BSM Muldoon came to Preacher one evening in camp. A harried-looking Dragoon had just ridden in on a lathered horse. He must have galloped the animal for a good ways. What he revealed, sent Muldoon to seek help from the mountain men.
Now Muldoon stood contemplating the three rugged guides, his bristly red hair and florid complexion making a torch of his head. “Gentlemen, I come to you with a ... wee problem, it is. Now mind, I could send some of me sergeants to deal with this. But then it would become an official matter, it would.”
Preacher laughed softly at this circumlocution. “Spit it out, man.”
“The thing is, it is, that some of the lads have taken it to mind to slip off from our encampment and indulge themselves in some spirituous waters.” Muldoon’s perpetually rosy nose gave testament to his own fondness for such diverstions. “In the process, so’s to speak, they have got themselves afoul of some of the local citizens.” He paused and cleared his throat, as though the words bore thorns. “The fact of the matter is, there’s one hell of a fine brawl goin’ on between some eight Dragoons and some sawyers from a nearby mill, that’s what.”
“And you would appreciate some small gesture of aid from the three of us?” Preacher got to the point.
“Sure an’ it would avoid the messiness of a court-martial and the need for punishment.”
Preacher gave him a hard eye. “We’d not be taking sides. We’ll bust anyone who gets in our way.”
“It’s skinnin’ yer knuckles on all comers, is it?” Muldoon clapped his hands together in approval. “Then, so be it. I’ll be accompanyin’ ye buckos. Though not in an official capacity. Thing is, we don’t need any floggin’s before we get beyond civilization. That’s how I see it.”
“ ‘Floggings’?” Preacher echoed.
“Aye. That’s the usual for such infractions. Six of yer best, laid on with a will.”
A thunderous frown creased Preacher’s brow. “By damn, I’ll not be party to any of that.”
“So it’s the four of us, is it?”
Preacher gave a curt nod. “Right, Muldoon. We’ll head out now.”
Screams, curses, and the crash of furniture could be heard from two hundred yards off when Preacher and the cleanup squad reached the tavern. They trotted up to the tie rail outside and looped reins over the crossbar. Preacher looked up at a particularly loud, tinkling crash and saw a man fly bodily out through a window. He grunted and cut his eyes to take in the others.
“Looks like we have a job of work on our hands.”
Three Sleeps nodded enthusiastically. “Yer not lyin’ there, Preacher.”
With determination, the four men stalked to the door. It flew open in their faces and two men, wrapped in a mutual bear hug stumbled out. Being nearest, Preacher reached out and grabbed both miscreants by the hair and slammed their heads together. They went down like heart-shot elk. BSM Muldoon bent and separated the Dragoon from the lumberman and dragged him to the hitch rack. The three mountain men entered the establishment.
It had been a nicely appointed place, Preacher noted, before the fight began. Now splintered tables and chairs floated like driftwood in a tidal pool of beer which had come from a ruptured hogshead. There had once been a mirror behind the bar. It lay in diamond spears of brightness amid overturned bottles and small casks. One of the ceiling supports had been snapped in two, the roof sagged dangerously above it. Showing even worse signs of wear, eight men remained on their feet, flinging fists with wild abandon.
One of those went down as the mountain men gained the doorway. Preacher stepped through and took the knuckles of a huge sawyer at the under edge of his right eye.
“Aw, hell, now it’s the other one,” he grumbled.
Then he set his feet and pile-drivered a steady rain of punches to the sturdy frame of the sandy-haired man who had hit him. It seemed all too easy to Preacher. The man went down and was out at the first pummeling Preacher gave him. Three Sleeps and Antoine waded in behind him and the three started picking Dragoons off their opponents and hauling them toward the door.
“Take yer damn hands off me,” one snarled.
Three Sleeps released the complaining soldier and raised both open hands, in a gesture of surrender. “All right, all right.” Then he swiftly closed his right hand into a fist and popped the Dragoon flush in the mouth.
With all the rolling muscle of his powerful shoulders behind it, the blow decisively felled the private. His boot heels bounced off the rough boards of the floor. Three Sleeps grabbed him by the collar and dragged him out into the dooryard. Then, with a grin, he turned about and went back for more.
