Each wore two feathers at the back of his head, the frizzed and fox fur-trimmed tips pointed upward, a sure sign of being on the war trail. Slight motions of the watching Indians revealed that they both carried lances. Preacher jerked his gaze away from the Cheyenne at the sound of a footfall behind him. He turned cat-quick, with a hand on the butt of a Walker Colt.
Little Charlie Billings stood there, eyes wide with shock at the swift movement of Preacher. He swallowed hard and rubbed a bare foot against his overalls leg. “It’s only me,” he squeaked.
“Sorry, Charlie. Somethin’ out there spooked me.”
For the first time, the boy looked beyond Preacher. His eyes went round and white, and his jaw clapped shut. Before he could speak, he had to swallow hard.
“Are those Injuns Blackfoot?”
“Nope, Charlie. They’s Cheyenne. An’ done up for war. No reason to keep the truth from you. Yer man enough to handle it, an’ I trust, man enough not to spread alarm amongst the rest of you pilgrims.”
Charlie nodded solemnly. “Yes, sir.”
Preacher clapped the boy roughly on the shoulder, nearly dislodging Charlie from his feet. “Good. You do me proud.” No one who observed them, except his mountain man cronies, would have suspected how much discomfort Preacher experienced relating to small children. “Now, Charlie, what did you come out here for?”
“Mom told me to ask you to come to supper tonight.” Charlie looked unhappy. “But now, with those Injuns out there, I don’t suppose you can.”
The prospect of a good meal, and good-looking companionship, pleased Preacher. “I don’t see why not. Only, if I were you, Charlie, I’d sleep with your shotgun beside you tonight.”
Dressed in white men’s suits, Quinton Praeger, Morton Gross and Aaron Reiker sashayed into the most elegant saloon that graced a large, prosperous trading post on the south fork of the Powder River. All three paid token deference to current custom with the wide, brightly colored sashes around their middles. That the red one worn by Praeger, the green cloth strip on Gross, and the electric blue chosen by Reiker concealed at least one pistol each was a given. Several roughly dressed individuals at the bar gave them cold, inhospitable stares as they took a table to one side.
“Friendly sort, aren’t they?” Morton Gross observed fastidiously. “Two months back they fell all over us, offering to buy the drinks.”
Praeger shrugged. “We were dressed like they are then. I doubt if they recognize us, let alone remember how hard they tried to be hired on to work with Soures.”
Reiker sighed. “We had us some times then, didn’t we?”
A huge man with greasy, long, black, curly hair and a matching mustache pushed himself away from the bar and turned in their direction. He had thick, rubbery lips that shone wetly and made it obvious he had been drinking heavily. Waving a huge, ham hand, he encompassed the well-dressed trio.
“Hey, fancy-boys, this here’s a man’s bar. They call me Dandy Spencer, an’ I want you to know we don’t allow no prissy Eastern folk to come in and spoil the at— atmos . . .”
“Try atmosphere, my good man,” Praeger suggested.
Spencer’s face flushed dark red. “I ain’t your ‘good man,’ nor any other’s. I’m my own man and proud of it. Talk like that could get yer head busted out here.”
“Are you challenging me, Mr. Spencer?” Praeger asked, his voice suddenly cold and menacing, although the tone went unnoticed by the bully.
Dandy Spencer rose on tiptoe and began to rock back and forth. “You goddamn’ right.”
“Well, then, since I’m the challenged one, I have choice of weapon, time and place, right?”
A puzzled frown creased the bull head of Dandy Spencer. “That’s a mighty useless way to go about it, ya ask me. Around these parts, we jist open the dance and set to clawin’. You ain’t got sand for that, turn tail and light out of here.”
Quinton Praeger maintained an air of amiable civility. “Oh, I can understand the faint customs of such drunken louts as yourself without explanation, Mr. Spencer. My point is that I wish to make clear the terms of our duel.”
“D-Duel? What duel?”
“Why, the one you challenged me to,” Praeger tossed out lightly. The whitish cast in his right eye gave him a piratical mien.
Dandy could only splutter. “I didn’t challenge you to a duel. I said I wanted to rip your sissy head off.”
