Preacher's Peace Read online

  “Take the one on the right!” Art shouted.

  The canoe on the right was the closest. Art shot at the canoe on the left, and had the satisfaction of seeing the Indian in front tumble out, along with his oar. And as the Indian fell, he also upset the canoe, which was exactly what Art had hoped would happen.

  “Damn!” Clyde shouted in disgust when the bullet he fired missed its mark and made a splash in the water near the pursuing canoe.

  Clyde then pulled his pistol and started to shoot it.

  “No!” Art shouted. “You reload! I’ll do the shooting for both of us!”

  “Good idea,” Clyde agreed, handing his loaded pistol to Art.

  Art held his shot, waiting for the canoe to come much closer. During that brief period, the Indians shot several more arrows, many of them coming uncomfortably close. Finally, the canoe drew within pistol range. Art aimed and fired. He hit the lead paddler, but unlike the man in the first canoe, this one fell back, and the canoe did not swamp.

  In the meantime, the other canoe had been righted, and the Indians had climbed back aboard and resumed the chase.

  Art killed a second man in the canoe on the right, and because two of their number had now been killed, they started paddling back down the river in order to join up with the other canoe. Doing so put them out of pistol range.

  Clyde handed Art a loaded rifle. “Here,” he said. “And the other one is loaded too.”

  “Thanks,” Art said. One of the Indians seemed to be giving instructions to the others, so he was the one Art selected as his target. Raising the rifle to his shoulder, he took careful aim, then pulled the trigger. The talkative Indian fell into the river and began to float away, face down in the water.

  That left only two Indians in each canoe. When the Indians saw that the odds were now much less favorable to them, they turned and began paddling hard for the bank.

  “Ha, ha, ha!” Clyde shouted, standing up and moving to the edge of the boat. “Run, you cowardly bastards, run!” he shouted.

  * * *

  On shore, Wak Tha Go watched with disbelief as his men were shot down, one by one. What he had thought would be an easy killing raid had turned into a disaster. Who was this trapper who killed almost every time he fired his rifle?

  Wak Tha Go raised his own rifle. He wanted to kill the white man who was so deadly with his own shooting, but he could not get a good shot at him. The other man, though, the one who had been loading the rifles, was within easy range.

  “If I cannot kill you, white man, I will kill your friend,” Wak Tha Go said under his breath.

  * * *

  Just as Wak Tha Go was about to pull the trigger, Art happened to catch him out of the corner of his eye.

  “Clyde! Get down!” Art shouted.

  “What for?” Clyde asked, turning toward Art with a big grin on his face. “They’re skedaddling like pups. Why, I . . .”

  That was as far as Clyde got. There was an angry buzz in the air, followed by a distant explosion, then a thump as the bullet plowed into Clyde’s back and exited through his chest.

  “What?” he asked in surprise as he tumbled back against the plew bales, then slid to the deck in a seated position. He put his hand on his chest, then pulled it away to examine the blood that had pooled in his cupped palm. “I’ll be damned,” he said, more out of almost childish curiosity than anything else.

  Art grabbed the rifle that Clyde had just loaded. He looked toward the riverbank, hoping to get a bead on the Indian who had shot Clyde, but the Indian was nowhere in sight.

  “Damn!” Art said in frustration.

  “Did he skedaddle?” Clyde asked with a strained, lopsided grin on his stupid face.

  “Yes,” Art said, squatting beside his friend.

  “That means we run them all off, didn’t we?”

  “Yes,” Art said.

  “Ha! I reckon we showed them not to tangle with the likes of us,” Clyde said. Clyde coughed, and as he did so, flecks of blood came from his mouth. “Oh,” Clyde said. “Oh, that’s bad, ain’t it?”

  “I won’t lie to you, Clyde,” Art said. “You’re not goin’ to make it.”

  “I’m not? You want know a funny thing? It ain’t hurtin’ all that much,” Clyde said.

  “Can I get you something? A chew of tobacco? A drink of whiskey?”

  “Some whiskey maybe,” Clyde said.

  Art pulled the cork on a whiskey jug, poured some into a cup, then held the cup up to Clyde’s mouth. Clyde took a couple of deep swallows, then chuckled.

  “What is it?” Art asked.

  “I was just wonderin’ what ol’ St. Peter is goin’ to say when I show up at them pearly gates with liquor on my breath.”

  “I don’t reckon he’ll say much of anything, given the way things are,” Art said. He wanted to strangle his friend for his stupidity. He wanted to save his life, but knew it was finished.

  “Wonder if ol’ Pierre is there . . .”

  “Sure, he is. I expect he’ll be standing there to meet you himself,” Art said. “He’ll probably fix you some of that crawfish pie he was always talking about.”

