Blackfoot Messiah

by William W. Johnstone

  Here he paused and stepped backward into the shallows of the river. His bare feet found purchase among the rocks that lined it. The water was aching cold, though he showed no effect. He beckoned with both arms to the first two in line.

  “You two come forward into the water.” When they did so, his instructions continued. “Turn around and face your brothers.” Once in position, four of Iron Shirt’s closest followers joined the Blackfoot. Tipping them backward, they lowered each candidate into the water until fully immersed.

  Iron Shirt raised one hand over each in benediction and solemnly intoned, “I command all wickedness and fear to abandon you, for you to renounce the power of the white man’s bullets, and I baptize you in the name of the three-faced god, the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost. Arise my brothers in Iron and go forth to be warmed by the coals.”

  Obediently, the pair waded clear of the river and walked to where a long, narrow trench had been prepared. The air above it shimmered with distortion from the heat given off by a deep bed of coals. They stood near, letting the radiant waves warm their chilled bodies. While they did, Iron Shirt continued until all the remaining initiates had been baptized. Then he joined them at the firepit. Again he spoke the ritual words.

  “To walk safely through the blaze of the white man’s bullets, you must first walk through this earthly fire. Prepare your bodies and spirits for this ordeal by praying to the Great Spirit for the strength of the Sky Legend; Firewalker. When you are ready, I will lead you across the abyss of flame.”

  Iron Shirt waited a hundred heartbeats, then positioned himself at the lip of the trench. He stuck out one foot and made contact with the bed of coals. With a firm, unhurried tread, he walked the length of the shimmering embers. On the far side, he strode ten paces from the pit and raised first one foot, then the other, to reveal not the least damage. The candidates had followed close on his heels and emerged now in the same condition, until the twenty-second in line.

  Suddenly that unfortunate warrior let out a pain-wracked shriek and leaped to one side. He fell to the ground to reveal feet of a cherry-red hue, puffed and badly blistered. He had not enough faith. Iron Shirt turned to him. He made a gesture of sympathy.

  “Go and have Red Elk dress those feet with bear grease. Know that you did not gain dishonor for your failure. When your faith grows stronger, come again and make the sacrifice, that you may join us.” When the injured man had been helped from sight, Iron Shirt gestured to the others. “Come, my brothers of Iron Shield, gather around. It is time for me to reveal the mystery of my medicine’s power.”

  They did, eager as small boys around a strange animal. Iron Shirt reached down and pulled up the hem of his outer hunting shirt. It revealed a complete set, front and back, of chain mail. Although dented in places and rusty in other spots, its sturdy construction and latent protection awed them all. Iron Shirt turned slowly so they could examine the all-encasing war garment, then lowered his shirt and retrieved his loincloth and moccasins. The initiates did likewise, silent throughout. At last, Iron Shirt addressed them again.

  “And would you now like to test your new power?” To their enthusiastic agreement, he added. “To the south and west of us, there can be found many rolling lodges of the whites. We shall ride there and kill them all. It is a true thing, I tell you. Not a one of us will fall.”

  They had circled the wagons for the night. Asa Wharton peered out into the ruddy glow of the setting sun and wondered at what fools they had been. To believe that they could make their way to the Oregon Country on their own should be enough to put them in the asylum, he thought with chagrin. We are too far north, his musings prompted. We always have been. It had been as much his fault as anyone else’s. Worse, his voice had been one of the loudest, insisting that the Brothers not bring along any firearms.

  “We are the children of God,” he had declared. “We must show that we come in peace.”

  A lot of good that will do. There are Indians out in the hills all around us. He could feel it in his bones. He strongly doubted the savages would spend much time listening to anything they had to say. For the first time since childhood, Asa Wharton wondered what it would be like to die. He shuddered when he recalled the hoofprints he had seen in the loose soil.

  He had been riding ahead of the slow-moving wagons when he came upon them. They angled down one slope and crossed the trail. From there, they disappeared over the ridge to the south. By the time the first wagon arrived, a stiff breeze had wiped out any sign of them. Why had he not told the others about them?

