Not one Indian had made a sound that the defenders could hear, shown himself or fired a ball or arrow.
The defenders had stayed busy killing the buzzards that had swooped in to dine on the dead.
Finally, Preacher made up his mind. “I got to go out there,” he said to Greybull.
“Either you or me,” the mountain man replied. “And I think it ought to be me. I’m takin’ money from the soldier boys to scout.”
“It better be me. You’re as big as a damn grizzly bear and as clumsy as a armadiller. You’d stumble around out yonder and them Blackfeet would be sure to catch you and I don’t want to have to spend the rest of the day and night listenin’ to you holler. You beller like a damn constipated hog.”
“Mayhap you be partly right,” the huge mountain man said. “Even if they catch you, you so damn ugly and miserable-lookin’ they’d prob’ly feel sorry for you and run you off ’fore you frightened their horses and caused their wimmin to go barren.”
“You can make yourself useful whilst I’m gone by gatherin’ up some ropes and gettin’ ready to drag them bodies off aways so’s we can burn them. I know if I don’t tell you what to do, after I’m gone you’d just sit around lookin’ like a fat dumb child and do nothing.”
“Them Injuns is over that ridge, Preacher,” Greybull pointed and continued the insults. “That’s south. As foolish as you are ’bout directions, I want you keep that double-humped ridge to your skinny rear end at all times. That way you might find your way back here by this time next week.”
“Thankee kindly for the consideration. It’s nice to know somebody cares.”
“Oh, I don’t care a twit for you,” Greybull told him. “I’m just tryin’ to keep you alive long enough so’s you’ll pay me that fifteen dollars you borrowed from me ten year ago over on the Platte.”
“It was more like two dollars and it was on the Missouri, you ox. And I paid you back at the rendezvous the next year. You was so drunk you don’t ’member.”
“Git outta here ’fore I throw you over the damn walls!”
The mountain men grinned at each other, for the moment satisfied with their insults. Preacher checked his pistols and his Hawken and dropped down from the ramparts, walking over to Lieutenant Maxwell-Smith.
“I’m goin’ out yonder to eyeball the situation,” he told the officer. “I got me a hunch the Blackfeet’s done pulled out, figurin’ their medicine is bad for this fight.”
“I thought the savages always returned for their dead?”
“They usual do. But in this case, they probably got so many dead and dyin’ all around them they just don’t care no more. There ain’t enough livin’ to take care of the dead. We’ll see. I’ll be back.” Preacher wheeled about and walked to the rear of the post. The other trapper, Jim, wounded in the shoulder by an arrow, lay on a pallet near the rear gate.
“How’s your wing?” Preacher asked him, squatting down beside the man.
“Pains some. But I been hurt worser. If the Injun who handled that arrow had the pox, I reckon the infection was on the point.”
“Probably. You been scratched with vaccine?”
“Last year. Made me sicker than shit, too.”
“I do know the feelin’. I wintered with the pox some years back. You heard anything movin’ out back?”
“No. And I been listenin’ careful and peeking out through the logs, time to time. Ain’t seen nothin’, neither. I think they’s gone, Preacher.”
“Me, too. I’m goin’ out for an eyeballin’.”
“You watch your topknot out there, boy. These Blackfeet don’t care no more.”
“I gleaned that right off. See you.”
“Don’t step on that damn stinkin’ swole-up body layin’ next to the logs. It might blow up.”
Preacher cracked the gate and squatted for a time, moving only his eyes, searching the hills and timber very carefully. The dead Blackfoot by the gate was all puffed up and smelled really bad. From the looks of him, he’d taken a full vat of boiling water and it cooked him proper. He had died hard, but not as hard as lingerin’ at death’s door with the pox.
Preacher dashed out and made the timber. There, he squatted down and listened just as hard as he looked. In the distance, the birds had returned and were singing. That was a good sign. He worked his way up a ridge, moving carefully. He almost stepped on the body of a pilgrim the Injuns had dragged off and tortured. Looked like they had kept him alive for several hours while they had their fun. From the looks of him, the pilgrim didn’t appear like he’d thought it a damn bit funny.
