body, and he clenched his teeth so that they would not chatter in the surprising cold. He was reminded how winter could come down fast and hard in this high country, even in August or early September. He had even known it to snow at this time of year.

  He waited. He was armed only with his knife, which never left his side. The steel blade was clean, extremely sharp, ready to do its killing work. He measured his breathing so that it was smooth and soundless. He waited some more.

  After he had been in place for more than two hours, the young mountain man moved. Very slowly he crabbed forward until he was within fifty feet of the camp. He surveyed the sleeping forms of the enemy to determine which was the leader—the one farthest from the three bodies of the dead Blackfeet, separated a few feet from the others. It was a calculated risk, but he would take it. He trusted his own instinct on this.

  Keeping his breathing as shallow as a snake’s, he got on his belly and crawled forward. Now there was no moon, no light, just the wind. He remained downwind from the camp, knowing that the slightest scent or movement would betray him and that would be the end of his life.

  The smell of the dry summer grass filled his nostrils. It was like being in a dream, and suddenly he remembered the same smell from when he was a boy. He had always spent his time outdoors, away from his family’s home, exploring and hunting and sleeping out under the stars. He had always felt comfortable in the grass, or propped up against a tree. Those days were long past, and he was no longer a boy. Now he was a man on a killing mission.

  He was forty feet from his target. He stopped. Waited. Then he moved again, pulling himself forward with powerful arms, his belly sliding against the cold dry earth.

  When he got within twenty feet of Wak Tha Go, he removed his knife from the sheath at his belt. He held it in his right hand. The handle, wood covered with leather, warmed in his hand. Sweat beaded his palms.

  He crawled closer. Art almost stopped breathing now. Any sound would betray him. He was within fifteen feet. With agonizing slowness, he got within about ten feet. He pushed himself. Sweat covered his brow and his entire body, making him nearly as wet as he had been after coming out of the river. He stopped blinking his eyes as he got even closer.

  Then there was a sound! He held himself completely, utterly still. What was it? It wasn’t the wind or any animal movement—it sounded human. Then he realized what it was: the war chief’s sleep-breathing! He was close enough now that he could almost feel the breeze of the man’s breath.

  Art’s hat formed a tent at the top of his vision. It was completely dark now, and as if by magic he had been transported to this spot, within five feet—almost striking distance—of Wak Tha Go. He did not know the man other than as an enemy.

  Wak Tha Go expelled a long, loud breath. Then he turned slightly in his sleep. Art froze. He waited nearly ten minutes, then crept closer, using his toes now to propel him forward. Five feet. Four feet. Three feet. Truly, he felt like a snake slithering toward its prey. Eyes unblinking.

  Now he made a bold move. He brought himself parallel to the sleeping man’s body. He rolled himself over one time until he was nearly face-to-face with the enemy. With a swift movement he clamped his left hand down over Wak Tha Go’s nose and mouth.

  The shock startled the Indian awake. His eyes opened wide and he saw Art for an instant. Art felt him start to struggle, to fight off his attacker. But it was too late.

  With a blindingly powerful swing, Art brought his knife up, then down, plunging it directly into the Indian’s heart. He had to push Wak Tha Go’s head down, stifle his cry. It took every ounce of strength the young man had to hold the powerful Indian’s mouth and nose and push the long steel blade as far as possible into the chest. Then he withdrew the knife.

  Blood bubbled up out of the deep, deadly wound in the chest cavity. Art smelled it, felt it on his hands and arms. It was warm and wet. Still trying to be absolutely silent, he wiped his hands in the grass and started to turn to make his way out of the camp without being detected by the others.

  He stopped himself. If he wanted to end the siege of the island, he must send an unmistakable signal to the Indians. They had lost three men in the battle, now their chief to a killer in the night. But how would they know who had done it?

  Art removed his hat. He hated to lose it, for a hat was a part of a man on the trail, as necessary as a gun, though for vastly different reasons. He placed the hat on Wak Tha Go’s upper chest. Then he reached around and found Wak Tha Go’s own knife. In the brief struggle before his life had ended, the Indian had groped for the knife and his dead hand was close by.

  The mountain man took the knife and plunged it through the brim of the hat, pinning it to the dead warrior’s chest.

  What would they say to that? he wondered. He hoped it would spook them enough to call off another attack. Pushing himself away, he crawled for several yards before he got to his feet and
ran quietly away into the night.

  * * *

  The next day came and the Indians did not attack. None of the men on the island knew why—except Art himself. As they packed and prepared to leave, he told them.

  Eleven

  The party was somber, glad to have survived the siege of the little unnamed island, grateful that Art had put a knife in their enemy’s chest. Even McDill and Caviness were quiet for the first two or three days out, after such a close call. Dog held back, but followed the party off the island.

  The man who would one day be called Preacher, leader of this column, rode out one morning to scout the forward area west of the Missouri River, which rolled wide and shallow around boulders and over rocks up in this north country. He rode about five miles out, ahead of the other trappers.

  From the day he had left his family in Ohio, Art had been a fiercely independent man. He remembered to this day the letter, just a brief note really, that he had left behind. It said, simply:

  Ma and Pa

  Don’t look for me for I have went away. I am near a man now and I want to be on my own. Love, your son, Arthur.

  He was on his own, all right, and had been for more than twelve years as he grew into manhood among the Indians and mountain men of the West. He had known more adventures than he could have ever dreamed up back in Ohio.... As he breathed in the Missouri badlands air untainted by man, he said a silent prayer of thanksgiving to the only God he knew, the Creator of this land of savage beauty. He was not much given to introspection, and had never been a churchgoing man, but sometimes he just felt that he had to look up and say thanks.

  He was almost unaware of the men he had left behind. Ahead lay a thicket that stretched out like a green island on the brown land. He kneed his mount in that direction. Maybe this was a place where his party and their horses could rest for a while at midday, out of the sun that was already beginning to beat down hard on them. There hadn’t been rain here for at least two weeks, and the ground was sere and hard-packed, stony even away from the river.