Blackfoot Messiah

by William W. Johnstone

  “Stubborn,” he told his companions. “Plain damn stubborn. They coulda quit a long time ago. I’d been willin’. What about you?”

  “Oui. Without a doubt,” Antoine panted.

  Preacher turned to the horses. “We’d best be movin’ on. We don’t want them to work up the spit to make another try.”

  One fine afternoon, three days later, Preacher and his two friends rode along the trail with the sparkling waters of the Arkansas River to their right. Chubby barrel cactus and wicked-tipped Spanish bayonet abounded on the rolling sand hills ahead of them. Abruptly, Preacher raised his hand for a halt.

  From a distance ahead came the dull thumps of gunshots. They all had heard them, and had halted to try to make out what they meant. With the recent Kiowa attack fresh in their minds, Preacher and his companions suspected a war party.

  It had to be a large group under attack, or both sides had firearms, Preacher decided a moment later when the rate of fire escalated. This country did not lack for human trash that would prey on the law-abiding. He drummed heels into the ribs of Tarnation and rushed forward. Antoine and Three Sleeps came right behind.

  Over the next rounded dune, the sounds of shots grew clearer. Preacher drew his revolver. Antoine and Three Sleeps loosened pistols in the holsters slung over their saddlehorns. Dust mingled with powder smoke had risen high enough to be clearly seen before they topped the grade. Preacher halted them again.

  “Let’s not blunder in, boys. I’ll take a peek first.”

  He dismounted, removed his floppy summer hat and approached the ridge in a crouch. Slowly he raised his head. A moderate-sized freight train came into sight first. Preacher raised up a little higher and focused on some twenty white renegades, several of whom fired on the teamsters from an outcropping of boulders south of the trail. Others milled back and forth on horseback, apparently prevented from circling front or rear of the caravan due to concentrated fire at those points. It looked to Preacher like those freighters could use some help.

  Quickly he returned to the others and explained the situation. Mounted again, he led the way up and over the ridge. Pistols in hand, they dashed down on the unsuspecting outlaws. The surprise arrival of three more fighting men cleared four of the ten saddles before the bandits knew that help had come for the teamsters. Quick to realize that relief had arrived, the teamsters began to rally. Preacher heard a voice raised over the tumult, singing in a sweet tenor.

  “ ’At the risin’ o’ the moon, at the risin’ o’ the moon, the men and bies will gather at the risin’ o’ the moon.’ Give ’em hell, bies, there’s help on the way. C’mon, ye soldier-bies!”

  That galvanized the outlaws. Those who could whirled away and ran a murderous gauntlet along the length of the stationary wagons. Those afoot in the rocks turned and tried to make a stand. Preacher sighted in on one and reined sharply to send a .44 messenger on the way. The letter it carried was death.

  Shot through the mouth, the highwayman fell backward in an awkward sprawl. Preacher emptied the last round from the Colt into the stomach of another hard case. He changed weapons quickly and sought another target. A ball cracked past close enough that he heard its ominous moan. The shooter died an instant later, shot through the heart by Antoine Revier. To his left, Preacher heard the sound of increased resistance.

  Bullwhackers fired and loaded and fired again. Rifle balls snapped through the air, whined off rocks and brought forth screams from human targets. Several more outlaws died in this withering fire. Ahead of Preacher, wounded men crawled toward their horses, desperate to escape. Churned-up dust began to obscure the scene. Preacher fired at a fleeing man and missed. He turned Tarnation and sprinted to the head of the wagon train.

  He reached his goal in a growing silence. Gradually the crackle of gunfire had diminished. At the lead wagon Preacher saw half a dozen highwaymen spurring frantically until they disappeared beyond the next swell.

  A big, red-faced man came out from between two wagons and walked Preacher’s way. He was a bull of a man, with bulging muscles and ham hands. When he spoke, his mouth became a black hole in his heavily bearded face.

  “Right on time, lads, that ye are. Good work. Sure an’ where’s the soldiers you’re scouting for?”

  Preacher gave him a curious look. “At Jefferson Barracks. We haven’t joined up with them as yet.”

