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Preacher's Peace

Page 20

by William W. Johnstone


  “You stayed Abraham’s hand when he went to the rock to sacrifice his only son Isaac in obedience to you. You lifted up the suffering Job when he did not despair of your love. You made David a king when he was a simple shepherd and singer of praises to you, and gave him the power to slay the giant who made war on your people. Give this servant the strength to slay your enemies and to lift up your people in righteousness. Hallelujah, hallelujah! Even though I be spat upon and persecuted for your sake, you shall lift me up to glory if I am faithful to you O Lord. . . .”

  * * *

  In the morning, Art was still preaching. He had not ceased all night long. He was amazed that the words and stories from his youth came back to him, that he had the strength to stand and to preach throughout the entire night. Throughout the village the people were talking about this amazing man.

  Everyone knew the story of the grizzly bear and Art’s trek across miles and miles of the badlands even though he was nearly dead. Over time it would become a legend among the Blackfeet, but now it was still a freshly told story, and the man who had accomplished these feats was still among them, a prisoner tied to a tree near the council lodge.

  Like most of the village, Brown Owl got very little sleep through the night. He made sure the guards were replaced, and each time he came to the tree where the prisoner was bound, he heard his ceaseless preaching. He had never heard a white missionary preacher before, though he had heard about them from others.

  Over the years black-robed priests and black-coated preachers had come among various tribes to try to convert them to their strange religion. They were called Christians, and they taught that the Indians were bad for not believing the same things that they did.

  Brown Owl respected the stories of others and cherished the stories of his own people. Why was one wrong and the other right? That he did not understand. And it made him angry that anyone would try to force their stories on someone who already had his own.

  Before the sun rose, the young Blackfoot war chief stood with some of the other people of the village and listened to Artoor’s strange and magical words.

  “The Lord shall show portents in the sky and on the earth, and blood and fire and columns of smoke will be seen by all the people. The sun will be turned into darkness and the moon into blood before the day comes, that great and terrible day. And all who call on the name of the Lord will be saved, for on Mount Zion will be those who have escaped the fires and plagues and the wrath of the one true God.”

  Whatever he was saying, it sounded frightening and powerful to all who heard him.

  Art stood as straight and tall after several hours of preaching as he had when he had first been brought to the tree and bound there. His eyes were dark and glittery, as if he were under a spell. In fact, he was possessed by a powerful spirit.

  He almost didn’t realize what he was saying, but he kept talking, kept preaching, letting his voice roll out in the singsong cadence with the words that tumbled back into his mind from the times when he was a child and his parents dragged him to church services and traveling preachers’ revivals.

  “Proclaim this among all the nations. Prepare ye for war! Rouse the champions of the people, who will defend them in my name. Armies, prepare to advance. Hammer your plowshares into swords, your hooks into spears. Even the weaklings will be given strength in the Lord’s name. Let the nations arouse themselves and assemble in the Valley of Jehoshaphat and be led by the champions of war!

  “The sun and the moon will grow dark, and the stars will lose their brilliance. For the Lord God roars from Zion, He thunders from Jerusalem, and the heavens and the earth tremble at the sound of His mighty voice!”

  For the rest of the morning, Art preached without stopping or faltering. The people of the village, men, women, and children, all came to the tree and stood and listened to him. All of them heard him, though they did not understand the strange white man’s language.

  The elders of the village huddled in an impromptu council nearby and whispered among themselves. They were amazed and concerned about this man, wondering whether he was a white devil who had come among them to destroy them.

  As the sun rose in the sky, the mountain man preached on:

  “When that day comes, the mountains will run with new wine and the hills will flow with milk, and all the streambeds of the country will run with water. A fountain will spring forth in the temple in the great city. Egypt will become a desolation and the land of the enemy a desert waste on account of the violence done to the Lord’s people, the innocent children whose blood they shed in their country.

  “But the land will be inhabited forever, and Jerusalem from generation to generation! ‘I shall avenge their blood and let none go unpunished,’ saith the Lord, and he shall dwell in Zion with the righteous ones.”

  Throughout the night the people of the village had heard him preaching without stopping. Very few had gotten any sleep that night. Throughout the morning women and children gathered around the tree where the man was bound and listened to his strange words. They talked among themselves, saying they thought he was crazy—that is, touched by the Great Spirit who created and protected all things.

  Buffalo Standing in the River met with the other elders in the impromptu council. They watched and listened to Artoor, shaking their heads. They decided to call a full-fledged council meeting.

  Buffalo Standing went to Brown Owl’s tepee. There the younger man sat with his wife, who had been among the women listening to the prisoner preach throughout the morning. It was nearly noon, nearly time for the prisoner to be killed.

  “Owl, my young friend, the men of our village must meet to discuss what we are going to do.”

  “The decision has been made. He is to be killed today. He is an enemy of our people.”

  “Yet he spoke of peace to many before Wak Tha Go came and told us we must fight him. And now we hear him speak and we think he is crazy. If this is true, he is under the protection of the Father and Creator of all.”