“By Jaazas, those mountain fellers sure love a fight. They must be Irish,” Muldoon said to the unconscious Dragoon. Then he added the young soldier to the stack growing by the tie rail.
Preacher hurled another protesting Dragoon out the door and Muldoon saw the spitting, cursing lout stumble toward him, then quickly corrected that with a hard left to the jaw.
A furious bellow came from the mill workers inside the tavern. “You let us at those soldier-boys. We’ll tear them limb from limb.”
Preacher’s voice sounded. “Calm down. We’re takin’ ’em all back where they belong.”
His words were followed by the loud click of a hammer being cocked and the sharp report of a single-barreled pistol.
TEN
Following instinct and training, the remaining Dragoons dropped to the floor the instant the shot went off. Preacher and his companions did not. Antoine reached down and felt a hot, burning gouge along his ribs that oozed blood. That made both sides. Damn, he’d be sorer than a fresh-gelded hound dog for more than a month. He reached for one of his double-barreled pistols, but Preacher beat him to the draw.
A big Walker Colt appeared in Preacher’s hand and the hammer dropped on a percussion cap. The fat ball sped across the short distance and pinwheeled the belligerent sawyer in the breastbone. “Yer lucky to be alive, Antoine. He was a lousy shot.”
None of the Missouri lumbermen had ever seen a revolving pistol before. They stared at it in wonder. One, who had gone for the butt of a small pocket pistol, let go of it with all the speed of a cat making contact with a cookstove. Preacher cocked the weapon and put a menacing look on his face.
“Unless any of you is eager to argue with my friend, Mr. Walker here, I’d advise you forget all about tearing anyone limb from limb.”
“You kilt Tucker Blake,” accused one of the less intimidated mill workers.
“Didn’t know his name. That don’t matter. What matters is, your Mr. Blake drew first. What’s more, he shot a friend of mine. I don’t take kindly to that. Though I will say I’m sorry your friend is dead.”
Unmollified, the talker challenged. “You won’t get away with this. We’ll get the sheriff on you.”
“It was self-defense, any fool can see that.”
Three Sleeps Norris stepped up and touched Preacher on the arm. “Not any Missouri fool, Preacher,” he said tightly. “I suggest we send for the sheriff ourselves and let him hear both sides of the story.”
Preacher eyed the mouthy sawyer. “How far off is your sheriff?”
“He’s right here,” came a hard voice from the doorway. “I’d put that smoke-pole up if I was you.”
The man who entered the tavern was a size with Preacher, though he carried authority and power with him enough to make him ten feet tall. “Bill Parker.” He introduced himself as he gave the corpse a casual glance. “What happened here?”
All of the lumber company men began to speak at once. The one who had challenged Preacher overrode his friends. “This stranger came through the door, bold as brass, and shot down Tucker Blake in cold blood.”
“Yeah, that’s right. That’s what he did, all right.” A chorus of agreement.
Shrewd enough not to be deceived by men whose thick noggins he had thumped more than once, Sheriff Parker pursed his lips, eyed the scene again and then spoke. “If that’s the case, George, what accoun
ts for the pistol in Tucker’s hand?”
Stunned at having his version disputed, and by a fellow Missourian at that, George gaped a moment before he could find new words to butter his lie. “He . . . uh ... one of his friends put it there. Ain’t that right, boys?”
Sheriff Parker turned and eyed Three Sleeps and Antoine. “Was that before or after this feller got his ribs skinned?” He whirled back to face the sawmill men. “My maw didn’t raise any stupid sons. What do you take me for? That’s Tucker’s pistol, I’ve had to take it off him enough times when he got drunked up. I was on my way here when I heard the shots. Kylie Burks came by to tell me there was a big fight goin’ betwixt you boys and some soldiers. I’d have been in here sooner if I hadn’t stopped to have a word with the sergeant out there.
“That’s Sergeant Major, if ye please, Sheriff. Battalion Sergeant Major Muldoon,” said that worthy from the doorway. “Now, if ye don’t mind I’ll be takin’ my lads and our brave frontier guides back to our camp.”