  Because he did not want to create panic. Now it was too late. Asa sighed and turned away. He had taken only one step when the eerie, seething hiss of an arrow registered on him before the projectile winged between a pair of nose-to-tail wagon boxes and buried to the fletchings in Asa’s back. The bloody point protruded, dripping, from his chest. Blackness engulfed him.

  Iron Shirt led his Strong Hearts silently across the scrub-studded plain. They came within fifty feet and loosed a flight of arrows. Screams of terror and shrieks of pain followed moments later. Young Blackfoot boys, apprentice warriors, held the horses while the braves streamed forward on foot. The only shots fired came from the rifles in the hands of the Blackfoot. They had devastating effect. Seven men fell in the seconds after the death of Asa Wharton.

  Whooping Indians broke through the barricade and rushed toward the stunned people. With tomahawks and war clubs they slammed into the helpless whites huddled beyond the fire. Iron Shirt stood back and watched with growing satisfaction. Given another moon, he would have an invincible force. The Cheyenne would join. The Sioux would be next.

  Then, he thought, his mind filled with darkness, he would deal with the white men who masqueraded as Blackfoot and run the war against all whites his own way. How good that would be. Beyond him, within the circle of wagons, the slaughter grew terrible. Children, he contemptuously labeled the men and even the women who fell without offering the least resistance.

  When the last white died, Iron Shirt came forward. A quick check showed him that there had been no survivors. And better still, the Blackfoot took no losses.

  Early the next morning, Preacher and his companions set out together along the north fork of the Santa Fe Trail. Hard-packed and rutted from much past use, it let them make good time. Near mid-morning, they came upon a packhorse trader. He had three animals on lead, their packsaddles heaped with tin pots and pans, shielded tin lanterns; one loaded with patterned pressed panels for ceilings.

  He hailed the trio enthusiastically. “Howdy, fellers. good to see a friendly face. I’d be obliged if you’d ride along a spell. You’re more than welcome.”

  Preacher considered it odd the peddler was headed the same way they were. “Don’t mind if we do,” he responded. “M’name’s Preacher. These two are Three Sleeps Norris an’ Antoine Revier.”

  “Pleased to meet you. I go by the name of Tinman, but it’s really Morris Lorson.”

  “If you don’t mind my saying so, them goods of yours looks like something bound for Santa Fe,” observed Preacher.

  “It is— it is. I just came from there. I got turned away, you see.”

  Three Sleeps gave him a puzzled look. “How’s that, Tinman? I thought those Mezkins was all-fire hot for American goods.”

  “They are, usually. Only lately things aren’t so cordial for Americans. Not since the Texicans won their independence back in ’thirty-six.”

  Preacher furrowed his brow as he thought this over. “That’s old news, and didn’t have anything to do with us Americans. What’s got into ’em now to get riled at our people?”

  Tinman Lorson gave Preacher a knowing look. “Didn’t you hear? For the last couple of years there’s been talk about the Texicans wantin’ to join up with the United States. An’ the folks in Washington City are pushin’ for them to do it. You can see how that don’t sit well a-tall with the Mexicans.”

  “That a fact?” Preacher responded, then tuned out the pe
ddler’s chatter.

  They made camp late in the afternoon. Around coffee, after ample plates of broiled grouse— provided by Antoine with his delicate, slender-barreled shotgun— fatback and beans, Tinman Lorson studied his impromptu fellow travelers. After several moment’s consideration he hesitantly explored a subject of great interest to him.

  “If you don’t mind, I surely don’t wish to pry, but would you tell me how you got that name— Three Sleeps?”

  “Wal, it ain’t nothin’ much. It happened a long time ago.”

  “No, really, I’d like to know. I ... ah ... collect nicknames and the stories behind them. It’s something to pass the long hours shared with others along the trading path. Please, indulge me if you will.”

  Preacher inserted himself in the conversation. “Three Sleeps is too modest to brag on hisself. I’ll be happy to enlighten you.”

  Lorson brightened. “Yes, do.”

  Preacher thought a while, then began his tale. “Like Three Sleeps says, it happened a long time ago. He was a youngster then, hardly old enough to wet his throat with good whisky. As it happened, he was doin’ just that one fine day when this notorious brawler slammed into the tradin’ post where young Archibald Norris stood at the bar. As it happened, this bear-wrastlin’ lout was spoilin’ for a fight. Hadn’t thumped on anyone for a couple of days and was feelin’ out of sorts.

