Blackfoot Messiah

by William W. Johnstone

  A soft clang came as fine steel met hard head. The teenaged Sioux slumped forward onto the neck of his mount and twitched slightly. Preacher sprang forward and dragged him from the pony. With rawhide thongs he bound the youth, gagged him and left him in a shallow draw. Quietly, he moved on in search of another guard.

  Three Sleeps Norris all but blundered into the first of the herd watchers on his side. He surged up out of a gully and found himself not three feet from the broad, bronze back of a Sioux warrior. He recovered quickly enough and brained the warrior with a pistol barrel.

  One less to worry about. Gliding on moccasins through the grass, Three Sleeps continued to skirt the horses. He had nearly completed his third of the circuit when he came upon another guard. This one showed wide-eyed surprise at suddenly being confronted by a white man.

  “War—” he blurted a moment before Three Sleeps silenced him with a hard fist to the jaw. The brave went slack, then heaved himself upward from the ground.

  Three Sleeps rapped him back into quiet with the flat of his tomahawk. In no time he had the Sioux bound and gagged. Then he started back, to cover the same ground and make certain he had gotten them all.

  Antoine Revier slithered, belly down, through the grass. A chubby, moon-faced youth lounged against a tree trunk. His hand went constantly to his mouth and Antoine realized he was eating something. The French-Delaware cut to his right to circle the herd guard and came upon him from the rear. In the end it became all too easy.

  Gnawing on the hind leg of a roast rabbit, the drowsy, fat, young man could not have heard the last trump due to his sensual absorption with food. Antoine’s left arm circled his neck and choked off the air. Surprise caused the Sioux to suck fragments of flesh into his lungs. He began to choke and thrash.

  Antoine silenced him with a doeskin bag of damp sand taken from the creek. The hapless sentry would have a lump the size of his fist on his head the next morning, provided he didn’t strangle on his meal. The brave tied tightly and dragged out of sight into some brush, his assailant ghosted away into the night. There would be at least one more, Antoine thought grimly.

  By prearrangement, the trio of mountain men met back at the spot where they had separated. Each had taken out two of the young watchmen. Being careful not to raise an alarm, they started to cut out ponies from the herd. When they had what Preacher estimated to be between twenty and thirty, they eased them away from the rest and headed toward the Cheyenne camp.

  When they had come a safe distance, Antoine Revier whispered softly to Preacher, “I can understand, you bein’ right friendly with the Cheyenne, why we’d not do any permanent damage, but why spare them cutthroats. The Lakota are bad news.”

  Preacher answered him readily enough. “Also they are allies of the Cheyenne, and considered to be cousins from sometime in the far-off past. No sense in riling them too much. Thing is to get them to break this alliance with the bloodthirsty Blackfoot.”

  “Well and good, Preacher, but for me, I’d as soon kill ’em all,” Three Sleeps offered.

  Preacher tendered his assurances. “I think we’ll have us some fun this way.”

  When they drew close to the Cheyenne camp, Preacher and his friends slipped onto the backs of three ponies and whipped the others up into a gallop. Whooping and caterwauling, they soon turned the gallop into a stampede. Jolted out of their ruminations on lush sweet grass, the animals bounded toward the camp.

  Pounding in among the lodges, the ponies created havoc. Warriors, dopey with sleep, struggled into loincloths and stumbled out into the path of the horses. Meanwhile, Preacher, Three Sleeps and Antoine overturned several hide tents and set more afire. Only a few stray arrows challenged them. Howling with laughter, they rode well beyond the Cheyenne village to where they had left their own horses.

  Dawn brought back the warriors, boiling with anger this time. After a night of medicine dances, their faith had been restored in Iron Shirt and his Iron Shield ritual. The insults the Sioux and Cheyenne had endured at the hands of Preacher and his friends had not turned them from the alliance. Rather it had stiffened their resolve. They hurled themselves at the stockade with total disregard for personal safety. Braided horsehide lariats snaked over the pointed poles of the outer wall and found purchase on some.

  “They’re comin’ up the walls!” shouted a nervous lieutenant in Company D.