  Momentarily stunned, the lead bullwhacker worked his mouth soundlessly. Words returned with a sputter. “Y-y-you mean there’s just the th-three of you?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, truth is you fight like a whole company of soldiers. They call me Big Tom Lawson. This here is my strong right arm, Brian O’Shea, an’ we’re obliged to you.”

  Preacher gave them a nod. “Big Tom, Brian, my pleasure. I answer to Preacher, and these be Three Sleeps Norris an’ Antoine Revier. Any idea why those road agents picked your train to raid?”

  “None that make sense. What we’re haulin’ is too heavy to take off on horseback and these wagons would leave a trail a blindman could follow.” Finally Preacher’s name registered. “Say, you ain’t that Preacher are you? The one in the penny dreadfuls?”

  Preacher’s cheeks carmined. “To my eternal torment, I be. What foolishness them idiot writers can dream up would gag a maggot. What you read in them things ain’t true a-tall. Except I may have been in some of those places at the time they said I was, and I may have had something to do with what happened to some of those fellers they claim I done for. Jist may have, mind you.”

  Big Tom made a wry face. “Sure an’ I don’t buy none of that at all. Never mind. You are a gen-u-wine legend in yer own time. A living hero, you are. We’d be overjoyed to have you join us in our trading expedition, full share for all of you. Lord knows, you just earned it.”

  “No,” Preacher replied politely. “We have to push on to Jeff Barracks. Gave my word. In writing, at that.”

  Big Tom looked greatly disappointed. “I understand contracts right enough. The least you can do is stay a spell and take supper with us. We’ll lay on a right regular feast. Why, we even have a fruitcake along. All sopped up in brandy.” He gave a big wink. “I figgered to use it to mellow the Governor General in Santa Fe. What ya say, Preacher?”

  Patting his flat, hard belly, Preacher produced a euphoric smile. “I never could resist fruitcake. ’Special if it’s got itself drunk.”

  Once started out onto the Great Divide Basin, after long, heated debate, the wagon train ran into disaster after defeating disaster. Mr. Ledbetter had three mules die. After acrimonious exchanges, in which accusations of selfishness flew like snowflakes in a blizzard, it was decided to draw straws to see which two wagons would “voluntarily” give up a mule so that Ledbetter could keep up. Eve Billings drew one of the short straws.

  No sooner had that predicament been solved than another sprang up. One day five precious water barrels had sprung leaks or broken apart. The next day, three more became useless. With much shouting and gesticulating, the decision was made to turn back. Eve had nothing to tell her children.

  “Mom, are we really going home?” Charlie asked eagerly when it became apparent to him that they were retracing their steps.

  “Only part way, dear,” Eve told him tiredly.

  “But why?” His button nose wrinkled in the effort to understand these adult mysteries.

  “We aren’t ready to go on as yet. We need a guide, someone who can take us out of this wilderness. Without water, the livestock will die, like Mr. Ledbetter had happen.” She did not add the obvious, that people would die as well.

  “I want to go all the way home.”

  “Don’t start on that again, Charles Ryan Billings.”

  Charlie instantly lapsed into silence. He always knew when he was in trouble; his mother used his proper first name. When she used his middle name, too, he knew he was up to his neck in it. Charlie heaved a defeated sigh and scampered over the rumps of the mules to his favorite spot on the back of Jake, the
lead animal.

  Eve watched her son move with agility and assurance and then lifted her gaze to the horizon. She estimated they had another day of travel, back to the old camp.

  A storyteller’s high, singsong voice rang out across the camp in the Bighorn Mountains. He related an ancient tale of the grandfather times. One in which the Cheyenne and the Blackfoot were allies. It had to be a long time ago, Cloud Blanket thought as he watched the historic meeting from his place in the Cheyenne council circle.

  Less than a moon ago, he would not have believed this gathering could happen. The Blackfoot had come under a white belt of truce. They had a great story to relate. About a young medicine man and the power he possessed. When the council gathered, the talk quickly turned to war against the whites. That greatly disturbed Cloud Blanket, though he could not name the reason why. All he could say was this was not the time to fight the white men. Suddenly he found the talking stick offered to him. He took it and came to his moccasins.