  “I’d rather have some beaver tail. Never knew anyone who could cook beaver tail like Pierre.”

  “It was good,” Art said, remembering it from the many times Pierre had cooked it for him as well.

  “Art?”

  “Yes?”

  “I want you to do somethin’ for me.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You know that purty dress I bought? Well, once you get to St. Louie, I want you to give it to a purty girl.”

  “Do you have someone in mind?”

  “No,” Clyde answered. He coughed again, struggling to smile as the color drained from his hard-weathered face. “You pick one out for me. I was just goin’ to give it to the first purty girl I seen who would take it.”

  “I’ll find someone,” Art promised.

  “You know, it’s beginnin’ to hurt now. Fact is, it’s hurtin’ somethin’ fierce.”

  “Want some more whiskey?”

  “I don’t reckon,” Clyde replied. “Ol’ St. Peter might close an eye to me havin’ whiskey on my breath, but don’t know how he’d take to me bein’ drunk.”

  Clyde closed his eyes and was silent for a long time. Art bent over to see if he could hear his friend breathing, but he couldn’t. He was going to have to put ashore in order to bury him, but he didn’t want to do it yet. He needed to make certain he was far enough downriver to be away from the Indians who had attacked them.

  Then Clyde surprised Art by speaking one more time. “Lord, I sure would’ve loved to see me a purty girl in that purty dress,” he rasped. Those were his last words.

  * * *

  Art didn’t come ashore until after dark. By that time he had drifted far enough downriver that he was sure there were no more Arikara bucks around. He also figured that the darkness would offer some protection and allow him to bury his friend safely and in peace.

  Art dug a grave about one hundred feet from the river’s edge, then lowered Clyde into the hole and covered him up. He gathered stones to cover the grave in a primitive sort of cairn, a sort of civilized gesture that would have been unfamiliar to the man buried beneath the cold earth. Afterward, he stood alongside the freshly dug grave, took off his own hat, and held it across his heart.

  “Lord, this fella’s name I’m sendin’ to you is Clyde Barnes. He probably drank too much, cussed too much, and gambled too much. That’s the way it is with mountain men, but you, knowin’ everything like you do, probably already know that. But that means you also know what was in his heart, and Lord, when you look into his heart you’ll see Clyde was about as fine a man as there could be.

  “Clyde has some friends up there, and I’d like for you to arrange to have them come meet him, take him under their wing, and show him around. I’ve got a special reason for asking this, Lord, because truth to tell, it was Clyde and Pierre who took me in when I first come to
the mountains. They were good men, both of ’em, and once you get ’em up there and give ’em a chance, why, I think you’ll see that too.

  “I know there’s probably some proper way to end prayers, but I can’t think of any way of endin’ this one except to just end it. Amen.”

  St. Louis, Wednesday, June 2, 1824

  When Theodore Epson, the chief of tellers of the River Bank of St. Louis, passed by the boardroom of the bank, he saw that it was filled with women, all of whom seemed to be talking at once. Smiling, he shook his head and walked on by. Women . . . strange creatures all.

  Making such a meeting room available to the public had been Epson’s idea, and he’d convinced the board of directors that it would be very good business for the bank. The board had accepted his proposal, and today was a good example of how it was being put to use. The ladies all belonged to the Women’s Auxiliary of the St. Louis Betterment League, and its president was Sybil Abernathy, wife of Duane Abernathy, the chairman of the bank’s board of directors.

  As he closed the door between the front and back of the bank, Theodore Epson heard Mrs. Abernathy banging her gavel to call for quiet.

  * * *

  “Ladies, ladies, may I have your attention please?” Mrs. Abernathy said.

  Most of the conversation halted, though there was one woman in the back who continued to hold court with the three or four who were gathered around her.

  “Mrs. Peabody!” Mrs. Abernathy called. “Would you please take your seat now?” When she got no response, she shouted. “Mrs. Peabody, would you please take your seat now?”

  “All right, all right,” Mrs. Peabody answered. “You don’t have to shout. I’m not deef, you know.”

  In fact, Mrs. Peabody was quite deaf, so deaf that she didn’t even hear the other ladies laugh at her patently absurd declaration.

  When all were quiet and seated, Mrs. Abernathy began the meeting.

  “Ladies, I called this special meeting today because I am deeply concerned about the state of morals of our city, more specifically the lack of morals in our fair metropolis. I have heard it said that the people back East sometimes refer to St. Louis as Sodom and Gomorrah on the Mississippi. If we are to build a decent society here, if we are to be recognized by our Eastern cousins as a civilized city, then we must take action immediately to stop this moral decay.”

