Blackfoot Messiah

by William W. Johnstone

  “We are a war party. And I have a band of my own now. I no longer listen to the words of Cloud Blanket.”

  Preacher cocked a brow. “You two at odds? That’s a shame. What happened?”

  “Cloud Blanket turned away from the Iron Shield Society.”

  “What is that?”

  “A new warrior society, with powerful medicine. It was brought to us by a Blackfoot shaman.”

  “Oh, yes, Iron Shirt.” Preacher cocked a brow and continued shrewdly. “But Iron Shirt does not speak for the Cheyenne, now that I know for a fact. An’ I don’t think he speaks for Swift Bear.”

  Swift Bear curled his lower lip outward a moment before replying. “We follow him in the great battle.”

  “What fight is that?”

  “To rid our land of the white men. Iron Shirt leads us in that.”

  “But he doesn’t tell you what to do with a friend.”

  “No. That is so. True though it is, I cannot simply release White Ghost. You were spying on a war camp.”

  Preacher put on an unhappy expression, then brightened with a show of hope. “There is a way, though, isn’t there?”

  A brief smile showed Swift Bear followed Preacher’s logic. “You could . . . fight your way free.”

  “You mean, take on the whole mess of you?”

  Swift Bear shook his head. “No. If you could fight your way past ten warriors, you could go on your way in peace.”

  “What about my friend? He looks a mite worse for wear. Could I fight for his release, too?”

  Considering that a while, Swift Bear finally made answer. “You would have to better four hands of men for that.” At Preacher’s unhappy expression, he added. “Or you could fight one man to the death.”

  “I would have to fight any man you send against me?” At the nod from Swift Bear, he went on. “If I win, me an’ my friend go free and unharmed?”

  “That is so. And if you do not defeat my choice, let us hope you both die like men.”

  “What weapons will we use?”

  “That will be decided by the council tonight.”

  Preacher had another, vital question to ask. “Who will I fight?”

  Swift Bear remained silent, let his gaze roam over the gathered warriors. Then he made a gesture that summoned an important-looking Blackfoot. The two spoke too quietly for Preacher to hear. When they had decided, Swift Bear turned back to Preacher.

  “I have asked my brother, Three Horses, who he thinks should uphold our honor. He has suggested that it would be fitting for Tall Bull to claim your scalp. Tall Bull is a Blackfoot, one who has taken the way of Iron Shirt and is immune to the weapons of the white man.”

  By the slightest value of intonation, Preacher managed to keep sarcasm out of his voice when he replied dryly, “Well, then, I don’t think pistols would be a fair choice for weapons. I need at least a little chance to win.”

  “You will learn of our decision tomorrow. When the sun is high, the fight will begin.”

  Preacher and Antoine spent an uneasy night. In the chill mountain air, they soon found themselves stiffening and had to clench their jaws to keep their teeth from chattering. Tied to the trunks of a pair of saplings, they could not even lay out full-length to sleep. When morning came, their muscles had grown knotted and sore.

  Thoughtfully, Swift Bear had ordered them cut loose and, while food was brought to them, they worked out the kinks. They were kept under control by rawhide tethers around their waists. Preacher ate with his usual appetite; a stew made of some sort of meat he could not identify. Then he began to exercise lightly.

  Relentlessly the sun climbed the sky while Preacher continued to stretch, bend and run in place. All the while, he tried to think through a strategy to insure he won. When he worked up a light sheen of sweat and his muscles seemed as smooth in operation as usual, he stopped and sat beside Antoine.

  Lacking tact, Antoine brought up one of several old acquaintances who had undergone such a challenge. “Remember ol’ Kip? He had to fight for his life one time like this. Against the Arapaho, I believe. Too bad it kilt him.”

  “Now, that’s a fact. How about French Jake, though? He came through it missin’ only three fingers of one hand. Gives a feller real inspiration, that does.”

  Antoine had more encouragement. “How about ol’ Jim Bridger? Seems he ran afoul of some excitable Paiutes. They was fixed to torture him and burn him alive, only he talked them into a fight, best man wins all. Now, you know the Paiutes is sneaky. He had to fight three men before they kept their word. Killed all three Jim did. With only a couple light cuts on his arms.”

