Blackfoot Messiah

by William W. Johnstone

Battalion Sergeant Major Terrance Muldoon threw down the riding crop he carried and strode to Mallory’s side. He shoved his face to within an inch of Mallory’s and bellowed. “It’s Sergeant Major, ye dimwit. It is. Ye’ll go get yer knapsack. Ye’ll fill it with rocks, ye will. An’ ye’ll report back here to me on the double.”

  “I know what’s gonna happen then, Sergeant Major,” Mallory recited, his stupid face alight. “I’m gonna run around this big ol’ field here.”

  “Parade Ground goddamnit! Parade Ground.”

  Mallory looked puzzled. “Ain’t seed no parades go by since we been here.”

  “Yer a sorry son of a ... Aw, what the hell. It’s no use, you’re no use. Sure an’ sometimes I think I’m of no use, I do. Get that knapsack.”

  “Yah, sure, Sergeant Major.”

  Preacher approached the infuriated noncom. “Excuse me, Sergeant Major, could you tell me where I can find Colonel Danvers?”

  BSM Terrance Muldoon turned to Preacher with a sour expression. “In Saint Louis.”

  “May I ask what he is doing there?”

  “Who be ye?”

  “They call me Preacher, this be Three Sleeps Norris an’ Antoine Revier. We are reporting in as guides for this battalion through the Injun country.”

  Fists on hips, feet wide apart in a belligerent stance, Muldoon introduced himself. “Battalion Sergeant Major Muldoon. An’ fer yer information, the good colonel and those young gentlemen officers of his wanted a last fling among the ladies an’ the sparklin’ wine before makin’ their great sacrifice fer God and country.”

  “They left you in charge?”

  “No, Mr. Preacher. We’ve got us one officer with his brains in his head, not in his pants, we do. Captain Edward Dreiling is commanding at present, he is. Ye can find him at battalion headquarters. Across the parade ground there, it is.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant Major.” Preacher turned to leave as Mallory returned.

  The knapsack bounced viciously against his shoulders and back as he began to run. The black visor of his flat-topped bill-cap slid slowly down his forehead until it obscured his eyes. Preacher stared at him as though seeing a creature from another planet. Then he began to laugh. At his side, an amused Three Sleeps questioned BSM Muldoon.

  “Does it do any good?”

  “Does it now? Not with that one, sure an’ it doesn’t. There’s some’s fine lads, smart and quick to learn. But that one has to take off a boot to count to eleven, he does. I fear what will become of him out there.” He gestured to the west.

  Preacher and the other mountain men walked to the headquarters building. Inside, an orderly told them that Captain Dreiling could be found on the firing range on the far side of the cantonment. Preacher got exact directions and led the way to the sound of erratic firing.

  Seated on a canvas-backed camp stool, an officer observed while sweating, swearing sergeants conducted firing exercises. The captain wore the split-tail, regulation blue uniform coat with thick, shaggy, brass epaulets at the shoulder points, matching insignia of rank— three horizontal strips — -on the high, tight collar. His trousers, with the gold stripe down the seams, covered the high tops of his black boots. His shako style hat, of black, patent leather, complete with horsehair plume that drooped over the front, sat squarely on a round, blond head.

  Somehow he managed to seem cool and comfortable, while the NCOs and enlisted men showed wide rings at their armpits and long wet smears down their backs. Their appearances made even Preacher feel uncomfortable. Captain Dreiling had no difficulty in recognizing the newcomers. He rose and extended a hand.

  “You must be our guides. And, I would say that you are Preacher.” He unerringly picked the right man.

  “That I am. You’d be Captain Dreiling?”

  At six foot even, the broad shoulders, full chest and narrow hips gave Dreiling a handsome cut by anyone’s standards. He answered Preacher with alacrity. “Yes. However, on informal occasions, you may call me Edward.”

  Preacher prefaced his remarks with a softening smile. “An’ you can call me Preacher. I don’t mean to pry into Army business, Captain, but may I ask why you did not join your associates in the pleasures of Saint Louis?”

  For an instant, Preacher thought the expression of contempt that darkened Captain Dreiling’s face was intended for him. “Bloody damned children, you ask me. Most of these rabble cannot yet tell right from left foot, let alone conduct themselves as soldiers, and the ones with the responsibility to hammer them into shape go off skirt-chasing.”