  Buffalo Standing led the young war chief to the council tepee where the others awaited. A pipe was lit and passed from man to man. Each one spoke his heart about this situation. All agreed that the prisoner should not be killed, that he should be released because he was clearly crazy.

  When Brown Owl’s turn came, he took the pipe and was silent for a moment. In the silence, from outside Art’s words penetrated the council lodge:

  “Listen, my people, to the words of the Lord. ‘It was I who destroyed your enemies. It was I who brought you up from Egypt and for forty years led you through the desert to take possession of the Promised Land. I raised up your sons as prophets and warriors.

  “ ‘But because you have turned away from the Lord, I will crush you where you stand. Flight will be cut off for the swift, and the strong will have no chance to exert his strength, nor will the warrior be able to save his life. The archer will not stand his round, the swift of foot will not escape, nor will the horseman be able to rescue the fallen warriors. Even the bravest of men will throw down his weapons and run away on that day!’ ”

  Finally, Brown Owl spoke. “The words of my brothers and fathers are correct. Although I have seen this man Artoor in battle and know that he is a skilled fighter, I see also that he is touched by the Great Spirit and we must honor the Spirit by letting him go.”

  All of the men nodded and grunted in agreement. Then, one by one, they rose and filed out of the tepee. Outside, the elders and warriors gathered by the white prisoner. Brown Owl ordered the guards to untie him.

  Art stopped speaking for the first time in nearly eighteen hours. His mouth was parched and sore, and he staggered, had to steady himself by holding onto the tree. His vision was blurred, and he blinked to gain clear sight of all those who were gathered around him. At first he did not understand what was happening.

  Brown Owl signed to him that he was free. Others stepped forward and gave Art a blanket, his own hunting knife, and a parfleche of food.

&nb
sp; “You are free to leave us, for you have the protection of the Great Spirit. Do not come back to make war with our people, or else we will fight you, and this time we will kill you,” the warrior told him.

  Art took the gifts that were offered. Without a word, he walked away toward the east, away from the village. His head swam with words. His heart was full of strange emotions, but he was glad to be free. Now he would find his men, come hell or high water.

  He wondered if Dog was out there somewhere waiting for him.

  Fourteen

  Junction of Platte and Missouri Rivers

  Percy McDill had kept the trappers’ party together, but through curses and threats rather than true leadership as Art had done. Along with Caviness, he bullied and cajoled the men, Matthews, Montgomery, and Hoffman, to stay with him when they threatened to split up and go their separate ways.

  He practically had to kill Hoffman early on to keep him from going back to check on Art. The Hessian was certain that McDill had done something underhanded, and the others were too, though they didn’t talk about it among themselves.

  “You’re taking orders from me now,” McDill had told Hoffman with a sneer. “I say jump, and you jump. I say stay, and you stay. Got it?”

  “Yes, sir.” Hoffman had swallowed his pride and hatred and said the words that he was born and bred to say.

  “That goes for all of you men. Men,” McDill spat. “More like a bunch of women, if you ask me. I don’t want no more trouble out of any of you—or else Caviness and me will deal with you.”

  That had been about eight weeks ago. Now, McDill led the men back to the temporary tent-town where they had been in August, the settlement that was maintained for fur traders and trappers, where the mountain men stopped to resupply and get drunk and spend a few hours with some women.

  The tents, some sod huts, and a few hastily erected log structures were the same. There may have been one or two more of each. And there were whites and a few Indians and mixed-breed children living there. There was a smoky, greasy pall over the whole encampment, a sense of impermanence and death.

  McDill led the party into the settlement, coming from the opposite direction, the west, and met the stares and quizzical looks of the mountain men who happened to be there.

  The big man didn’t want to admit to anyone—including himself—that his leadership had been a complete failure. But he did what he did best: bluffed and blustered his way from one fiasco to another. His party had precious few pelts to trade, too few to bring back to St. Louis. This was because he was not an expert trapper, because he had not been able to stay in the mountains through the winter season when the furs were at their best. And because he wouldn’t make alliances with any of the Indian tribes they had encountered on their journey after they left Art to die.

  And his henchman Caviness was not very good either. The others were too green to know the ways of the wilderness well enough to salvage the mission. They knew that McDill was a lousy peacemaker—unlike Art—but they said nothing. They had decided to stick together rather than split up for the winter, and they went along with McDill’s decision to return to St. Louis before the weather got too cold.

  So, as they rode through this ramshackle excuse for a town, they were a pretty bedraggled, dispirited bunch. They had lost their original leader and had not recovered from that. Despite McDill’s bluster, they all knew it.

  He led them to a trading tent, where they offered their paltry supply of pelts—very few, and not very good—for sale to finance their trip back to St. Louis. He tried to demand the best price, but had to settle for much less. He kept all the money.

  “I’m boss of this outfit and I’ll take care of the money,” he said, brooking no challenge to his decision. Behind the others’ backs he looked at Caviness and winked. He’d take care of his friend, and the others could go to hell, as far as he was concerned.

  “We’re only gonna stay for a day or two here, rest up and buy some supplies for our ride back to St. Louie. Let’s find a place to camp for tonight.”