  “Not to mention a slice on one cheek that near tooken out one eye.”

  Antoine cut a slantways glance at Preacher. “You sound like you’re regrettin’ this fight already.”

  Preacher slid his gaze to the whiskered face of his companion. “Now that you mention it, maybe I am.”

  “You want out of it?” probed Antoine.

  “I want out of here. An’ the only way to do that is go through with a fight.”

  Antoine offered a crumb of hope. “You coulda said no.”

  “An’ we’d been killed on the spot. Nope, that’s not for this child. I plan on livin’ a whole long time after this affair.”

  “We’ve had some good times, haven’t we, Preacher?”

  “You goin’ softhearted on me, Antoine?”

  “Not me, mon ami. I was . . . only thinking.”

  “About what?”

  Antoine sighed heavily. “We both know of more men that failed to get through such an ordeal than those who did. I feel responsible in a way. It is as though if I had not been along, you might have gotten away.”

  “Nonsense, my friend. You did not cause this. I failed to keep careful watch. They found us and nabbed us, an’ here we are. But I think I’ve figgered a way out for us. It would be crazy to expect that I’ll not get hurt some in the process.”

  Sincerity radiated from the respectful expression Antoine wore. “By le bon Dieu, Preacher, you have more sand than any ten men I know. God go with you.”

  Preacher swallowed hard at the lump that had suddenly appeared in his throat. “Thank you, Antoine.”

  Before they expected it, the time arrived for the mortal combat. Down the slope a way, the Cheyenne and their tenuous allies gathered in a large, loose circle around a bare spot of ground. Swift Bear and four of his warriors came for Preacher. Two of them escorted Antoine Revier while the other pair accompanied Preacher. To muttered insults, Preacher’s captors shouldered a path through the crowd and delivered him to the center. Then they released the tether and stepped back.

  A loud clamor rose as Tall Bull stepped through the ranks of spectators. His name suited him to perfection. He towered well over six feet, with thick muscles and tree-trunk legs. His hands were the size of a grizzly’s paws and his head would not fit the largest hat size. He had Preacher by five inches and a good fifty-five pounds. Swift Bear came forward and handed each man a knife and a tomahawk. Relief coursed through Preacher when he found that the weapons were his own. Then the Cheyenne chief stepped back and motioned for the contestants to face him.

  “This is a fight to the death. You will use no other weapons than those given you. If you lose both, you may use hands, feet, and teeth. It is in the hands of the Great Spirit, and up to your skill, to decide who will win.”

  With that, he melted back into the inner ring of onlookers and raised his arm. “Let the fight begin.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  Warily, the two fighters circled, intent on studying each other’s strengths and weaknesses. Tall Bull, with the advantage of size and weight, struck first. His tomahawk whistled loudly in a roundhouse swing. Preacher lithely sprang out of the way. Instantly he retaliated with a flick of his left wrist.

  The keen edge of his Greenriver knife bit into flesh over the left eye of Tall Bull. A sheet of blood washed over the lid and obscured his vision. In the instant of hesitation that ca
used, Preacher lashed out with his war ’hawk and lightly nicked Tall Bull over the left hipbone. A heavier stream of blood flowed down the Blackfoot’s leg. The spectators raised an angry roar.

  Tall Bull stumbled twice, then flexed his knees and coiled his body for another attack. He came in straight, tomahawk whirring in a silvery blur before his face. Knife held with the edge up, he feinted for the proper opening and drove the blade forward. Preacher jumped high in the air and brought his ’hawk down on the haft of the one in the hand of his adversary.

  Sharp pain radiated up the arm of Tall Bull and he nearly dropped his tomahawk. Then he shifted his weight and spun in a full circle. When he saw the hated white man again, he let out a howl and swung his knife with all his force. The stroke split Preacher’s buckskin shirt from his left hip to his right shoulder. A thin ribbon of blood oozed from the chest of Preacher. Off balance from his effort to avoid the deadly steel, he stumbled over his own feet.

  Down Preacher went, but not before Tall Bull charged forward and sank the sharp edge of his tomahawk into the thick muscle of Preacher’s upper chest. By immediately going slack the blade did not cut through bone or pierce a lung. Preacher hastily rolled to one side. He recovered before Tall Bull could follows up his advantage. Panther quick, Preacher smacked the Cheyenne in the gut with the flat of his blade.

