When All Hell Broke Loose

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  Sutton sipped his coffee and said, “Fine lad, that boy of yours, Jamie.”

  “All my kids are fine,” Jamie replied. “Kate and I have been blessed, no doubt about that.” He drank some of his own coffee, the china cup looking almost like a toy in his massive hands. “You’ve been dodging my questions until Preacher got here, Colonel, and now that he is, I’d appreciate some answers. What’s so important that you had to get us together?”

  Sutton sighed, then, looking like the word tasted bad in his mouth, he said, “Politics.”

  Preacher set his cup aside on a small table and started to rise to his feet. “Reckon I’ll be goin’ now.”

  Sutton held out a hand. “Please, Preacher. Hear me out.”

  Preacher settled back down in the chair and said, “I want to, Colonel, but nothin’ good ever comes outta Washington when the subject is politics.”

  “Don’t you think I know that even better than you do?” asked Sutton. His voice had a hint of sharpness to it. “I have to work in that . . . that foul quagmire and find ways to do some good despite all the venality and avarice that drives the place.”

  “You said something about folks disappearing?” Jamie reminded him.

  “That’s right.” Sutton looked at Preacher. “You’ll listen?”

  “Reckon I will,” the mountain man agreed grudgingly.

  “All right. Five years ago, a group of Prussian nobles came to this country for a tour of our western territory—”

  Preacher was on his feet again. “I mighta knowed! Furriners !”

  “What do you mean by that?” asked Sutton, looking startled by the vehemence of Preacher’s reaction.

  “I’ve had dealin’s with them Prussians before. Even had a sword fight with one o’ the varmints one time. And it ain’t just me who’s run afoul of ’em. I’ve heard plenty o’ stories. Every time a bunch of them Europeans come over here, they wind up gettin’ in trouble, or causin’ trouble. They’ve durned near started more ’n one Injun war. The only thing worse for causin’ trouble on the frontier than those blasted European aristocrats are the fellas who come out west wantin’ to paint paintin’s or write books! Damn paint daubers and word scribblers! Any time you get any o’ those bunches west o’ the Mississipp’, all hell breaks loose!”

  “Generally, that’s been my experience, too,” Jamie added when Preacher paused in his rant to take a breath.

  Sutton nodded. “I can’t deny that our visitors seem to have a habit of bad things happening to them. I think it’s because they can’t really conceive of how vast and dangerous our frontier actually is. But they keep coming, and we can’t very well stop them. We just have to deal with the trouble that follows them.”

  Preacher let out a disgusted snort, but he sat back down. “Go ahead,” he told Sutton. “Like it or not, I reckon you’ve got me curious.”

  “Five years ago, a group of Prussian nobles came to the United States at the invitation of our government. The leader was a man named Peter von Eichhorn, a graf, or an earl as we call them, from one of the leading families who also possessed a lot of wealth and influence in their government. Graf von Eichhorn was what they call a Junker, a member of one of the families that’s ruled that part of the world for hundreds of years.”

  “Let me guess,” said Jamie. “Somebody in our government wanted to make a business deal of some sort with this fella von Eichhorn.”

  Sutton shrugged and said, “I don’t really know. That was well before I was assigned to the War Department. But that’s probably a good guess.”

  Preacher asked, “Is von Eichhorn the gent who went missin’?”

  “Not just him. The entire party, including the American guides and helpers they had hired, along with the small army detail that accompanied them.”

  “The whole bunch?” Jamie said with a frown. “How many people are you talking about, Colonel?”

  “Almost three dozen. Vanished without a trace.”

  “Where?”

  “The northern Rockies. Between the Missouri River and the Canadian border.”

  “Blackfoot country,” Preacher said. His face and voice were grim.

  Jamie leaned forward and clasped his hands together between his knees. “Preacher’s right, Colonel. You know what must have happened to those folks. The Indians jumped them and wiped them out.”

  “That’s what everyone assumed,” Sutton admitted. “The thinking was that they ran afoul of a Blackfoot war party—”

  “Stone Bear,” Preacher said.