  “Shoot ’em off,” Preacher grunted.

  Fire arrows joined the arsenal of the Blackfoot. The smoking, flame-tipped, shafts whirred over the palisade and thudded into the ground. Two landed on the roof of headquarters, only to be extinguished quickly by the soldiers stationed there, at Preacher’s suggestion, for that purpose.

  Three Sleeps pointed in the direction of headquarters. “Those fellers are gettin’ riled some.”

  Preacher inclined his head. “Let’s hope they don’t have too many of those.”

  With the scalers repulsed, the hostiles drew back a little and the battle became a protracted exchange of gunfire. Using all the speed they could, the Blackfoot and their allies reloaded and fired at the men on the walls.

  Lieutenant Colonel Danvers called together the company commanders of Company A and D. “We can sweep them from in front of the gate with a counterattack.”

  Captain Bronston of Company D scratched at a bald spot on his head. “Do you think that’s wise, sir? Once we’re exposed, the massive force on the west could flank us and roll us up right smartly.”

  “Mr. Preacher assured me that when something went wrong for the savages, they would break off an assault and scatter. I’m confident they will do the same now.”

  Bronston had a ready reply. “Yes, sir, but haven’t you noticed that they are fighting in a disciplined manner for once. It is as though someone has introduced them to tactical concepts. If that’s the case, they will attack.”

  “We need to find that out, don’t we? Prepare your companies for a counterattack, gentlemen. The gun crew has come up with grapeshot loads from fifty-four-caliber balls we have in reserve. We can cover you with the cannon.”

  “Yes, sir. Sabers, sir?”

  Lieutenant Cal. Danvers considered Captain Bronston’s suggestion a moment. “Yes, I think so. Leave your carbines behind.”

  It had been a facetious offering and the response took Bronston by surprise. Still, he replied quickly. “But the Halls offer us our best firepower.”

  “Your men cannot hold both in their hands at the same time. You’d only get off two shots at best. Pistols and sabers, Captain Bronston.” He turned away.

  Ten minutes later, the sally port swung open and the two companies charged out and around the flank of the Cheyenne and Sioux positions. Sabers gleamed in the sun as they descended on the unsuspecting hostiles. Only a few reared upward and fired their rifles at the fast-approaching Dragoons. Pistols barked, and those who resisted died where they stood.

  Keen edges flashed deadly light as the Dragoons hacked and slashed their way through the massed forces of warriors. Faster than Captain Bronston imagined, the flank turned back on itself and Indians fell to both sides, wounded or dead. Word of the attack raced through the warriors. It took little time to rally the Blackfoot to come to the aid of their allies.

  By that time, the Dragoon charge had come level with the main gate. With a roar of encouragement for the beleaguered, the Blackfoot swarmed around the corner of the stockade and rushed toward the soldiers. Arrows and rifle balls flew toward the mounted troops. Still they prevailed. With a sharp roar, the cannon detonated. Thin shrieks filled the air as the insubstantial leather sheath stripped from the improvised grapeshot. The balls rippled as they passed in front of the Dragoons. At once, some of the men among the Blackfoot began to scream in agony.

  Captain Borden, who commanded the counterattack, raised his saber above his head. “Turn about! To the rear . . . Hooo!”

  Back through the disorganized hostiles they rode. More of the Cheyenne and Sioux suffered from the pistols and blades in the hands o
f the Dragoons. Ahead of them, the sally port swung open and the troops streamed toward it.

  Fighting dragged on into the afternoon. Preacher offered his opinion of the counterattack. “They lost eight Dragoons kilt an’ another eleven wounded. Damn waste of time, I say.”

  Around three o’clock, nature intervened to disrupt the plans of Iron Shirt. Huge towers of black thunderclouds billowed up in the northwest. They moved swiftly across the Bighorns. Lightning flashed and crackled through the heavy air. The first sheet of rain swept over the finger of land toward Fort Washington at three-ten.