  “So he eyes Arch here and says, ’Who let this skinny little puke in here?’ Now Arch happened to be sensitive about his size at the time,” Preacher went on with a chuckle. “He turns to face . . . ah ... what was his name?”

  “Travers. Meat Hook Travers,” Three Sleeps provided quietly. He gave a little shudder.

  “Yep. That’s the one. Meat Hook Travers. Anyhow, ol’ Meat Hook stomped up to the bar while Archibald formed the words he would say. Meat Hook thumped Arch on the chest and bellowed to the barkeep. ’Somebody answer me.’ Archibald had his words gathered by then and decided it was up to him to speak. ‘I brought myself in on my own two legs, and I reckon to leave the same way.’ For Meat Hook, that was too hard to chew, let alone swallow. So, he rears back and bellows at Archibald. ‘You’ll go out of here on a plank.’ ” Preacher paused for a swallow of coffee.

  “An’ that’s where ol’ Meat Hook got a big surprise. Young Archie came at him like a buzz saw. He walked up Meat Hook with his fists and down t’other side. He booted that tub of muscle and lard in the butt and when Meat Hook turned with a roar, Arch mashed his lips with a solid left— or was it a right? Never mind, he moved fast as a wasp with a busted nest. Archie was quick and he was sneaky. He landed five punches for every one Meat Hook connected. Then Meat Hook tried to catch Archibald in a bear hug.

  “Archie was havin’ none of that. He danced back and kicked Meat Hook in the belly. That did it. Meat Hook sank to his knees. Arch here waded in. When he got done, Meat Hook was stretched out on the dirt floor, cold as an iced-over lake. Arch rubbed his sore knuckles and stepped back to the bar. ‘You’d best put some distance between the two of you,’ the bartender advised. ’‘Not a problem. I think I’ll finish my whisky and have a little brew,’ Archibald responded. The fellow in the apron had good advice. ‘He’ll come after you for sure.’ All calm and collected, Archie swallowed down his whisky and gestured for a beer. ‘There’s plenty time to make tracks. The way I see it, he’s good for about three sleeps.’ And, by jingo, if the name didn’t stick. I know for certain it happened that way because I was the only witness beside the barman.”

  Slack-jawed, Morris Lorson stared into the fire. He did not know, for all his experience at collecting names and legends, if he was having his leg pulled or not. Then something that had been nagging at him all day went off in his mind. He looked up at the weathered features of the narrator of the tale.

  “Are you the same Preacher who single-handed cleaned a nest of thieves and cutthroats out of a trading-post saloon a decade ago?”

  “Friend, it’s been at least a dozen saloons I’ve cleaned out by myself,” Preacher enlightened him. “Not to count the Injuns I’ve fit and the personal squabbles with other mountain men. You’ve got the right one, sure enough, if your claims for me are a mite more modest than some.”

  Lorson beamed. “Then it’s a pleasure to be counted among your associates, if only for a short while. And I have me a new nickname and the story behind it. I’m obliged.” He rocked back on his heels.

  “An’ I’m for gettin’ some shut-eye,” announced Preacher. “Daylight comes mighty fast in these parts.”

  Along about what Preacher judged to be ten-thirty in the morning, he and his partners parted company with Tinman Lorson. They spurred their more lightly loaded mounts and rode ahead, to soon lose him from sight over a ridge. Shortly after that, Preacher began to pick up sign of an Indian presence.

  A trimmed, decorated eagle feather stuck an inch or two above the ridge to the south. Bird calls, which had been plentiful moments before, had dwindled to a few. Those that came did not sound entirely true. A tiny puff of dust drifted upward suddenly from beyond the swale to the north. Preacher reined in abruptly and dismounted. His friends did likewise.

  After a quick look around, they formed a close square with their mounts and the packhorse. Antoine cut his eyes to Preacher. “I noticed them, too, mon ami.”

  A second later, a small party of howling Kiowa warriors broke the southern horizon and thundered down toward the white men behind the improvised barricade.