  Sutton frowned. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Stone Bear,” Preacher repeated. “Blackfoot war chief. He’s been raisin’ hell up in those parts for years now. I’ve heard a heap about him. Supposed to be a mighty bad fella.” The mountain man shrugged. “Can’t say for sure, since I never crossed trails with him.”

  Jamie chuckled. “Which is the reason he’s still raising hell up in that country, I expect. If you had run into him, Preacher . . . he wouldn’t be.”

  Sutton asked, “Do you think this Stone Bear would be capable of wiping out a party of American soldiers and European nobles such as the one I’ve described?”

  Preacher nodded. “Capable of it . . . and more than willin’.”

  “I agree,” Jamie said. “You mentioned the Prussians had some American guides, Colonel. Do you know who was in charge of them?”

  “I’ve seen the name. Let me think . . .” After a moment, Sutton nodded. “His name was Reese Coburn. Do you know him?”

  “Heard of him,” Jamie said. “I don’t think we’ve ever met.”

  Preacher said, “I’ve run into Coburn before. Several times, in fact. Seemed like a fella who knows what he’s doing. How about the army detail with them?”

  “Commanded by a Lieutenant Barton,” said Sutton. “That’s all I know about them.”

  Jamie’s eyes narrowed shrewdly. “Why the interest in what happened to these folks now, after all this time?”

  Sutton crossed his legs and said, “A couple of months ago, a trader who operates up there in that region brought back rumors of seeing some white women who were captives of an Indian band. It was all very vague and unsubstantiated, but the stories got around and finally made their way back to Washington, where representatives of the Kingdom of Prussia heard about them. Relations between our government and theirs have always been a little chilly ever since Graf von Eichhorn and his party disappeared. We’d like to change that, so when they sent a letter to President Fillmore asking that these new rumors be investigated, the request was passed along to the War Department”—the colonel smiled—“which is how it wound up landing in my lap.”

  “Even if Stone Bear and the Blackfeet have white captives, that’s no reason to think they’re some of those Prussians,” Jamie pointed out. “Could be any pilgrims or settlers they came across and enslaved.”

  “I know that,” said Sutton, “but my orders are to investigate anyway and determine, if at all possible, what actually happened to Graf von Eichhorn and his party. To rescue any survivors and to . . . recover any remains.”

  Preacher shook his head. “That’s a fool’s errand, if you ask me. And a good way to get killed.”

  “I know. That’s why I decided my best chance of success. . . and of survival for myself and my men . . . was to have the best assistance possible.”

  “Preacher and me,” Jamie said heavily.

  Colonel Sutton inclined his head in agreement but didn’t say anything.

  Jamie looked over at Preacher. “What do you think?”

  “Just said what I think. It’s a fool’s errand. Wasn’t that long ago we tangled with a bunch of Apaches to help out the government. Now we’re bein’ asked to take on the Blackfeet, the only bunch that rivals the Apaches for sheer meanness.”

  “We’re not looking to start a war,” Sutton said. “If we can locate the captives, I’d rather negotiate for their release. That’s the best way to find out the truth of what happened, after all. Especially if
they do turn out to be members of von Eichhorn’s group.”

  “Tryin’ to negotiate with Blackfeet usually don’t turn out too well. I’d rather do my negotiatin’ with hot lead or cold steel.”

  Sutton shrugged. “Force is always an option, if it’s absolutely necessary.”

  Jamie asked, “How many men are you taking up there with you?”

  “I’ll have approximately fifty dragoons. Plus the Prussian representatives, of course.”

  “Hold on,” Preacher said. “The furriners are sendin’ more folks up there, after already losin’ some?”

  “This will be a small military force. A dozen men or so.”

  Jamie nodded and said, “So you’ll have between sixty and seventy men. That’s a good-sized bunch. You’re hoping the Blackfeet will think twice about attacking a group that big and will be willing to talk.”

  “That’s the hope, yes.”

  “Stone Bear can muster more warriors than that,” said Preacher. “If you’re serious about doin’ this, Colonel, you’d be better off takin’ several hundred men.”