  In seconds it turned to a solid downpour. Visibility shrank to mere feet. The three-pounder became inoperative. Already short on ammunition, the hostiles hunkered in the chill deluge and engaged in only desultory return fire. Another benefit the way Preacher saw it, the drencher softened the bow strings of the warriors, which rendered them useless.

  Silently, they began to stream away from the walls of Fort Washington. Disappointed in this reversal, the Blackfoot, Cheyenne and Sioux did not even cast glances back at their relieved enemy. When the last of them plodded out of range, a shrill, worried voice came to Preacher’s ears.

  “Anna! Anna! Charlie, have you seen Anna anywhere?”

  “No, Mom,” Charlie Billings called back, sudden guilt burning his face red. “Where was she?”

  “I ... I don’t know. I left her at the cave with you. When the storm came up, I thought she would surely stay.”

  “She’s not here now.”

  Eve Billings saw Preacher on the wall and hurried to the stairs that led upward. Worry creased her brow when she approached the mountain man. “Preacher, Anna is missing. I can’t find her anywhere.”

  “We’ll look.” Preacher grated the words out.

  Twenty minutes later, every corner and nook of the fort had been searched without results. Preacher brought Eve the bad news.

  “I don’t know how, or why, but somehow Anna has gotten out of the fort.”

  “Oh, my God. You have to find her.”

  Despite the visions Preacher had about the appeal of a sweet-faced, blond little girl to a Cheyenne or Sioux warrior, he spared Eve that torment. “I’ll do ever’thing I can. Don’t you worry. It may take a while, but I’ll turn over mountains to find her.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  Not until Preacher passed well beyond the ground churned up by the Indians did he find any sign of Anna Billings. He suspected that she had become terrified of the constant fighting and later the crackling lightning and the boom of thunder. Somehow, in the midst of the furious storm, she had managed to slip away. The small door in the sally port had been found partly open. It stood to reason that the eight-year-old had drawn the latch and left the fort by that means. Preacher’s major concern centered around the very good chance that she had been seen by some of the stragglers among the Indians and taken captive.

  He found it encouraging when he came upon her small shoe prints in the mud, at a right angle to the direction traveled by the retreating hostiles. It did not eliminate the possibility of her capture. She could have escaped from her captors, Preacher speculated. If so, they would be coming after her. The wind diminished slowly as he followed her sign. Preacher quickly recognized the terrain. Her trail led down into the valley where Goose Creek ran through, made swift and turbulent by the dam and water wheel.

  Preacher swung Tarnation northward to stay with her steps as they led toward the mill. He surmised that the small building there had been her goal. Ahead of him now, he thought he saw a frilly, lace-trimmed collar and flaxen head. He urged Tarnation to a faster pace. Satisfaction glowed in Preacher’s chest when he pushed through the tall grass and saw Anna on the bank of the treacherous stream.

  Calmly, she went about unlacing her shoes. She was going to cross, Preacher realized. The creek bank looked insubstantial and slippery. He drummed heels into Tarnation’s flanks. The hooves squished noisily in the sodden turf, the thump of their impact muffled. Not enough, though.

  Anna looked up wide-eyed at picking up sounds of the rapid approach. Unable to recognize Preacher in the low light from an overcast sky, she saw only a huge horse looming over her, remembered the charging Indians, and panicked. With only thought of escape in her mind, the girl sprang to her feet and took a step toward the water. A second later, the saturated soil of the bank gave way under even her slight weight.

  With a thin scream, Anna Billings toppled forward into the stream fully clothed. Swollen by the rain, Goose Creek ran swiftly. Anna wailed in terror as the current swept her quickly downstream.

  Preacher shouted encouragement as he skidded Tarnation to a halt. “Anna! Hold on. I’m coming.”

  He took time only to shuck his heavy holsters and Walker Colts, his hat and moccasins. Then he dove into the roiling water. Anna’s fair hair formed a dim halo on the surface as she was whirled away.

  “Get on your back,” Preacher shouted. “Try to float.”

  Anna tried, failed, and went under. She came up sputtering. “I can’t. My dress pulls me down,” she wailed. “Please help me.”

  Preacher drew closer with powerful strokes. “Take off your dress.”