Preacher stepped over him and moved on to the crest of the ridge. He found another body there. It was an eastern woman and she’d been used hard ’fore they cut her throat and scalped her bare. She’d been a blonde, and that was a much sought-after trophy for a war lance.
She lay on her back, bare legs spread wide, her eyes open and bugged out in shocked death. Preacher tried to close her eyes but the lids were stiff and would not close. He gave up and moved on.
He came upon a Blackfoot, badly wounded and dying. The brave was so weak he could not lift his war axe at Preacher’s approach. The Blackfoot cursed Preacher, heaping great insults on Preacher and his entire family, including his horses, his dogs, and his bastard children, if any.
“Left you here to die, did they?” Preacher asked, when the brave ran out of steam.
The Blackfoot curled his lip and snarled at Preacher.
“No need to feel hard at me,” Preacher told him. “I didn’t shoot you. If I’d shot you you’d be dead.”
“Finish it,” the brave gasped, speaking English.
“All right,” Preacher said, and bashed him on the head with the butt of his Hawken.
It was done with no malice. If Preacher had been found bellyshot as bad as the brave, with his guts hangin’ out the hole in his back, knowin’ there was no hope, he’d want someone to do the same to him. Preacher was a lot of things; mainly he was a realist.
He stayed in the timber and brush, moving carefully and silently, and skirting a little meadow, he worked his way up another ridge.
The sight before him brought him up short.
Row after row of dead or dying Indians lay in the shallow meadow. Preacher squatted down by a tree and eyeballed the gruesome sight. He had never seen anything like it in all his years. There must have been five hundred or more Blackfeet all laid out in rows, most of them dead. But Preacher knew the defenders of the fort hadn’t killed near that many. Most of the dead and dying had just been too weak to go on; they’d used up everything they had during the night fighting and staggered back to this place to die. Probably the place had been all picked out beforehand.
Damnest thing he’d ever seen.
He made his way back to the fort and hailed the front gate. “Preacher!” he called. “I’m comin’ in. Lieutenant, you got to see this sight. It’s something you can tell your grandbabies about, for sure.”
Lieutenant Maxwell-Smith took ten men with him, leaving the senior sergeant commanding those troops back at the fort. Greybull walked with Preacher back to the little valley of death.
Maxwell-Smith removed his tunic and laid it over the body of the raped and dead woman.
“Dumb move,” Preacher told him.
“What do you mean, sir?” the young officer said, his eyes flashing. One simply did not say something like that to an officer in front of his men.
“She’d been hopped on half the night by Injuns dyin’ with the pox. Pox germ stays alive a long time, so I’m told. Now you got to fetch your jacket back with a stick and boil it out good ’fore you even think about puttin’ it back on.” Preacher turned his back to him and walked on.
Maxwell-Smith arched one eyebrow and slowly smiled very ruefully, indeed. “Yes. Quite right. Come on, men,” he said to his troops.
They stood on the crest and looked down into the small valley. “Incredible,” one of the enlisted men said.
“We best start g
athering up brush and pile it on the bodies Preacher said. “Greybull, you want to take a couple of the men and start some backfires so’s we don’t set the whole damn forest ablazin’?”
“I’ll do ’er.”
“Some of those savages are still alive out there,” Maxwell-Smith pointed out.
“They won’t be for long,” Preacher told him.
“Preacher,” the officer said softly. “I won’t permit you to burn people alive.”
Preacher stared at the man for a moment. “I was plannin’ on shootin’ the ones near death, Smith. Believe me when I tell you they’d want it that way.”
“I won’t permit that either.”
“You ever seen pox close up, Smith? The flesh rots. Go down there and take a good look.”
There was anguish in the young officer’s eyes. This was a decision that no man should be forced to make; Lieutenant Jefferson Maxwell-Smith was going to have to make it. And do it quickly, for the stench from the little valley was already getting strong.