  They walked their horses and gear over to a small clearing on the edge of the makeshift town. There was another two-man camp nearby with a campfire burning, the men sitting on a fallen tree trunk and tending the fire. There was a pot of coffee cooking in the fire.

  McDill ordered his men to set up their camp and build their own fire, ignoring his neighbors.

  After a while one of the men came over to the larger group and said, “You all are welcome to some coffee if you want.”

  “Maybe later,” McDill said curtly.

  “Sure we would,” Montgomery piped up, poking Matthews in the ribs, and Matthews said he would too.

  “Now look, you men—” McDill sputtered. “I told you we need to stick together here. We’ll fix our own supper.”

  “Just tryin’ to be neighborly, friend,” the man said.

  Then Hoffman said, “We met you before. You’re a friend of our captain, Art.”

  “Yeah, I’m Jeb Law. We met before. And this here is Ed,” he added, pointing to the other mountain man with whom he was sharing the camp.

  McDill cut in. “Art used to be our captain. He’s dead now. I’m the leader here.”

  “That so?” Jeb said, and left it at that. He returned to his own campfire. He called over to them, “You’re welcome to some coffee and grub—any time.”

  A little while later, Matthews and Montgomery drifted over to Jeb Law’s campfire and sat down to drink a cup of coffee, the first they had drunk in many weeks. Then the Hessian, Hoffman, came over, and finally even McDill and Caviness gave in and came over, bringing their own drinking cups.

  Jeb Law said, “Well, we heard you men ran into some trouble out there on the Upper Missouri.”

  “We’re doin’ fine,” McDill said. “We did lose poor old Art. He got mauled by a big old grizz. It was painful to see him all beat up like that,” he said with phony sadness, as if he had been a good friend of the young mountain man instead of a bitter and resentful enemy.

  But Jeb Law wasn’t fooled. He smiled. He had an ace up his sleeve. “That so? He was dead when you left him?”

  “Yeah,” Caviness lied. “We was on the run from some Indians, fought ’em off pretty good, but we had to keep moving fast.”

  Matthews shifted uneasily where he was sitting. He cleared his throat and started to say something, but McDill glared at him as if to tell him to keep his mouth shut.

  The German couldn’t help himself. He hated McDill and Caviness. He blurted out, “No he wasn’t dead. He was hurt badly. We left him with his rifle and food. We don’t know what happened to him.”

  “Really?” Jeb said. “Well, now, I wonder if he’s the one the Injuns are all palaverin’ about for the past month or so.”

  “What do you mean?” McDill spat.

  “There’s a man they’re callin’ Preacher. The Blackfeet captured him—seems he was wanderin’ the country after he had been attacked by a bear. He had nothin’ except his knife and a buffalo robe that he made hisself—I guess he kilt a buffalo to get it. Anyhow, the story is the Injuns caught him and brought him back to their village to kill him. But he started acting crazy-like, started preaching like from the Bible. Didn’t stop talking for almost a whole day. Well, mister, seems like the Blackfeet couldn’t bring themselves to kill him. They let him go and started calling him Preacher. Sounds an awful lot like my old friend Art.”

  McDill looked at Caviness. It was just about sundown and the shadows were long and dark. But McDill’s face was white, like the moon. He and Caviness got up and left the campfire.

  The others stayed and drank more coffee, and even ate some supper with Jeb and Ed. They pumped Jeb for all the information he had heard about Art. They were happy to learn that their old boss was alive and well. But the question in all their minds was: Where is he?

  On the Missouri River, North of the Yellowstone

  Art made his way back to the American Fur Company trading post on the river, comma
nded by Joe Walker. Along the way he had bartered for a horse from a friendly Indian, so he was able to save valuable time by riding the last fifty miles or so. Already it was past the middle of October and the days were getting shorter, the nights much colder.

  He had been reunited with Dog after his captivity by the Blackfeet. The wolf-dog had remained outside the village, aware that his human companion was in trouble. He’d kept to the woods and brush throughout the day and night, and when Art had emerged a free man, he’d followed him for about a mile before showing himself. The young mountain man was glad to see his canine friend, but he wasn’t surprised. Dog had proven himself many times over as reliable and faithful.

  As he traveled, Art looked back on the events of the past few months. The primary mission was mostly a failure, though there had been some successful peacemaking along the way. Still, Art wouldn’t have much to report to William Ashley besides his own adventures—which he could barely believe himself.

  Approaching the fortlike structure he saw that, like before, the front gate was closed. The blockhouse that overlooked the gate was still empty. He almost smiled at the thought that he had been here before, that it was like being in a play and repeating the same scene over and over again. Then Dog barked, just as he had the time before, which only confirmed the feeling that Art had.

  “Who goes there?” came the voice from the blockhouse.

  “I’m here to see Joe Walker. My name is Art.”

  “You again?” the voice said.

  Minutes later Art was in Walker’s lamp-lit, windowless quarters, talking to the bald-headed, bearded commander of the trading garrison.

  “You don’t look too healthy,” Walker said. He was smoking a pipe, and the smoke filled the cramped space. Papers and maps were strewn over the top of his desk.

  “Well, I’ve had some tough days recently.”

  “So I hear—Preacher.”

 

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