Blackfoot Messiah

by William W. Johnstone

  Danvers’s expression became pinched. “It is not out of consideration, believe me. It’s— ”

  Preacher stifled a guffaw. “Yeah, I know. It’s regulations. ”

  “Well put,” Danvers replied tightly.

  “It’ll be a pleasure for all, I’m sure,” Preacher concluded as he turned away.

  Steam Packet Prairie Spirit shrilled a lively blast on its tall, brass whistle and pulled away from the dock in Independence at three-thirty that afternoon. On board were the battalion commander, his staff, the captains commanding the four squadrons and the three scouts. Also one company of Dragoons. The blunt prow nudged into the Missouri River’s brown water and began to struggle to overcome the current to make way upsteam. The huge side-mounted paddle wheels thrashed the water and sent off a fine mist of spray. Rainbows formed in a nimbus around each churning wheel.

  More steam-whistle blasts and then everything began to settle down. The fifteen civilian passengers left the rail and went to their staterooms to open trunks and prepare clothing for dinner. Several of the men made their way to the Gentlemen’s Salon. Preacher and his companions located their accommodations and dumped their belongings in the corners.

  Preacher confided in his friends. “I don’t know if I’m gonna like this. Outside of the time it will save, of course.”

  “Why is that, Preacher?” Antoine inquired.

  Preacher studied his moccasin toes. Embarrassment pinked his cheeks. “I’ve never felt entirely comfortable on the water. Nothin’ I can put a finger on, but it jist don’t seem . . . natural. Water’s for fishes and beaver.”

  “What about small boys?” asked Three Sleeps. “Didn’t you like to swim when you were young?”

  Preacher looked up at them. “Tell you the truth, I was over twelve an’ livin’ with the Cheyenne before I learned how to swim right proper like. Up to then, I jist paddled around like a spaniel after ducks. An’ not likin’ it much, either.” He sighed. “It’s funny. I put money in Mr. Fulton’s steamboat works, an’ this is only the third time I ever rid one of the contraptions.”

  Antoine turned an anxious face to Preacher. “I have heard that the boilers blow up sometimes.”

  Preacher nodded, which did little to allay Antoine’s worry. “That they do. Usual it’s because the stokers overfill the fireboxes or the metal is old.”

  “How does one tell if the metal is old?”

  “Antoine, my friend, I don’t know. I jist have to hope the captain and the engineer have some idea.”

  They changed into cloth suits and boots and took dinner at seven o’clock, an hour before the sun went down. That only served to amplify Preacher’s uneasiness. The truth that Preacher would not admit to was that prolonged travel over water made his stomach queasy. Although he did not suffer dizziness and nausea, it did make him develop gas. Preacher soon found himself out on the foredeck, a hand gently pressing his belly.

  He was still there, the rumbles somewhat subsided, when a conversation among three fellow travelers advised him that there were card games in the Gentlemen’s Salon. Despite his precarious internal state, the lure of the pasteboards drew him like a dead critter attracted flies.

  After sitting in for an hour, Preacher’s situation made it understandable to a reasonable person that he grew increasingly edgy when an oily fellow with a remarkable deck of cards made deep dents in his “government money,” paid in advance for services rendered.

  Beauregard Calhoon, still slim and dapper, with a thin, pencil line of a mustache and manicured fingernails, gave a shark’s grin as he raked in yet another pot. He laid a particularly offensive sneer on Preacher, who had lost steadily. Preacher allowed as how he must keep an eye on Calhoon and discover the source of his unusual luck.

  “Y’all seem to be havin’ a terrible run of luck,” the fashionably overdressed Calhoon observed to those at the table. “I learned to court the lady at a tender age an’ I never fail to pay her homage.”

  Preacher’s words had a coating of ice. “ ’Pears to me that her favors have been phe-nom-inal.”

  Calhoon gave Preacher a fishy eye. After three more hands, two of which were won by Calhoon, Preacher deliberately discarded an ace of clubs during the next, which he discreetly creased with a thumbnail. Sure enough, Calhoon won again. His full house of aces and tens contained the ace of clubs.