Sheriff Bill Parker made a mock bow. “Go right ahead, Sergeant Major Muldoon.” Then, to Antoine, “I’d get that patched up right quick. Might fester.”
Antoine cocked an eyebrow. “Thank you for good advice, Sheriff.”
Outside, Muldoon surveyed the subdued but conscious, and the unconscious Dragoons. “Thank the Virgin an’ all the saints, their horses are right at hand. Be a thankless task rousin’ them all to walk that far.”
“We’ll lend a hand getting them across their mounts,” Preacher offered.
“That won’t be necessary. There’s enough of them with their wits about them to do that.”
Not to be denied the last word, mouthy George stood in the doorway and shouted to them. “If I was any of you, I’d get me as far and as fast out of Missouri as I could. We’ve got friends.”
No sooner had the errant Dragoons been returned to the camp near Sedalia than Lieutenant Colonel Danvers summoned the necessary members for a drumhead court-martial. Having been assured that he had acquired a second shiner and more sore ribs for the purpose of avoiding this very event, Preacher had his curiosity piqued. He went along to witness. Naturally, his companions accompanied him.
Preacher could not believe the abrupt nature of the proceeding. All eight of the disobedient Dragoons were hauled before a lantern-lighted barrel head, over which Danvers presided. He read off a list of charges, including desertion, absent without leave, public drunkenness and inciting to riot. He did not ask how the accused pleaded.
“Now, as regards Corporal Evers, and Privates Fields, Smith and O’Banyon, the charges of desertion and absent without leave are dismissed. On the counts of public drunkenness and inciting to riot, the above-named soldiers are fined two-thirds of a month’s pay for three months. Now, Privates Babcock, Upton, Venner and Killeen, you are sentenced to be stretched upon a wagon wheel and given six strokes of the lash.”
“Are ye not givin’ them a chance to plead their case, Colonel, sor?” BSM Muldoon burst out, unable to bridle his umbrage.
“Contain yourself, Sergeant Major,” Danvers said in an aside.
“But, Colonel, sor ... it’s . . .”
Lieutenant Colonel Danvers snapped at him in black humor. “Would you like to join them at the grate?”
Captain Dreiling leaned close to Lieutenant Colonel Danvers and whispered in his ear. “Regulations, Colonel. You are always saying that. And in this case, regulations will not allow you to flog the Battalion Sergeant Major without a full general court-martial.”
Lieutenant Colonel Danvers swelled and seemed ready to burst, then sighed until deflated. “Yes . . . yes, you are right, as usual, Captain. Much to my regret, I might add. He should never have gone after those fools.” Then back in his judicial role, “Sentence to be carried out at once.”
Although outraged by the barbarity of the punishment, Preacher remained to watch it carried out. Afterward, he fetched a jug from a parfleche on his packhorse and, regulations be damned, got riproaring drunk along with his friends and BSM Muldoon.
Two wagons had broken down that day. Eve Billings was beginning to have second thoughts. After the past three days of soul-searching, she had made up her mind to go to Isaac Warner, who had been elected captain for their attempt at crossing the basin. She put aside the last of the dishes from supper and walked reluctantly to his wagon. Eve had hardly begun when Warner interrupted her.
“I have an idea what it is you want to say. And I want some of the other men to be here to hear it.” He gave a wave of one arm to Damion Brewster to summon him from his family cookfire a third of the way around the circle of wagons. When the youth arrived, Warner gave him curt orders.
In short time, Renard Labette and Hiram Tate ambled up. They were immediately joined by Gus Beecher and Cecil Brewster. Tate gave a polite nod to Eve and asked, “What’s up, Isaac?”
“The Widow Billings here has something she wants to tell us. Now, go ahead, don’t be shy,” he prodded Eve.
Cheeks crimson and hot from his patronizing manner, Eve glanced at each man in turn. “You know about the breakdowns. Not only those today the others. They are taking a heavy toll.”
Warner jutted his chin defiantly. “Yep. Said that was what would happen. Go on.”