“Good enough. Same thing. You want to fight with me, I have agreed. Thus, the choice of weapons, place and time are mine. It’s only fair.”
Insulted, Dandy Spencer set things straight. “Ain’t never fought fair in my life.”
Praeger appeared unfazed. By far the toughest of the three partners, one more than willing to kill when necessary, the cold glint in his eyes betrayed to all but the dullest, which included Dandy Spencer, the hidden strength he possessed. “I can believe that. You want a fight, I accept. Now, I pick how we fight and when. I see you have a pistol, so I choose pistols. And for the time and place; right here and now!”
With which, Quinton Praeger snatched a short-barrel, fifty-caliber pocket pistol— made by Deringer and Sons in Philadelphia— from inside his sash, cocked it and put a ball into the right elbow joint of Dandy Spencer. Dandy, whom fate had decreed to be left-handed, completed his draw in spite of the pain that flared up his opposite arm. Gritting his teeth, he swung the muzzle in the direction of Praeger and triggered a round.
His ball went wide. Quinton Praeger let his empty pistol drop to the tabletop and whipped out a second deadly Deringer. This ball he put between two ribs, low on the left side of the chest of Dandy Spencer. A stentorian roar came from the huge man, who absorbed the fatal shot with all the outward sign of having been bitten by a mosquito. His coach gun hit the floor and Dandy groped for another one.
“This one’s a bit hard to finish,” said Praeger in an aside to his companions. By then, they had come to their boots and drawn pistols to cover the rest of the room. Praeger took a third pistol from partway around the sash and brought up the barrel.
By then, the message sent by his body reached the tiny brain of Dandy Spencer and informed him that he was dead. Shot through the heart, he went slack-legged and flopped forward over the table occupied by the conspirators. Praeger returned the pistol to its proper place and hailed the bartender.
“I say, we need someone to remove this trash. And I’ll stand a round for the house.”
“Yes, sir, anything you say, sir.”
Dawn found everything safe and sound. The Cheyenne did not attack. Accordingly, the column set out again on what could best be described as an uneventful journey. So confident had Lieutenant Colonel Danvers become that he urged Preacher to ride at his side. Preacher found that not at all a pleasant prospect. While they rode along, Danvers waxed almost eloquent. Waving a gloved hand at the fluttering grass on the uptilted prairie slope, he drew a deep breath and launched into his theme.
“Those Cheyenne did not attack us, as you can now see. They sat quietly and watched us, without any show of hostile intent. Perhaps they were curious. With their childlike minds, that could be expected.”
Knowing it to be rude, and not giving a damn, Preacher interrupted. “Them ‘childlike minds’ you refer to have planned and carried off some of the slickest ambushes you’ll ever see. As to their ’hostile intent,’ Colonel, them braves had their feathers upright. Those feathers are symbols of their valor. They’re fixed in a beaded disc, and are worn in different directions for different reasons. Down, toward their left shoulder, means they’re lookin’ for no trouble. Down, to the right, says they’re lookin’ to do some courtin’. Up, like they had ’em, means they’re ready for war.
“The biggest mistake most whites make about Injuns is that since they live different from us they ain’t got any smarts.” Preacher cocked his head to one side. “Never fall into that pit, Colonel. It could be the death of you.”
Danvers had a pensive look. Albeit he spoke stiffly, his ton
e lacked the icy sarcasm of earlier exchanges. “Believe me, I’ve learned that lesson already. I still can’t find a reason why the Pawnee were so hotheaded.”
Preacher sighed. To him it was entirely obvious. “Because the Blackfoot and Cheyenne are worked up. There’s war talk— and raids all over the high plains. For all their lack of modern communication, word gets around the tribes mighty fast.”
Danvers retreated to his orders for inspiration. “Our purpose in being here is to induce a calming effect.”
Preacher shook his head. “Seems to me we’re doin’ jist the opposite.” For a long time, he could not fathom the meaning behind the enigmatic smile with which Danvers answered him.
In the short term, Preacher soon found himself with a lot more to occupy him. By midmorning, the column had made ten miles, a new record since adopting the abandoned wagon train. It had been accomplished with no end of grumbling by the pilgrims. When Gus Beecher cantered up to the head of the column for the third time, Preacher knew he was in for more.