  Groaning, Tall Bull doubled over. Preacher sacrificed a chance to get in another blow to return to his feet. Slowly, a plan began to form in his mind. Swinging rapidly in a figure-eight, Preacher made the blade of his ’hawk a continuous blur between them. Inexorably he edged Tall Bull backward, toward a large, old tree. Eyes fixed over the shoulder of Tall Bull, Preacher gauged his distance. When he had the Blackfoot in the proper position, he feinted to his left, then whirled right and ran around the slower-moving Tall Bull.

  Seeing an opening, Tall Bull rushed in. His arm raised above his head, he was prepared to split Preacher’s skull. The moment his opponent committed himself to the blow, Preacher dropped flat on the ground. Unable to arrest his motion, Tall Bull buried his tomahawk in the tree trunk up to the haft. Swiftly, Preacher cut a line across the exposed belly of Tall Bull, which released a river of blood.

  Tall Bull choked back a howl of pain while he struggled to free his weapon from the wooden vise. Suddenly aware that Preacher was on the way up, momentary panic seized him. Unable to free his war ’hawk, Tall Bull abandoned it for his knife, which he changed to his right hand.

  Making a shrewd surmise, Preacher tossed away his own ’hawk and shifted to his Greenriver. This gesture brought the first sound of appreciation from the spectators. Preacher stepped in and began to circle. Awkward and uncertain, his reservoir of cunning and strength bleeding out through his wounds, Tall Bull did likewise. Grimly, the fight went on.

  Steel clashed on steel as Preacher parried an overhand thrust. Pain flowed through his chest like fire. Both men danced back and circled again. Tall Bull moved slower, his shoulders drooped and his head canted forward. He gasped in great drafts of air and vigilantly sought an opening. At last he sensed a flaw in Preacher’s defense. With a deep grunt he lunged forward on his right leg and drove the tip of the blade toward Preacher’s belly.

  All at once, the knife in Preacher’s hand showed up where it should not be. It deflected the blade of Tall Bull as Preacher spun away out of danger. Loss of his target sent Tall Bull stumbling to one side, bent over and vulnerable. The wound in Preacher’s shoulder stung mightily as he tried to reverse his swing and plunge the Greenriver into the soft side of Tall Bull.

  Having missed his lunge, Tall Bull knew the cold loneliness of desperation. Slowly he calmed his racing emotions. In sudden inspiration, he bent lower and snatched up a handful of dust and pebbles. Recovering his balance, he turned and hurled the contents of his hand into the face of Preacher.

  Blinded, Preacher dropped low and did a forward roll. After two turns he crashed into the legs of the onlookers and, before Tall Bull could close on him, snatched a remembered gourd of water from between the nearest Cheyenne’s legs. Quickly he poured the contents over his head and blinked his vision clear as he came to one knee. He managed it in time to keep from having Tall Bull’s knife buried in his back.

  Slowly Preacher yielded to the relentless pressure of the heavy, muscular warrior who had crashed into him. He shifted his feet and used the momentum of Tall Bull to throw the Blackfoot over one hip and send him crashing into the Cheyenne spectators. Immediately, Preacher regained his equilibrium and lashed out a foot.

  His kick caught Tall Bull in the side of the head. Instantly groggy, Tall Bull momentarily lost sight of his opponent. Seizing his chance, Preacher dove in and made a quick slash that cut the throat of Tall Bull, who dropped to the ground, where he died before the gasping Preacher. A long, stunned silence followed.

  Frowning, Two Moons stepped forward to clasp forearms with Preacher. “You have won fairly, White Ghost. Take your friend, your weapons and horses and ride out in peace. You will not be harmed.”

  Preacher and Antoine made the return trip to the fort in a day and a half. They paused only to dress Preacher’s wounds and to rest their mounts. Preacher had grown feverish by the time they came in sight of the partly erected palisade. He rejected the suggestion made by Captain Dreiling that he see Major Couglin. Like most mountain men, he was wary of the medical profession.