  “Which would start a war for sure.” Sutton shook his head. “No, I have my orders, Preacher. I’m asking for help. But I certainly can’t order you and Jamie to come along on this mission. And I’ll understand completely if you say no.”

  The two frontiersmen looked at each other in silence for a long moment.

  Then, with obvious reluctance, Preacher said, “I’m a mite curious what really happened to those folks.”

  “I am, too,” Jamie admitted. “And the colonel here has been a good friend to us. He’ll stand a better chance of finding out what he wants to know if we go along.”

  Smiling, Sutton said, “That’s what I was hoping to hear you say, gentlemen.”

  Preacher held up a hand and told him, “Don’t go thankin’ us yet. We ain’t said we’re joinin’ up. I want your word that if we do find any captives up there amongst the Blackfeet, we’ll try to get ’em out, whether or not they’re the Prussians you’re lookin’ for.”

  Sutton considered that and nodded. “That’s a reasonable request. I wouldn’t leave helpless prisoners in the hands of those savages.” He paused. “Political expediency is one thing. Simple human decency is another.”

  “Politics and human decency,” mused Jamie. “What’s the old saying? ‘And never the twain shall meet.’”

  “Ain’t that the truth,” Preacher said. “But count me in anyway, Colonel.”

  “And me,” Jamie said. “One way or another, we’ll find out what really happened five years ago.”

  Chapter 6

  The Rocky Mountains, 1847

  “Oh, my,” Countess Marion von Arnim said as she stared wide-eyed at the men wearing feathers and buckskins. “Are they tame . . . or savage?” From the tone of her voice, it was difficult to guess which answer she was hoping to hear.

  “Well, now, that depends on what kind o’ mood they’re in, Your Countessship,” drawled the man who stood beside her, leaning on his long-barreled rifle as the weapon’s butt rested on the ground. “Redskins is plumb notional critters. You can’t never tell what one of ’em will take it in his head to do . . . which is why you need to be ready for trouble all the time out here.”

  Marion looked over at him and asked, “Is that why you told your men to ready their firearms when we saw this group approaching, Mr. Coburn?”

  “Yes’m, it is,” Reese Coburn said. “And I’d sure be obliged to you if you’d go back with the rest of your friends until we see whether these fellas are lookin’ for a fight.”

  The tall, lean man wore a buckskin shirt and trousers like the approaching Indians, but he didn’t have any feathers in his hair and a broad-brimmed felt hat shaded his deeply tanned face. In addition to the flintlock rifle, he had a pair of flintlock pistols stuck behind his belt and a sheathed hunting knife attached to that belt. He looked like what he was: an experienced, competent, tough-when-needed-to-be frontiersman.

  He had been hired to guide and protect this party of Prussian nobles behind him, and he didn’t intend to let anything happen to them. A dozen good, fighting frontiersmen, plus a detail of dragoons commanded by a young lieutenant, surrounded the wagons in which the visitors were traveling.

  All except for Countess von Arnim, who had climbed down from the first wagon and run up to Coburn to get a better look at the Indians.

  She had been a problem from the start—disregarding his orders, not taking the dangers of the frontier seriously enough, and shamelessly flirting with him every time she had the chance, which annoyed the man she was betrothed to, Graf Peter von Eichhorn, who had organized the sightseeing expedition to America.

  Under some circumstances, Coburn wouldn’t have minded some rich woman from another country playing up to him, especially one as pretty as the countess. But she needed to do what she was told. She was putting herself at risk, and maybe the rest of the party, too.

  When she ignored his request to rejoin the others, he put his hand on her arm and added, “You really need to go back to the wagons, ma’am.”

  She cast a cold glance at his hand, clearly offended at being touched by a commoner—and an American, at that! “You forget yourself, Mr. Coburn.”

  “No, ma’am. I remember myself real well. I’m the fella who’s bein’ paid to keep you safe.” Some of the same chill her words displayed found its way into his voice. “So how’s about skedaddlin’?”