  To emphasize his point, a Hall Model 43 rifled carbine discharged loudly in their direction. The ball from the breech-loading weapon cracked past close enough for Preacher to feel the wind. Immediately a sergeant burst forth in a flurry of profanity.

  “You goddamned idiot! You’ll get the effing lash for that. I said to clear all weapons before leaving the line.” A fist lashed out and knocked the offender sprawling. The sergeant kicked him in the ribs twice.

  “Excuse me,” said Dreiling politely before turning to the sergeant. “Enough of that, Sergeant Peters. Extra duty for Emmons and four punishment tours should suffice. No one was injured.”

  Suddenly rigid in the position of attention, Sergeant Peters saluted smartly. “Yes, sir. Very good, sir. It will be done as ordered. Now, you worthless reprobate, keep that muzzle downrange at all times, you hear.”

  A fair-minded man, as well as conscientious, Preacher thought to himself. The rest of the day’s tour of the battalion established some strong opinions in Preacher. At the stable area, soldiers tried rear vault and running side mounts, most falling in the dirt over and over. Sergeants screamed and cursed. Those who could ride, Preacher soon learned, could not hit a bull in the ass with a bass fiddle, let alone score on a target from the prone position with their weapons.

  Which left him with a rather dim view of Colonel Arlington Danvers, the battalion commander. If the other officers, save Captain Dreiling, are as ill-concerned about the readiness of their men, they could all be in for a hell of a time out in the High Lonesome. Instinct told him to seek out the Battalion staff in St. Louis at once. Logic told him to wait here, lend a hand where he could and hope for the best when the errant officers returned. Whatever came of this, Preacher promised himself, he would sure as hell never take a job with the Army again.

  NINE

  Lieutenant Colonel Arlington Danvers and his officers returned to Jefferson Barracks five days later. To the expert eyes of Preacher and his mountain-man friends, they all looked powerfully hungover and sadly dissipated, an all-around surly lot. By the lights of the mountain men, based on the harshness of the noncoms and the appearance and deportment of Lieutenant Colonel Danvers, the colonel was a martinet and thorough popinjay. This opinion was reinforced when they reported to Danvers in a borrowed office, intended for some of the permanent staff. The colonel looked up and his lip curled with contempt and disgust.

  “You’re a scruffy-looking lot, I must say. Do you ever take baths? You’ll have to in this Army.”

  “Pardon me, Colonel,” blurted Preacher. “But we ain’t in ’this Army.’ We’re just hired to guide you to where you want to go in the Big Empty.”

  Nattily dressed in a freshly pressed uniform, Danvers looked Preacher up and down. Preacher had a classic shiner, all purple, yellow and blue. He had a cut on his chin, and a red mark on one cheek. Danvers worked his mouth as though he wanted to rid himself of some foul-tasting object.

  “You have obviously all recently been in some sort of drunken brawl. From now on, until the completion of your employment, you will all refrain from spirits— liquor of any sort— and you will clean up your clothing and present a well-washed appearance at all times. Your hair is to be cut to regulation length, and all facial hair is forbidden.

  “You are to ride out before dawn each morning, scout the territory ahead and send back reports.” Danvers’ arrogant tone continued while he ticked off each point on long slender fingers. “You wi
ll not fraternize with the officers, noncommissioned officers or the enlisted men of my command. You will negotiate safe passage for us with any savages you encounter. You are to make certain that the path we take is wide enough to accommodate mounted troops— four abreast, with our field piece at the center of the column— and wagons, two wide to the rear.”

  Preacher bristled. He’d heard all of the “You will” and “You are” that he could swallow without getting a sore stomach. He raised a hand to cut off the tirade.

  “Now whoa up there a second, Colonel. Exactly who are to be the guides for this expedition?”

  Danvers blinked. “Why, you three, of course.”

  “Well, then, don’t the colonel think that the men in charge should have some say in how the soldier-boys will march?”

  Lieutenant Colonel Danvers countered at once. “Regulations cover that quite nicely, I believe.”