“Blast and damn, this pace is killing my mules,” the burly blacksmith complained. “You have to slow down.”
The colonel would not deign to address whining civilians. Instead he cut his eyes to Preacher in a silent order to the mountain man to handle the situation. Preacher sighed and made reply.
“We don’t have to do anything of the sort. I can’t see a reason to have to explain this again, but here goes. This is a military expedition. It is under orders to git along the trail at the convenience of the Dragoon Battalion Commander. That be Colonel Danvers here. He says we gotta make better time, we make better time. You may not like it, I may not like it. But we ain’t got any say in it. I told you before, Mr. Beecher, to get rid of some of that heavy load yerself or do it at gunpoint. If I was you, I’d hightail it back to that wagon and start heavin’ heavy things out as you go.”
“You can’t do this to me. I— I’ll protest.”
Finally, Danvers bestirred himself to partake in the exchange. “To whom?”
“Wh-why to the War Department.”
“Go right ahead,” Danvers challenged in a brittle tone. “I estimate the next post will run through here in about fifty years.”
Gus Beecher muttered that he would hold a meeting, circulate a petition. Lieutenant Colonel Danvers put on a nasty smile. “Oh, you do that, Mr. Beecher. I love to read petitions.”
Instantly deflated, Beecher uttered a muffled curse and turned away. He had ridden halfway down the column when, suddenly, a force of over a hundred Blackfoot braves in war paint rushed down on the cavalcade from one side and the rear. Women and children, out gleaning deadfall firewood along the way, dropped their bundles and ran, screaming in terror. Rifles cracked among the Indians and a slight-built boy of twelve went sprawling. At once a shrill howl of anguish came from the rear of a wagon.
“My boy! They’ve killed my Jimmy.”
An arrow thudded into the tail gate in direct line with her body and she was violently thrust back out of sight. Nearly every Indian had a rifle, which they fired at once, with much enthusiasm, albeit little accuracy.
NINETEEN
Whooping and howling, the Blackfoot rode just inside range and loosed a flight of arrows. Commands had been shouted up and down the files of Dragoons and the troops immediately responded with a furious volley.
“Reload!” More order came to the troops as their unseasoned officers gained control. “Volley by Companies! ... Company A, take aim . . . fire! Reload. Company B, take aim . . . fire!”
So it went, down the line of the four companies. Forty rifles crackling in answer. Then, yipping, the Blackfoot rode away. A final volley raced after them. A dozen rifles fired a parting shot from the rear of the column and the Indians departed. Silence returned to the cavalcade, except for the sobbing of the woman whose son had been killed.
Their respite lasted only a short while. The hostiles swarmed down on their white enemy once more. This time the discipline drilled into them by Iron Shirt and his closest followers dissolved when six warriors toppled from their saddles. Hooting and shrieking war cries, the braves turned their charge into a scramble for individual honors.
It became a pigeon shoot for even the most inept Dragoons, a source of deep disillusionment for the Blackfoot as one after another of the braves fell dead from their ponies. Time enough had gone by to calm troops and civilians alike. They now brought withering fire on the hostiles. Preacher took time, while reloading, to pose a question to Danvers.
“Might be none o’ my business, but I wonder why you didn’t put out flankers today.”
For an instant, the colonel stiffened; then he forced geniality into his voice. “You’re right, it’s none of your business. The truth is, I grew overconfident. Are these some of your friendly Cheyenne?”
“Nope. Blackfoot, though I’m damned if I can come up with a reason for them to be so far east. Unless . . . that prophet of theirs got them all riled up and is out smokin’ the war trail.”
Danvers spoke darkly, as though privy to some secret. “That had better not be the case.”
Dangerously close to the wagons, within twenty-five yards, the Blackfoot lost their nerve at last. They scattered up a red-orange slope, so many coppery leaves in a whirlwind. Bullets followed them, though only Preacher’s, his companions’, and BSM Muldoon’s scored in flesh. Not to be daunted, Danvers issued fateful orders.
“First and Second Platoon, C Company, pursue the enemy. Lieutenant Brice in command. Move ’em out!”