  Marion sniffed and pulled her arm out of his grip. He let it go. She turned and walked toward the wagons.

  Coburn might have heaved a sigh of relief, but he still had a bunch of potentially hostile Indians striding toward him, so his nerves weren’t going to ease up just yet.

  They were Blackfeet, he saw as they came closer. He recognized the markings on their buckskins and the way they wore their hair. That knowledge made his gut tighten a little more.

  Thirty-some years ago, when the first white men traveled through those parts, the Blackfeet had been fairly friendly, or so the story went. Then, because of a misunderstanding, one of the men on the Lewis and Clark expedition had shot and killed a Blackfoot brave, and ever since, the whole tribe hated all white men. The mean streak within the tribe grew to a mile wide once it was roused.

  But they didn’t always kill whites on sight, and since Coburn’s men and the soldiers outnumbered them—slightly—they might decide to be friendly. Coburn hoped he could parley with them. If he promised that he and his companions would be moving on quickly out of the area, maybe that would be the end of it.

  He stood by himself, waiting. Most of the Indians stopped about twenty feet in front of him. One of them walked on ahead.

  Coburn spoke the Blackfoot tongue fairly well and hoped he didn’t sound too awkward as he said, “Greetings.”

  “I am Stone Bear,” the Blackfoot said without any niceties. “You trespass on hunting grounds used by my people.”

  “We’re not here to hunt, Stone Bear. We only travel through your lands and will soon be gone.”

  “White men have no business here, with your lodges on wheels and your odd buffalo that pull them.”

  “The white men who travel in the lodges on wheels come from another country,” Coburn explained. “They are not accustomed to walking.”

  “And they have women with them,” Stone Bear said.

  So you noticed that, did you, old son? thought Coburn. Well, he wasn’t really surprised. This warrior didn’t seem like the sort of fella who would miss much.

  “They have come to see the country,” Coburn said, making a sweeping gesture with his left hand to indicate their surroundings, which, admittedly, were worth looking at.

  It was summer, and the high meadows were full of lush grass and wildflowers, and the rugged slopes were a deep green from the pines and firs and spruce that covered them. Streams ran bubbling and foaming over rocky creek beds, making sweet music. Snowcapped peaks stood proud and towering against skies that could not have been a clearer, mo
re breathtaking blue. Coburn loved the high country and had ever since he had first arrived a decade earlier.

  Stone Bear seemed puzzled. “Is there nothing like this where they come from?” he asked.

  “From what they’ve told me, they have mountains, and their land is a beautiful one. But they are curious about other lands, as well.”

  “As long as the hunting is good, people should stay where they are,” Stone Bear said, scowling. “Especially white men.”

  “Maybe so,” said Coburn, “but they’re here, and it’s my job to guide them on their way and protect them. I hope Stone Bear and his people will allow me to do that.” Coburn decided to add a little to the deal. “We will share some of our salt with you.”

  It never hurt to give an Indian a present.

  Stone Bear thought it over, then asked, “You are not staying in these hunting grounds?”

  “We intend to go straight through them and will leave as soon as we can, most probably within two days.”

  “You will not disturb the land or kill more game than you need?”

  Coburn was aware that most Indians considered whites to be shamefully wasteful.

  “I give you my word we will not.”

  Stone Bear nodded and said, “You may pass through Blackfoot hunting grounds. You will give us salt?”

  Coburn turned his head and called in English to one of his men, “Dawlish, bring me a little sack of salt.” To Stone Bear, he said, “My man will bring it.”

  In a matter of minutes, the transaction was concluded.

  Stone Bear motioned for one of his warriors to take the salt then he nodded solemnly to Coburn and said, “Leave our land in peace.”

  “We travel in peace,” Coburn assured him.

  The Blackfeet disappeared back into the trees where they had come from.

  Coburn finally heaved that sigh of relief and joined the others at the wagon.

  Graf Peter von Eichhorn, a tall, slender man with a thin mustache and dark hair, stood holding a pistol. “I thought those savages were going to attack us,” he said to Coburn in accented English.