  Before Calhoon could pick up the hand with which he had won, Preacher came to his boots, leaned across the table and clamped a hard hand over Calhoon’s wrist. His composure broken, despite his oily, black hair neatly parted in the middle and his fancy, shiny boots, the gambler could only splutter.

  “See here, there’s nothing to be gained by this sort of conduct. Release me, my man.”

  “I ain’t yer man, nor any other’s. I find it right interesting you won that hand with the ace of clubs. Special since I discarded that same card in the draw.”

  “You can’t prove that,” Calhoon gulped.

  “Oh, yes, I can. You see, gents,” he addressed the entire table. “I took the trouble to crease that card with a thumbnail before I dropped it on the table. By that time I had got myself the idee that this particular deck had a special set of marks Calhoon, here, can read.”

  Preacher squeezed tighter as Calhoon began to squirm. It caused the voice of the tinhorn gambler to rise two octaves. “I must protest. You’ll not find a crease on that card, suh.”

  Preacher shook his head. “Nope, I don’t reckon I will. But, I am willin’ to bet I’ll find the crimped one up your sleeve, or in a vest pocket. Somewhere anyway. You saw what I was gettin’ rid of an’ couldn’t resist the urge to put another one into your hand to improve it.”

  “Are you calling me a cheat, suh?”

  Preacher’s eyes bored deeply into those of Calhoon, while his free hand delved into the sleeve of the fancy suit Calhoon wore. Deftly he produced the card in question. “That’s exactly what I’m sayin’.”

  “Then, I demand immediate satisfaction.” With these words, Beauregard Calhoon thrust his left hand under the wing of his coat and came out with a small, .36-caliber, double-barreled pocket pistol.

  ELEVEN

  Preacher responded with the speed of a puma. His open hand, still holding the evidence, flashed across his body. Preacher’s shoulder rolled when he made powerful, backhand contact with the exposed cheek of Calhoon. The impact could have been a thunderclap. Beauregard Calhoon shot back from the table, spun slightly and reeled drunkenly toward the bar. At the last moment, before he made violent impact, he remembered the pistol in his hand.

  Fighting to control the movement of his body, Beauregard swung the small .28-caliber, four-shot, revolving-barrel pistol to bear on Preacher. One hammer fell on a cap. A thin stream of smoke spurted from the nipple an instant before detonation of the small powder charge. Several gentlemen gasped as the little ball made a loud thock! when it struck the wide, thick, bull bison-hide belt Preacher wore around his middle. Immediately Beauregard rotated the barrels and fired again. And hit Preacher again.

  Concussion from the two slugs bulged Preacher’s eyes and stabbing pain doubled him over. Air shot from his open mouth. For a long, spellbound moment, no one moved. Then Preacher straightened shakily, erased the agony-drawn lines from his face, and extended his right arm. The hand at the end held a Walker Colt, its hammer full back and ready to drop. This gun Preacher pointed steadily at the center of Calhoon’s chest. He fought for air and, at last, spoke in sepulchral tones.

  “You done played yer last hand.”

  Stunned by the incredible staying power of his target, Beauregard Calhoon only then recovered enough of his wits to turn, cock and aim the third barrel. This time, Preacher beat him to the mark.

  Flame lanced from the muzzle of the .44 Colt, as it bucked and snorted in Preacher’s hand. The round, two-hundred-grain ball sped across the small distance to the center of the exposed chest and smashed bone and tissue with destructive force. Flattened slightly now, it ploughed a wide furrow
through the aorta, only slightly off center, and into back loin muscle, before blasting one of Beauregard’s vertebrae into fragments.

  Reflex jerked the trigger of the pistol in Calhoon’s hand. The woefully underpowered ball shattered the glass chimney of a wall-mounted lamp and rang musically off the inside of its brass shade. Gleaming shards tinkled to the deck in the silence that followed. A thick layer of powder smoke undulated in the space between Preacher and the dead cheat. Slowly, Preacher reached down and plucked one of the little balls from the thick leather of his belt. A worried player hurried up to him.

  “Neither one got all the way through,” Preacher informed him. “But I’m gonna be sore as hell for a week. Awful bruise, you can bet.”

  Awed, the well-dressed man spoke for everyone in the salon. “You’ve been saved by a miracle.”