  Fire fanned in Preacher’s eyes. “Ain’t no regulations out there in the High Lonesome. An’ as for the trail, dependin’ on which way you intend to go, there ain’t no real trail at all. We just have to find the best way through, over or around the rocks, rivers, gorges and hills as we can. And do it without breaking every wheel or upsettin’ any loads.

  “Now, marchin’ four abreast might be well an’ good on a wide street or grassy meadow, but not out there. There’s cactus with thorns long and sharp enough to pierce a horse’s hoof to the cannon bone. There’s prairie-dog holes jist waitin’ to bust a leg.” Preacher paused for a breath, which he took, swallowed deeply and went on. “Then you have bison who’ll stampede at any loud sound, and rattlesnakes that can fell a horse as easy as a man. Not to mention Injuns by the thousands. Nope, two men to a file, an’ they alternately walk and ride their mounts. Another thing. No horn tooting or drum banging. That’s the surest way to attract some unpleasant Injuns. Those fancy sabers yer so fond of has got to be padded and tied down so they don’t rattle, an’ all tack and loose gear also. An Injun can hear the noise they make a mile away.”

  Filled with equal parts of bluster and indignation, Danvers protested hotly. “We absolutely must have trumpet calls and drums to convey orders. Typical civilian ignorance,” he summed up.

  Preacher cocked an eyebrow. “Ever hear of arm signals? The Injuns have used ’em for ages and get along jist dandy.”

  Danvers continued his resistance. “And field music is essential for morale.”

  “I wonder how serious you are about getting there and getting your fort built before you take on the hostiles? If you have your soldier-boys practice arm signals while we’re still in friendly country, they’ll know them when they need ’em. Me, I say it’s the smart thing to do.”

  “They are Dragoons, Mr. Preacher. Dragoons.”

  No matter what Preacher proposed, Lieutenant Colonel Danvers balked at adopting. At last, Preacher had reached his limit. “Here’s my final word on this, Colonel. We’re gonna do it my way, or I quit the job and hand the money back to the government.”

  Realizing that this assignment was his last hope of providing for his future, Danvers knew he had no choice. He had been passed over for promotion too many times, so his career would soon be at an end. If this did not go the way he had been told it would, the years ahead would be bleak indeed. Mustering his will power he suppressed his outrage and caved in.

  “Very well, it will be as you say.”

  With a single drum marking time, the column moved out early the next morning. To Preacher’s surprise, the troops had improved greatly. They sat their horses straight and tall, all of them required to be no less than five foot ten to six foot two in height. Not a one fell off his horse. Not even simpleminded Mallory mounted backward.

  On the highroad outside the barracks ground they rode four abreast. For all their smart appearance, Preacher sensed something odd. He rode in a relaxed slouch with Three Sleeps and Antoine some two hundred yards ahead of the battalion commander and his staff and flag bearers. Cardinals warbled and woodpeckers kept up a steady rat-a-tat on hollow trees. Preacher glanced constantly behind them, his gaze resting long on the files of men and horses. At last, he decided to confide in Three Sleeps.

  “D’you feel it, too? I got me a strong sensation that something is mighty wrong.”

  Three Sleeps Norris showed indifference. “I don’t follow you.”

  “I don’t know exactly how, but these greenhorn soldier-boys—er, excuse me— Dragoons have done messed up the works somethin’ powerful.”

  “We’ll find our eventual.” Three Sleeps stifled a yawn, then swatted at a huge horsefly that had lined up an enticing spot on the neck of his horse.

  Preacher cut his eyes to the column again. “I certain sure hope it’s soon enough.”

  “Sure, an’ what do you mean they were left behind, Hadley?!” roared BSM Muldoon.

  Preacher and his companions turned to see what caused the outburst. Slanted backward from the glowering, red face of the Battalion Sergeant Major, who leaned over him, the Quartermaster Sergeant, Hadley, gulped hard before answering. “That’s what happened, Sergeant Major. Four of my teamsters reported to sick call this morning and there was no one to drive the wagons.”

  “An’, why wasn’t I told of this?”

  “Y-You were. I reported four men confined in the infirmary.”

  BSM Muldoon poked a thick finger into Hadley’s chest to emphasize each word. “But ... you ... didn’t ... tell ... me ... four ... wagons ... didn’t . . . have . . . drivers!”