“I woul — ” Preacher made to dissuade the Dragoon commander, then cut off his words at sight of the wild light in the colonel’s eyes. Stubborn man, Preacher thought, let him learn the hard way.
With a full platoon at left and right, Lieutenant Brice led the charge from the middle. The big, powerful Dragoon horses churned up the rise and hesitated only a fraction of a second before plunging down the reverse slope. They had barely gone out of sight when all hell broke loose.
Preacher did not wait for the realization to come over Danvers. Driving heels in the ribs of Tarnation, he shouted to Captain Dreiling. “Come on, Cap’n, bring the rest of yer company. Let’s go get your men back.”
With Danvers sputtering alone at the head of the column, the entire Dragoon battalion broke ranks and charged over the rise. In the lead, Preacher took encouragement from the continued crackling exchange. It had to be a small ambush to keep the troops alive so long. The big-chested, Morgan-cross, Tarnation, ate ground at a dazzling pace.
Preacher and the two remaining platoons of C Company slammed into the surprised Blackfoot war party before the Indians could react. The thunderous crash of Hall carbines drowned out their shrill war cries. To Preacher’s right a Blackfoot swung around and fired his rifle one-handed. For all his lack of accuracy, the ball moaned past Preacher’s head close enough for the mountain man to feel its wind. Preacher rode low now, the reins in his teeth, and the Hawken bucked in his grip. His shot hit the Blackfoot high in the chest, on the center line. Knocked to one side, the warrior disappeared under the hooves of his companions’ horses.
With the Hawken dry, Preacher shoved it into the scabbard and pivoted at the waist to find another target. Plenty presented themselves. The Walker Colt spat lead and creased ribs on a youthful Blackfoot not yet out of his teens. Bone and meat flew in a welter of blood, and Preacher reckoned that the man-child would have a fist-sized depression on that side for the rest of his life. Preacher cocked the hammer as another Blackfoot swung his empty rifle at the head of the mountain man.
Powder smoke obscured the scene, so Preacher could not see the results of his hasty shot. The rifle butt did not meet his chin, so he rightly assumed he’d scored a good hit. Suddenly, the remaining Indians swung away from the onslaught of so many soldiers and rode swiftly out of range. Preacher took quick count.
Six Indian bodies littered the ground, and only one soldier had been killed. Seven had suffered minor wounds, though. Lieutenant Brice, his y
outhful face begrimed by greasy powder residue, dismounted and surveyed the scene. Then, Danvers cantered up, his saber drawn, and glowered at Preacher and Captain Dreiling.
“I demand to know who ordered that charge.”
Dreiling cut his eyes to Preacher, who winked at him. “I do not know, sir. I did not. It ... sort of ... just happened.”
Danvers surveyed the scene. “We’ll not go after them. Mr. Preacher, your point about ambushes is noted and stored for reference.” He turned to the Battalion Sergeant Major. “Sergeant Major Muldoon, return the men to the column.”
Talking Cloud was decidedly unhappy. The medicine of Iron Shirt had deserted them. Of the number of warriors with which he had started— one hundred and seventeen—he had five hands killed and seven hands wounded. He directed the survivors to the big war camp to the west. There he went directly to Three Horses who listened to his complaints with obvious indifference. It only served to inflame Talking Cloud more.
“How could Iron Shirt’s medicine have failed us?” Talking Cloud demanded hotly.
“They did not believe enough in the medicine, or they would be alive,” Three Horses concluded about the dead. “Or they were not purified enough.”
“You did not hear me. Twenty-five men killed, thirty-five wounded. Not that many could be impure or doubtful at the same time. That means we will not be able to guard our village from the Shoshoni this winter.”
“Then take your people to the Bighorn Mountains.”
Not satisfied in the least with this, Talking Cloud went in search of Iron Shirt. He found the visionary medicine man in the process of initiating a group of twenty-five Cheyenne. Talking Cloud viewed the proceedings with far less conviction than before. When the rite had been concluded and the mail shirt exposed, Talking Cloud took Iron Shirt aside. He wasted no time on diplomacy.
“Why is it that your rebirth in water and the gauntlet of coals did not purify the warriors killed so far?”
Blackfoot Messiah Page 17