  A deeper look of horror came on Anna’s face. “I c-can’t. I don’t have a petticoat.”

  Preacher was barely over an arm’s length from her. “Do it anyway. That thing could suck you under for good.”

  Small fingers tugging at the stubborn buttons, Anna undid her dress far enough to allow its sodden weight to drag it free from her body.

  Two more strokes and Preacher reached her. He slid an arm under both of hers and across her bare chest. “Now we’ve gotta get out of this current.”

  One-armed, he pulled at the turbulent water at an oblique angle to that of the stream. It soon became hard work. Preacher strained until the cords in his neck stood out like whitened ropes. To his gratitude, Anna did not try to fight the water. He noted progress when a large rock flashed past. Preacher recognized its shape and knew it to be close to the near-side bank.

  A few more stout pulls, legs scissoring to provide thrust, and Preacher felt mud and sand beneath his toes. He relaxed and stood upright. Gasping for breath he sized up their situation. Anna clung to him like a monkey. Staggered by the rush of water and his burden, Preacher made unsteady progress to a bar of pebbles and sand that extended into the creek. Once there, he put the girl down.

  “You’ve only one shoe. Best that you take it off ‘stead of limpin’.”

  Tears welled in Anna’s eyes. “Thank you, Preacher. You saved me.”

  Preacher looked down, embarrassed. “It was me scared you into the crick in the first place.”

  “Did . . . did your horse run away?”

  “No. He’ll stay where I dropped the reins. We’d best be movin’, get you a blanket.”

  When the naked Anna was wrapped warmly, Preacher handed her up onto the back of Tarnation, then mounted behind her. The girl gave not even a single backward glance at the stream that had come so close to claiming her life.

  On the way, Preacher swung Tarnation down into a gully to keep off the skyline. They rounded a bend in the ancient, eroded riverbed and came face-to-face with five grim-visaged Cheyenne warriors.

  “Oh-oh, missy, it looks like we’ve jumped into some trouble,” Preacher told Anna calmly while he lifted and shifted her to one side to put her behind him.

  Correctly reading Preacher’s intention to fight, the Cheyenne raised their weapons. Preacher tensed and drew both of his Walker Colts. His intention was to weaken the Cheyenne enough to crash through and make a run for it. The fight was about to begin.

  Then, at the last moment, an older warrior drifted down the shallow bank. He raised his right arm in a commanding gesture and called to his fellow Cheyenne.

  “Hold! Do not attack this man. I know him well. He is a friend.”

  He trotted forward then and greeted Preacher. “Ho, White Ghost, it seems that you are always helping little children.”

&n
bsp; Preacher recognized him at once. “Cloud Blanket, you look the same as when I last saw you.”

  Cloud Blanket turned in his saddle so the other Cheyenne could hear his words. He spoke in his own tongue. “I made you my brother when you rescued my little son and daughter from that bison stampede on our hunting grounds that summer long ago.”

  Preacher smiled and replied in the same language. “I remember it like it was yesterday.”

  Cloud Blanket gestured to the five warriors. “These men scout for my band. I am moving far to the east because of the unrest among our people.”

  “If you are talking about the fightin’ at the fort, I can understand. What’s your fix on what’s gotten the tribes so stirred up.”

  Cloud Blanket scowled. “It is the doing of one man. Iron Shirt. I will come and talk about it with you over coffee.”

  It all started with a misunderstanding at the main gate. Private Masters, on sentry duty, saw Preacher approaching with an Indian at his side. He drew the obvious conclusion.

  “Corporal of the Guard, Post Number Two. Chief scout returning with a prisoner. Looks like he’s found the girl, too.”

  When Lieutenant Colonel Danvers received word of that, he left his office hastily and went to meet Preacher. Two privates and a nervous Corporal Penny stood around a mounted Indian, weapons leveled. Before Preacher could explain, Danvers burst onto the scene.

  “Corporal Penny, escort the prisoner to the guardhouse.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Preacher protested at once. “Now, hold on a minute. This man is my friend. He’s not a hostile.”

  “He’s an Indian, isn’t he?” Danvers replied.