  Preacher shook his head. “Nope. Buffalo-hide belt. That little popgun didn’t have a chance.”

  Another of the men who had been at the table spoke from where he crouched beside Beauregard. “He’s dead.”

  “I didn’t aim to only tickle him some.”

  A cluster of onlookers at the doorway gave room for the first officer to enter, buttoning his jacket as he crossed the room. “Someone tell me what happened?” he commanded. “Oh, and put away that revolver.”

  Preacher complied while the man at his side made explanation. “I’m Norton Babbott, Babbott Bobbin Company. This gentleman caught a cheat in our game. The scoundrel pulled a gun on him. Shot him twice. The rest you can see for yourself.”

  “I know this man,” the first officer declared. “It’s Beauregard Calhoon. We’ve had complaints about him before.” He paused, cut his eyes to Preacher. “You’re a brave man to have faced him down . . . or a fool.”

  Preacher winced and unconsciously touched his aching middle lightly. “Right now I feel more the fool.”

  “It happened as Mr. Babbott said?”

  Preacher shrugged. “More or less.”

  “How did you manage to detect him cheating?”

  “I spend as much time watching the players as I do the cards in a game. Calhoon had a marked deck and he used hold-out cards, too.”

  Turning to look at Calhoon, the first officer spoke over his shoulder to Preacher. “I’ll explain to the captain. He may want to speak with you. You’re not planning to disembark soon, are you?”

  “Nope. Not until I get these baby soldiers to the upper North Platte.”

  “And your name, sir?”

  “I’m the one they call Preacher.”

  Eyebrows rose. “So that’s why you’re standing and he’s not. Yes, I see, now. Very well, Preacher, from here on, it’s merely a formality.”

  Far up the North Platte River, after an uneventful passage, the squadron of Dragoons disembarked. While the long, tedious process of unloading the horses, wagons and equipment progressed, Preacher consulted with the captain and river pilot. The latter showed Preacher a map of the river’s course. With a stubby finger he pointed out their present location. Preacher nodded with satisfaction.

  “This is where we are now. It’s not much of a town, called North Platte. End of the line this time of year. I reckon you’ll be heading northwest, through the small settlement of Scottsbluff. Nice folks there. Last trip, we brought them five ton of flour in barrels. You can resupply there without any problem.”

  Preacher studied the sparse details on the map. “Don’t see why you can’t get on up there. The map shows the river runnin’ all the way into the Wyoming country.”

  “Too shallow. Why, by August, most of the river west of here will be dried up into a series of mudholes connected by a foot-wide trickle. No, sir, this will be our last run this far. Next trip will be no farther than the town of Grand Island. There’s two hundred folk livin’ there now. Makes for profitable hauling when the river’s up.”

  Preacher matched the map’s representations to images in his mind. They would still have close to two weeks travel to reach the part of the Bighorn Mountains Danvers had selected for his fort. He thanked the river men for their assistance and strode off onto the dock.

  A small warehouse fronted the river at North Platte. In its tiny office, Preacher approached the factor. A portly, bald-headed man with an open, friendly face and jolly manner, the manager greeted Preacher affably.

  “You came with the soldiers?” he inquired.

  “That I did. Anything goin’on in these parts that I should know about?”

  “Nothin’ much. Except that the Pawnee have been kicking up their heels a mite.”

  “Do tell. Never could abide nor trust a Pawnee. Go on, if you please.”

  “They’ve made periodic attacks on the trail. Burned a small settlement west of here. Scared hell outta the folks in Scottsbluff. Matter of fact, they did a good bit of scarin’ around here.”

  “When’s the last time they hit?”

  In an unconscious gesture left over from when there was something to scratch, the factor rubbed fingertips on his bald pate. “About a week ago. Least, that’s the last we’ve heard of here in North Platte.”

  Preacher split his darkly tanned face with a grin. “That sounds good. Don’t imagine they’d be eager to take on a squadron of Dragoons.”

  “I wouldn’t say so. You be settin’ up a fort around here by any chance?”

  “Nope. We’re headed way northwest.”

  “What? The whole frontier is on the verge of a massive uprising and those idiots in Washington City send troops clear the hell and gone into where?”