“Also, game and water are growing scarce again. I feel . . . it seems to me the time has come to examine our decision to try making a crossing.”
“What you’re gettin’ at is?” prompted Warner.
Eve wanted to shout. Out of pure spite this pompous man was forcing her to say every bitter word. Nervously she cleared her throat. “Those of us who favored the attempt had no idea how strenuous it would be. It is perhaps time to consider the possibility of turning around and following the stakes to the edge of the basin and then going beyond to fresh water and plentiful game.” There, she had said it and they could smirk all they wanted.
To her utter frustration the same men who had stubbornly insisted upon that course of action from the outset now objected to the idea with perfectly straight faces.
“I say it’s the wrong thing to do,” Isaac Warner snapped.
“Yes. We’ve come this far, there can’t be much more like this,” Gus Beecher added with a taunting smirk.
Eve’s torment and humiliation lasted a long time, while the men wrangled over what should be done. Her patience at last exhausted by their circular reasoning, Eve slipped away. Dredging up new hope, she went to seek out the wives. The first was Hattie Honeycutt, to whom Eve recited what she had pointed out to the men.
“We have to make them see reason,” she summed up to Mrs. Honeycutt. “There has to be a way.”
“But we’re mere women. Our menfolk have total sway over us.”
An idea forming, Eve countered quickly. “Not in all things.”
“Name me one,” came the challenge.
Eve leaned forward and whispered in Hattie Honeycutt’s ear.
Eyes wide and mouth in an O of astonishment, the portly woman sputtered a while before regaining her tongue. “That would never work. Why, they would just . . . just . . .”
“No they wouldn’t, not if we all stuck to it. And not if we slept with a loaded gun at hand.”
“My word. It’s such a strange idea.”
Eve went from wife to wife, explaining their womanly rebellion. Whenever she was told it could not possibly work, she smiled enigmatically and dropped the final gem of her argument.
“It has worked before. It happened back in ancient times. There was this woman named Lysistrata . . .”
After that it became easy. One by one the women approached their husbands and whispered in their ears.
“You’ll what?” bellowed Isaac Warner. His wife told him again.
Several other men repeated Isaac’s shocked response on being informed, only to be assured that their wives meant what they said. Visibly shaken, by nooning the next day, they began to admit that maybe that pushy woman, the Widow Billings, might be right for once. If they did return to
the foothills, they would have graze for the livestock, fresh water and a chance to hunt for their food.
Independence, which they had skirted on the way to Jefferson Barracks, teemed with people. Droves of wagons appeared to be bound for destinations at every point of the compass. Men, women and a surprising number of children swarmed the streets, bustled in and out of stores and shops. Few of them took time to stop and stare at the column of Dragoons who rode their mounts at a walk down the main street to the distant docks. Only the night before had Preacher learned that he and his companions were in for a rare treat.
Lieutenant Colonel Danvers had summoned Preacher to his tent, yet he would not directly meet the eyes of the mountain man. “Due to the delays,” Danvers began, clearing his throat frequently, his embarrassment clear in his posture, “I have decided that we shall negotiate this portion of our journey by riverboat. It will cut a month off our travel time.”
Hiding his surprise and pleasure, Preacher spoke sincerely. “That’s mighty smart thinkin’, Colonel. I’d never have come up with it myself, what with bein’ used to crossin’ the mountains by horse or shanks’ mare.”
“No . . . no, I suppose not. Advise your assistants and be prepared to board tomorrow when we reach Independence.”
Now they did just that. Two by two, the Dragoon horses went aboard a livestock barge, to be towed by the rearmost of six steam packets requisitioned by Lieutenant Colonel Danvers. They had been paid for by voucher drawn on the Department of the Army. Danvers, who oversaw the operation from beside Preacher, turned to the mountain man.
“Due to your positions as scouts, you hold ranks equivalent to a captain’s and to lieutenants’. Therefore you will be billeted aboard the lead vessel with myself and the other officers.” His expression told how little he liked that.
Preacher beamed with insincerity. “That’s plum considerate of you, Colonel.”
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