“Do what you think is right,” Preacher finally told him, after several moments of silence, while the two men stared at one another. Neither of them had blinked. “I’ll leave Greybull here with you and I’ll go back to the fort and start burnin’ the bodies back yonder. Just ’member this: you been scratched, but that don’t mean you can’t catch you a small dose of the pox. You work careful, now, you hear?”
“I hear you, Preacher,” Maxwell-Smith said, his tone low.
Preacher went back to the fort and organized volunteers to help drag off and burn the bodies of the dead. They tied rags around their mouths and pulled on gloves. Those that did not have gloves wrapped rags around their hands in an attempt to avoid flesh contact with the dead.
Those at the fort would not know it until months later, but this epidemic of smallpox killed nearly two thousand Mandan and nearly six thousand members of the Blackfoot tribe. The Blackfoot’s power on the plains was greatly reduced and they were never again the power they once were. From the Missouri River westwood, thousands of Indians died from the white man’s disease. In the year 1837, doctors were aware that injections of the cowpox virus would immunize people against smallpox. The Hudson’s Bay Company had sent great amounts of smallpox vaccine to its traders, and many Indians were saved because of that vaccine. Most of the Indians who refused to be inoculated died.
At the fort, Preacher and the others worked swiftly to drag off the bodies of the dead and burn them, while others stood guard, attempting to frighten away, or as was usually the case, killing the many buzzards that angrily fought to tear and rip at the dead and bloated and infected flesh.
Women kept huge vats of water boiling constantly, for every bit of clothing had to be boiled and sterilized. The smallpox virus could survive for months in the most unlikely of places. Knowing that, nothing could be left to chance.
Before the epidemic would run its course, entire tribes would be wiped out, or very nearly so. Some of the Indians attempted to combat the disease by rolling in fire, giving everything they had to medicine men, taking sweat baths. Many killed their own families in desperation, killed their horses, and killed themselves by the most gruesome of methods, often shoving arrows, knives, or other sharp objects down their throats. Of the Mandans, only a handful survived. All in all, more than fifteen thousand Indians would die. That is more than would die fighting the Army and the settlers during the rest of the century, before the western frontier was finally tamed.
* * *
It was a grim-faced, haggard and haunted-eyed young British officer, who, along with his men, dragged back into the fort just before dusk. Preacher did not ask him what he had done back in the valley of death. He did not have to. He had heard the shots and seen the smoke.
“Bad,” Greybull told Preacher. “That boy growed up a whole lot this day.”
“So did the pilgrims,” Preacher replied. “It’s been tough on them buryin’ them folks they come westward with. It’s been hard on me buryin’ the young children them foolish parents kept out of the fort. But I can’t get the thought outta my head that they’s a lot of grievin’ Injun mommas and daddies that it’s just as tough on.”
“It’s gonna be a terrible thing when the whites really get to crowdin’ in this country,” Greybull opined. “It’s got to the point now where a man can’t hardly ride four or five days without seein’ a white family. I tell you, Preacher, the ruination of the high country is fast comin’ on us.
“Makes a man just wanna sit down with a jug of good rye whiskey and get drunk, don’t it?”
“That might not be a bad idea.”
“They’s a small problem, Greybull. ’Cause they ain’t no more whiskey to be had here at the fort.”
“What?”
“It’s true. The company doctor used it all easin’ the pain of them that got wounded.”
“That’s disgustin’!”
“But true.”
Several rather matronly-looking ladies marched up to the two mountain men and stood glaring at them, hands on hips. “Into the fort,” one told them.
“Go waggle your bustle and flap your mouth somewheres else,” Preacher told them.
One of the ladies, just about the same size as Greybull, grabbed him by one ear and marched him off toward the front gate, with Greybull hollering and bellering loud enough to wake the dead.
“Don’t crowd me,” Preacher warned the group, which was growing in number.
“Get in there and strip down to the buff,” another of the ladies told Preacher. “We got fresh hot water and lots of soap waiting for you.”
“I’ll take my bath in private, thankee,” Preacher told her. “Now be off with you.”
“Move,” she told him.