  “You say that this prophet’s medicine is so strong none of you fell in the battle which was described to us?” Two Moons nodded in the affirmative. “That may be so. It could also be that the whites did not carry long guns with them.” His eyes twinkled with secret knowledge. He might have seen forty winters, might be past his prime, but he was not helpless or ignorant. Cloud Blanket had his sources of information, and one of them had told him of the attack on the unarmed whites. How odd, he thought, that anyone would not carry weapons. Did they not know there were tribes hungry for war? He suddenly realized the Blackfoot named Two Moons had responded to his jibe.

  “The great prophet will come among you soon,” Two Moons repeated when he saw the Cheyenne chief’s attention had returned. “He will show you his medicine. It is true that he cannot be killed by normal bullets. His medicine is strong, the most powerful. We have been given his shield,” Two Moons stated emphatically.

  Cloud Blanket remained unimpressed. “I have seen far too often what the bullets of the white men can do.”

  Too hot in his zeal, Two Moons snatched up a rifle that lay beside a Cheyenne. “If you doubt me, take this, shoot me. Go ahead. I will not be killed.”

  “If I believed that, I would shoot you.” Cloud Blanket shook his head resignedly. “I have heard of such medicine before. It has always failed its user. Leave us now, the council will reach a consensus and let you know. I am but one man, my voice is not listened to as much as it once was. Perhaps you will win an ally after all.”

  After the Blackfoot delegation withdrew to eat and nap through the afternoon, the Cheyenne spoke heatedly about the issue. Several agreed with Cloud Blanket: it would be a bad idea to make a pact with the Blackfoot. Had they not been enemies for longer than the storyteller could remember? In the end, Cloud Blanket prevailed on that point. He lost on the other. He felt obliged to take the word to the Blackfoot. He found them in the lodge that hosted them.

  “Our council has come to a consensus. We will not ally with you at this time. You can send your prophet, Iron Shirt; we will listen to his message.”

  FIVE

  Preacher, Three Sleeps and Antoine spent the night at the Cottonwoood Crossing on the Santa Fe Trail. There, they underwent inspection by two disreputable characters, one with wispy strands of mustache that drooped below his jawline in Oriental style. His brown skin marked him as a Mexican. His partner had wild-straw hair that stuck out at all angles, buck teeth and pale, hollow cheeks. The pair slouched into the saloon of the trading post shortly after Preacher and his companions arrived.

  Preacher nodded in their direction. “Now there’s a pair to draw to.”

  Three Sleeps sniffed the air. “I wonder if they know what the word bath means?”

  Antoine nodded agreement. “How about ’soap’?”

  Preacher chuckled, a low, throaty sound, and leaned closer to them. “Way I rec’llect it, ain’t neither of you could lay claim to bein’ in the Every Saturday Night club.” He drew in a lungful. “Though I will admit they’ve got a certain ripeness about them.”

  For the next hour, the surly pair nursed pewter mugs of beer and paid considerable, though covert, attention to Preacher and his friends. Then they settled their tab and stomped out. Preacher watched them through the open door as they settled down some distance off from the tavern and inn that had sprung up at the crossing to accommodate stagecoach travelers.

  “Not overwhelming sociable, are they?” Preacher observed to his partners.

  “I ain’t gonna lose any sleep over it,” remarked Antoine.

  Preacher stroked his chin. “I wonder which way they’re goin’? That’s a pair it would do a body good to keep track of.”

  Three Sleeps narrowed his eyes. “You thinkin’ they’re trouble, Preacher?”

  Preacher nodded. “That I do. I could smell it on them plain as that sweat stink. I may be wrong, but I could almost swear I saw the towheaded one with that bunch what attacked the freight wagons.”

  Although up well before dawn, Preacher noted that the unwashed pair had already departed. He saw to making a pot of coffee and was soon joined by Three Sleeps. The frown on the forehead of Norris indicated that he had noted the absence of the human trash.

  He gestured with his chin. “They ain’t gonna be missed. Not by this mother’s son.”

  “Like I said, it’d pay to keep them in sight, or know what they might be up to.”