  FOUR

  “Watch our backsides, Three Sleeps,” Preacher instructed calmly while he sighted in and cleaned one Kiowa from the saddle with his rifle.

  Quickly, Preacher reloaded. He changed his point of aim and put a .54-caliber ball through the shoulder of another warrior. Beside him, Antoine fired his trusty . 36-caliber squirrel rifle and plunked a ball through the center of a screaming Kiowa’s forehead. His war whoop ended mid-yelp.

  Behind them, Three Sleeps Norris downed another warrior with a gut shot. “You were right, Preacher, they’re comin’ from the north now.”

  By then, Preacher and Antoine had reloaded. It would be their last rifle shot for this charge, they knew. The Kiowa braves had come within twenty yards now. Preacher fired first. He split a buffalo-hide shield and shattered the forearm behind it. The warrior ignored it, his left arm flopping uselessly amid a shower of blood. Antoine ended the life of another savage with a ball through the throat. Then Preacher drew one Walker Colt. He made a quick check of the percussion caps, found them secure on the nipples. Then he raised the heavy revolver and eared back the hammer.

  A fat cloud of smoke enveloped the defenders when the big .44 fired. Preacher quickly recocked the revolver and got off another round. A shout of pain answered him. The light breeze slowly blew the obscuring cloud away. Another round from Preacher’s Colt took a warrior in the side. With that, they had enough.

  A shrill bark turned the Kiowa and they swung away from their target. They quickly galloped out of range.

  “They’ll be back,” advised Preacher.

  Several minutes passed in an eerie silence. Then the Kiowa came again, this time from the east. Preacher had counted twenty warriors at the outset. Now four lay dead on the ground and three had been severely wounded. That left a baker’s dozen. Three rifles spoke with deadly authority and reduced the number to ten.

  Still the Indians would not leave off. Their blood was up, their friends killed or wounded. They badly wanted these white scalps. Once again they recoiled from the blaze of Preacher’s six-shooters.

  Running Bull could not understand it. Had they come upon a party of the Texicans called Rangers? He knew of no others who possessed the fast-shoot hand rifles. If so, why did the others not use theirs? From the reverse slope of the rise to the east, he studied the besieged white men with keen eyes.

  They are only three, he thought with confusion. How could they kill so many so quickly? A quick glance left and right showed his warriors poised for another attack. He also detected si
gns of nervousness. They, too, could count.

  Running Bull raised his voice in exhortation. “This time we do not turn away. Ride over them, wet your lances in their blood. Are you women that only three frail white men can stop you?”

  Blood lust boiled over and the Kiowa set the mounts to a fast trot up and over the ridge, to thunder down the incline. Ahead waited the fiery death of the white men. Not a one of them lacked fear; yet they knew it to be a good day to die.

  “Sacre-bleu! Here they come again,” Antoine spat out as he raised his rifle to take aim.

  At extreme range, Preacher sighted in with his Hawken and put a ball in the chest of a warrior, piercing the right side. Undaunted, the Kiowa raised his lance and charged on. Preacher set aside the .56-caliber rifle and put the slender buttstock of his French Le Mat to shoulder. The finely made .36 sporting arm had served him well before. Now he honed the sights in on the face of his enemy.

  Hair-fine, the second of the double-set triggers let off the round with ease. Smoke belched and blew away in time for Preacher to see the black hole that appeared where the tip of the warrior’s nose had been a moment before.

  At once, his lance sailed skyward and the Kiowa did a back-roll off his laboring pony. He hit with a thud and bounced only once. Preacher reloaded swiftly, only to be caught with the ramrod down the barrel of his Le Mat when the distance between him and the warriors closed to less than twenty feet. He lowered the muzzle against Tarnation’s heaving flank and drew the reloaded Walker Colt. With what precision he could muster he emptied it into the mass of Indians in front of them, and yet they came on.

  A lance thudded into the ground so close to his leg he felt the pressure of the shaft. Preacher bolstered the Colt and drew the second one. He spent two rounds before the Kiowa warriors reined around and beat a hasty retreat. A quick count showed Preacher that only five remained alive.