Preacher noticed there was a wicked look in her eyes. He really got nervous when Melody appeared in the group, holding a towel and a bar of strong lye soap. She smiled at him.
“Git away from me,” Preacher warned them all.
About nine hundred pounds of determined female, and in most cases, dubious pulchritude moved closer.
“You’re a rake and a reprobate,” one lady told him. “And most likely those terms are mild, but you are going to take a bath, and take it now.”
“You’ll play hell givin’ me one.”
Four of the larger ladies moved in and grabbed him by legs and arms and bodily lifted him off the ground and toted him inside the walls of the fort.
“Unhand me, goddammit!” Preacher roared.
“Right down to the buff,” Melody said, then started laughing.
13
“Them women took my damn clothes!” Greybull roared as he sat in a wooden tub filled with hot water. The water had already turned black. “I ain’t got nary a stitch on.”
“Well, what the hell do you think they done to me!” Preacher bellered. “I ain’t sittin’ in this tub with no suit of clothes on myself.”
“That big fat one wanted to know if I needed some help in awashin’ myself! Damn women is shore gettin’ pushy nowadays. Next thing you know they’ll have the vote, too!”
“That’ll never happen,” Preacher said, finding the bar of soap and working up a lather.
Melody walked up behind him and dumped a bucket of hot water on his head. Preacher jumped up with a roar.
Melody eyeballed him from knees to neck. “My, my!” she said approvingly.
“You brazen hussy!” Preacher hollered. “You ’bout as much a missionary as I is President of the U-nited States.”
Laughing, she strolled away, humming and swinging the bucket. Among other things.
“That women’s got her bonnet cocked your way, Preacher,” Greybull warned. “You bes’ make tracks quicker’n a ’coon can wash his supper. At least as soon as you get your clothes back. And sit down. You ain’t no sight to behold in your altogether.”
When a nearby gaggle of women started pointing at him and giggling, Preacher sat back down in the tub. He was red with embarrassment from his nose
to his toes.
“I reckon I was some dirty,” Greybull said, looking down at the dark water which had dead fleas floating in it. Lye soap was hell on bugs.
“I ain’t never knowed you when you wasn’t.”
“Preacher?”
“What?”
“When I come out here, feller by the name of Jim Madison was President. Who is now, you reckon?”
“Last I heard, when I was in St. Louis four or five winters ago, it was a man name of Jackson. I reckon he still is. But I can’t rightly say.”
“That woman that’s got her eye on you—she really a missionary?”
“I don’t much think so. I never seen no Bible-thumper that sassy. Where in the hell is our clothes?”
“The burned ’em,” Greybull said mournfully.
“Burned ’em! Why didn’t they just boil ’em good? I ain’t had them clothes on more’n a month.”
“I’d had them skins of mine on considerable more than that,” Greybull admitted. “I reckon they was kinda greasy. You feel all right, Preacher?”
“Oh, hell, yes, Bull. I’m fine. I’m sittin’ here nekked as a jaybird, a gaggle of females done burned my clothes, and a half-crazy woman is makin’ improper advances toward me. I never felt better.”
“That ain’t what I meant.”
“Oh. Yeah, I’m all right. I wasn’t even scratched the last time I was around the pox and I didn’t catch it. I reckon oncest you got it two or three times you can’t take it no more. I just want to get gone from this place. If you got any sense, you’ll come with me.”
“I made my mark on a company paper. I signed on to scout for the Army. I think the lieutenant is gonna ask you to help out with the wagon train, Preacher. That foolish wagonmaster was kilt last night.”
“The lieutenant can go kiss a buffalo. Lord God in heaven and all his angels, man! You think I wanna lead them pilgrim-people through the wilderness? Do I look like an Israelite? I’d be a stark ravin’ lunatic ’fore we got there.” Preacher threw back is head and roared, “Where’s my gawddamn clothes?”
* * *
The trapper with the busted shoulder had a brand new set of buckskins a Mandan woman had made for him. He gladly gave them to Preacher to shut him up. Said all that bellerin’ was causin’ his shoulder to ache.
The First Mountain Man Page 11