  “You never hear a pill-roller say he’s doing medicine. They’re all the time practicin, which says to me they ain’t got it right yet,” he growled at the Dragoon officer’s repeated insistence. Instead, he sent Antoine Revier and Three Sleeps Norris to find some special moss, leaves and spiderwebs.

  When Eve Billings heard of his condition she came at once to the lean-to where Preacher lay. His forehead was dew-slicked with perspiration, and he had sunk into an uneasy sleep. His dry lips parted and he muttered unintelligible words. Eve knelt at his side and dabbed his mouth with a water-soaked cloth. Preacher moaned and shuddered reflexively.

  Gibberish spilled from his tongue. “Ubbajubba.”

  By that time, his companions had returned with their shopping list filled. Eve looked up at them in an appeal. “Why didn’t he go to the Army doctor?”

  Three Sleeps answered her. “Stubborn fool won’t have no truck with a doctor. Says a Cheyenne medicine man can cure a feller faster. An’ a shaman won’t cut anything off.”

  Secretly, Eve agreed. She saw as hopelessly medieval the popular assumption that amputation was the solution for nearly everything that would not respond to bleeding. Yet, Preacher obviously had an infection. The inflamed skin around the wound, the steady ooze of yellow matter from the broken scab pointed to no other possibility.

  “We brought the things Preacher wanted.” Antoine Revier offered the reed basket to Eve for her inspection.

  What she saw made her nose wrinkle. “Do you know how to mix these?”

  Revier, the half-French, half-Delaware mountain man answered eagerly. “Yes, ma’am. More or less that is. If Preacher was awake, he’d know the exact amount. We’ll jist add a dab of this and a drop of that until it starts to pull the pus outta that wound.”

  A bullfrog croak came from the supine Preacher. “I am awake, damnit. Now listen.” He went on to give the proportions of each ingredient.

  Antoine mixed them while Eve hovered over Preacher. Then the jaunty son of a voyageur grew serious while he poured whisky over Preacher’s wound and scraped away all of the scab with his knife. Next came the poultice, which Antoine packed deeply into the cut. Finally, while Three Sleeps lifted Preacher’s shoulder and Eve held his head, Antoine bound the wound with a folded strip of cheese cloth he had purchased off Hattie Honeycutt, then wrapped a thin, thoroughly wet strip of well-boiled buckskin over that.

  “There,” he pronounced over his ministrations. “That should start to draw right nicely by this evening. Tomorrow, he’ll be up and sassy as ever.”

  Not at all convinced, Eve asked, “Are you sure?”

 
; Antoine considered it. “By noonin’ time, at least.”

  Decidedly uneasy, Eve made an offer. “If you don’t mind, I’ll watch over him part of the evening, give you two a rest.”

  “Fine with me,” Three Sleeps agreed. “I’m sure Preacher would rather wake up lookin’ at your face instead of one of ours.”

  Regardless of the assurances given by Three Sleeps Norris, three days passed before Preacher awoke from his septic delirium and made conscious note of his surroundings. He forced a delighted smile, though too weak to sustain it long, when he found Eve Billings dutifully at his side with a damp cloth ready to salve his fevered brow. That his mind had not suffered became immediately clear.

  “How long?” he asked.

  Eve fought back the tears of joy and relief that formed in her hazel eyes. “Three days. You . . . you were very sick.”

  Preacher made little of it. “Weren’t nothin’. A li’l bout of sweats is all.”

  “Preacher you nearly burned up with fever. Dr. Coughlin wanted to bleed you. I told him I’d take a shotgun to him if he tried.”

  Lips curled in a feeble smile, Preacher expressed his gratitude for that. “An Army sawbones is good for only one thing. Makin’ a feller worse off.” His voice gained strength and a gentle warmth. “Thank you for lookin’ out for me, Eve. I’m much beholdin’.”

  “No thanks needed. Call it ...” Go on, say it, her mind told her. “Call it a labor of love.” Then she stumbled on. “Your friends took turns with me, watching over you.” Eve reached out and wiped Preacher’s brow a final time.

  A week went by before Preacher walked abroad unaided in the fast-growing compound. The first floor of the headquarters had been completed, along with a long, low, warehouse sort of building for the quartermaster. First to go up, Preacher had pointed out to him by Antoine Revier, had been the sutler’s.

  “He has some near quality whisky,” Antoine advised.