  Preacher answered him, his voice somber. “Northeast corner of the Wyoming country. Someone’s got a wild idea that a fort out in the middle of nowhere, supported by nothing, will scare the breechcloths off the Injuns.”

  “You ask me, mister, a person has to be certified to have no brains at all to qualify to be a politician. I mean them all, an’ I can say that ’cause I’m neither Whig nor Democrat.”

  Preacher clapped a big hand on the factor’s shoulder, and winced at the pain in his bruised belly. “I have to agree with you there, friend. What else can you tell me?”

  “There’s talk flyin’ around about some hotshot medicine man amongst the Blackfoot talkin’ a holy war against us whites. Though I doubt you need to be told that. Part of the reason they’re puttin’ that fort out there, ain’t it?” He gave Preacher a conspiratorial wink.

  Preacher replied in kind and added, “Government secrets. Ask our illustrious squadron leader, he’ll tell you it’s to show the flag to the Sioux and Cheyenne. Whatever that means.”

  They jawed over other matters for a while and then Preacher departed to rejoin the column of Dragoons. He found them on the edge of the tiny village of North Platte. As usual, Lieutenant Colonel Danvers was in a foul mood.

  “I have heard that the Pawnee are raiding in this area.”

  Preacher cocked his head to one side. “I hear the same, Colonel. We’ll likely find evidence of their prowlin’ before long.”

  “Such as what?”

  Studying the officer closely, Preacher drawled an answer. “Oh, broke arrows, burned buildings and wagons, bones. The usual Injun leavings.”

  “Would they attack us, do you think?”

  Preacher raised an eyebrow. “Not unless they’ve plum taken leave of their senses. We’re too many and we have that little cannon.”

  Not entirely convinced, Danvers took on a belligerent posture. “I’ll remind you of that in the event the need arises. For now, head out and scout ahead of our line of march.” Danvers emphasized his order with a crisp snap of his riding crop.

  “I’m sure you will,” Preacher muttered, stung by the implied lack of confidence.

  “What’s that?” snapped Danvers.

  “I said, I’ll get the long view from the top of that hill.” With that he wheeled Tarnation and sprinted off, leaving the colonel with an open mouth.

  “Forty miles a day on beans and hay,” turned out to be more than a boast Preacher soon discov
ered. The first day on the trail, the Dragoon squadron made twenty-five of that. Even burdened down with eight huge freight wagons and a field piece, the column covered fifteen miles by midday. They also found the first sign of Pawnee raids.

  A well-established trail paralleled the North Platte River, which some were already beginning to call the Oregon Trail. It being wide enough at this point, Preacher relaxed his double-file formation rule and let the troops move along four abreast. In a hidden defile, which kept them from sight on the rolling prairie, Preacher and Three Sleeps came upon the blackened remains of three wagons, along with the bones of the owners.

  “Look over here, Preacher,” Three Sleeps called to his friend. “Arrow shafts. Most broken, some with the feathers burned. They’ve had the heads removed.”

  “Thrifty folks, those Pawnee,” opined Preacher.

  He studied the ground a while, found little clear and easy to interpret due to time passed. He estimated the attack to have happened at least a week ago. With that established, Preacher remounted and rode back to report to Lieutenant Colonel Danvers.

  The colonel heard of the attack with mounting fury. “We have a treaty with the Pawnee,” he exploded. “It has been in force for twenty years. Their chiefs should have stopped this outrage.”

  Patiently Preacher explained. “Among the Injuns, the chiefs have no absolute power. They ain’t rulers, Colonel. They lead, give advice, represent the tribe or band with others. An’ yes, make treaties. But the folks they represent don’t have to obey them or hold to any agreement made in their name by the chiefs.”

  “Why ... why, that’s preposterous. What sort of leadership does that represent? The Army would get nothing at all done if the troops were not required to do as I order them.”

  “There might be somethin’ good in that,” Preacher observed in a muttered aside.

  “What did you say?” demanded Danvers.

  “I said, there’s more to it than that. Most likely the chiefs who signed that treaty are dead now or replaced by someone else the folks are more willing to follow. And so, the people are free to decide whether or not to continue to honor the treaty.”