  Sergeant Hadley looked like he was about to be sick all over his shiny boots. “I ... I thought you’d figure that out for yourself, Sergeant Major.”

  “Yer flirt in’ with insubordination, Hadley, b’God ye are. An’, Lord love us, we’ll have to send men back to recover them.” He spun on one heel. “You there: Collins, Masters, Pickerel and Sawyer. Can you drive a wagon?”

  “Yes, Sergeant Major!” they chorused.

  “Then mount up and ride like hell back to the barracks. Ye’ll find four of our supply wagons there. Bring them up with the column right quickly, lads.”

  “What about evening chow, Sergeant Major?” Corporal Collins asked.

  “Take food enough with ye for two or three meals.”

  Sergeant Hadley tugged urgently at Muldoon’s sleeve. “Bu-but they’re not teamsters.”

  “Sure an’ I don’t give a damn if they’re old-maid schoolteachers. We need those supplies.”

  Preacher turned away in disgust. “Here we are; haven’t made fifteen miles the first day and we have lost half of the supplies. At this rate, we’ll make the North Platte come December.”

  Far from the foothills of the Ozark Mountains in Missouri, at a large, well-tended trading post on the North Platte River, Quinton Praeger sat at a table with his co-conspirators and their chief henchman, Blake Soures. All four men lapsed into silence when a large platter of roasted bison hump arrived at their table.

  They ate heartily, pleasurably chewing slabs of the layered meat and fat along with boiled turnips and onions, squash and chili peppers, all washed down with tankards of beer. Not until the last morsel disappeared did Praeger bring up business.

  “Everything is going according to schedule. The money is starting to roll in from back East. The Dragoons are to have left Jefferson Barracks yesterday.” He paused and wiped greasy lips with a soiled napkin. “We should have us a tidy little Indian war before too long.”

  Always a blunt, direct man, Blake Soures spoke his mind. “Exactly what is behind this plan to stir up the Indians? That is, after all, a dangerous thing to do.”

  Morton Gross looked amused. “How is that, Mr. Soures?”

  “A feller can be their friend and ally one day, an’ the next they’ll lift his hair. They’re . . . changeable, moody.”

  “The idea is to get rid of them once and for all,” Praeger explained patiently. “And the best way to do that is to get an Indian war started. We can count on the Indians doing their part through Iron Shirt. He
has tremendous influence among the Blackfoot, and now with the Cheyenne. His power grows daily.”

  Soures frowned. “That’s the part I don’t like, what I’m tryin’ to warn you about. I’ve got seventeen good men ridin’ with me. Then there’s you three. Twenty-two guns don’t amount to a fart in a windstorm if Iron Shirt decides he don’t need us anymore.”

  Aaron Reiker gave Blake Soures a condescending smirk. “I think you are overestimating his capacity for duplicity. We provide him with rifles and ammunition, and we brought him out of obscurity and made him famous. No, friend Soures, we can trust Iron Shirt.”

  “But why get rid of the Injuns at all? That’s what I want to know.”

  Morton Gross answered, his voice sugary, as though talking to a dolt. “The East is getting crowded. The land these Indians occupy will be valuable in any westward expansion. Certain high-placed interests in Washington City have a desire to lay claim to that ground. At least, once the savages have been eliminated.”

  Soures produced an expression of concern. “But, ain’t it Injuns’ land?”

  Praeger turned a condescending gaze on their chief gunman. “Our friends in Washington City are paying exceedingly well to see that it no longer is. Well enough to assuage any conscience.”

  Soures frowned. “What’s that mean, ass— assuage?”

  “To pacify, Mr. Soures, to calm.”

  None of the conspirators mentioned the presence of gold in the mountains of Montana. Instead, they directed him to an assignment as backup to the men sent to stop Preacher.

  “There is only one impediment, one man who might be able to prevent an all out war of extermination,” Praeger pressed on. “His name is Preacher, and he is known and respected by both sides. Only, if all went well, he should be out of the picture by now. If he is not, it will be your job to remove him.”

  True to Preacher’s prediction, a whole lot was wrong with the expedition. Trouble began before the troops got out of Missouri. After the four supply wagons joined the column, they made better time. A lot of good that did them.