  “You’ve been alone too long, Preacher. That makes a man suspicious for no reason.”

  “You turnin’ womanish on me, Three Sleeps?”

  “Nope. C’mon, I’ll lend a hand with that packsaddle. After we eat we can take right off.”

  “Now that’s a good idea.”

  After a plate of fatback and beans, Preacher downed the last of his coffee, used the dregs in the pot to quench the fire and scuffed dirt over it. In the saddle, they made their way eastward. The trail ended at Independence, Missouri, but there were supposed to be good roads through the state. At least as far as Jefferson Barracks, Preacher had been told. Two hours down the Santa Fe, Preacher’s keen hearing picked up what sounded like thunder.

  He looked around at a clear sky and produced a puzzled frown. “D’you hear thunder, Antoine?”

  “Yep, sure sounded like it, but there’s not a cloud up there.”

  Yet, the sound persisted and grew louder. Then the creak of wood on leather springs and the jingle of harness explained it to Preacher. Laboring up behind them came a six-up of spanking bays. Foam lathered their flanks and around their collars. Seated above them the driver sawed on the reins and called to his team.

  “Gee up, there. Keep it brisk or no corn for you tonight.”

  Clouded in dust, the stagecoach grew in Preacher’s vision. They must be closer than he thought to Muddy Creek Crossing, the mountain man thought to himself. Otherwise that feller would not be runnin’ them horses like that. He turned in the saddle to watch the team draw up alongside. A scowling man, armed with a Purdey percussion shotgun, eyed the three mountain men with suspicion. Preacher removed his slouch hat and gave a cordial wave. The express guard acknowledged it with a curt nod.

  “Well, he ain’t bein’ paid to be friendly,” Preacher opined to his companions.

  “You got the right o’ that, Preacher.”

  “How long’s it been, Three Sleeps, that the stage lines have had to run a guard on their coaches?”

  Norris scratched the top of his head. “Leastwise ten years. An’ it’s gettin’ worse, I’m told.”

  Preacher pondered a moment. “It’s types like those yesterday that’s behind it. Law’s too easy on them.”

  “They still have hangings, don’t they?”

  “Oh, yeah, Three Sleeps. Used to be a man kept the law himself. Now, with law dogs mixed up in it, if a man shoots a thief, likely he’ll be the one winds up in jail.”

  In the Black Hills of the Unorganized Territory, a young Red Cloud refused to even listen to the emissaries of Iron Shirt. Little good it would d
o. Since he had not yet seen twenty winters, he would not have been listened to anyway. Oh, the elders on the council would have made a show of hearing him out, but their ears might as well be plugged with wax from a bee tree. So frustrated had he become that he jumped on his favorite pony and rode out as the council gathered to hear the message of the prophet. Red Cloud sat atop a knoll and looked down into his village.

  He knew every lodge. There, the one of his friend, Runner. Over close to the big drum lived White Knife. They had grown up together, hunted, then gone off to war the best of friends. White Knife had lost a little finger to a Pawnee war club while fighting at the side of Red Cloud. Now he added his voice to those clamoring for the council to approve bringing Iron Shirt and his medicine to the Lakota.

  Red Cloud spat on the ground. A great shout reached his ears. The council had decided. From the looks of it they had decided in favor of the cursed Blackfoot and his iron medicine. Drums began to throb, and from every lodge, the women brought pots and baskets of food to feast the Blackfoot men. Red Cloud’s lip curled in disgust.

  What hurt most was his grudging admission that the time would soon come when the Lakota would have to fight the white men, but the time was not now.

  A week and a half had passed since their first disastrous attempt to cross the Great Divide Basin. Fear of the unknown and indecision had kept the abandoned wagon train stranded at the same small spring that had previously provided their scant water supply. Eve Billings opened her flour barrel, and a momentary bolt of panic shot through her. She could see the bottom in places.

  Provisions had run short for everyone. Eve knew she wasn’t alone in this predicament. So many people had killed or run off the sparse game in the area, the men had to ride for miles to get even a few rabbits. She crumbled yeast into the bowl and began to add water to the flour. When she looked up, there stood Charlie.