  “What moral decay are you talking about, Sybil?” one of the ladies asked.

  “What moral decay? Well, I’m talking about this . . . this Jennie woman, who doesn’t even have a last name, and the house of prostitution she operates right under our very noses.”

  “Has she done something?” another asked.

  “Of course she has done something. She is operating a house of prostitution,” Sybil Abernathy said in exasperation. “Didn’t you hear what I just said?”

  “Well, yes, but there have always been houses of prostitution, and there always will be. You know how the men are, or at least some of them, none of our husbands or brothers, I’m sure. The way I look at it, better to have someplace like that where you know where it is, than to have women of the evening roaming our streets.”

  “And we don’t have that, Sybil,” another pointed out.

  Mrs. Abernathy was obviously surprised by the reaction she was getting. She had expected overwhelming support for her campaign to rid St. Louis of Jennie and the ones who worked for her in the House of Flowers. Instead, she was getting resistance.

  “Sin is sin, and immorality is immorality, no matter where it occurs,” Mrs. Abernathy said.

  “Of course it is, and I’m not justifying what she does,” one of the women said. “It’s just that she is discreet and she does stay out of everyone’s way. I guess I never considered it as much of a problem.”

  “What about the orphanage?” Mrs. Abernathy asked.

  “What about it?”

  “Perhaps you didn’t know that she donates a rather healthy sum of money to the orphanage every week.”

  “Why, I would think that to be a good civic-minded thing to do,” one of the women said.

  “Would you think it to be a good thing if you knew that she recruits her prostitutes from among the children of that orphanage?”

  “What?” several of the ladies shouted.

  “You don’t mean that she actually uses the children?”

  Mrs. Abernathy smiled with sly satisfaction. Now, at last, she had gotten them into the proper frame of mind to consider this grave matter that was affecting the city they claimed to care about so deeply.

  “As far as I know, she doesn’t use the very young children,” Mrs. Abernathy said. “But two of her prostitutes are former residents of the orphanage home.”

  “Oh, my, but that is terrible!” someone said.

  “We must do something about this!” another added.

  Mrs. Abernathy nodded in triumph. “And do something we shall,” she said.

  Arikara Village, Wednesday, June 2, 1824

  When Wak Tha Go returned to the village, it wasn’t in the triumphant manner that he had envisioned, but rather in disfavor. His adventure had cost the lives of four of his eager young warriors, and the widows and families of the slain wept bitter tears of grief. All turned their back on him, blaming him for the deaths.

  Wak Tha Go went from tepee to tepee to plead his case, but none would hear him. When council met that evening, Wak Tha Go was not invited to sit in the first circle. Angry at being ostracized, he hung back in the darkness, watching the others as they sat around the fire, mourning and listening to ageless stories and songs.

  Wak Tha Go felt they should be telling stories and singing songs of his great deeds. After all, he had personally killed one of the white men who had killed the three warriors. And before this, there had been other encounters with the white trappers in which the Indians emerged victorious, killing the trappers while not losing even one of their own. They had taken booty and scalps, counted many coups. In any war, there was bound to be loss. Why could the others in the village not see this?

  The Peacemaker was a chief, but not an all-powerful, autocratic chief. He ruled by persuasion and counsel, and always with advice and assistance from the other elders in the tribe. There was a difference between leading during peacetime and leading during battle, however. War chiefs were neither appointed nor elected. A war chief assumed a position of authority, and if others chose to follow him his authority was validated. Peace chiefs and war chiefs usually coexisted and supported each other—but these were extraordinary times.

  In the case of Wak Tha Go, his authority as a warrior chief had lasted only as long as he was successful. Now his rank within the tribe was no higher than anyone else’s.

  “Grandfather, tell us a story,” one young boy asked of The Peacemaker.

  “Yes, Grandfather, tell us of Buffalo Cow Woman,” another said.

  The Peacemaker was not their blood grandfather, but was addressed as such by many of the young. Not only was this a token of respect for The Peacemaker; it also, by implication, included the young person in The Peacemaker’s family. Elders, whether they held the status of chief or not, were automatically respected by younger people.

  “Buffalo Cow Woman?” The Peacemaker said. “You want to hear of the mother of us all?”

  “Yes! Yes!”

  “Then gather close so that your ears do not fail to hear the words I speak, for I must speak them quietly.” He held his finger to his lips in a shushing motion. “If Buffalo Cow Woman hears us speaking of her, she may get very angry. And if she gets very angry, she will gallop through the village, trampling every tepee, and putting out all the fires. She will cause the meat to go bad and hide the honey and take away the rain. If she does that, we will all . . .” He paused for a long moment, looking directly into the faces of all the children who were now hanging on every word. “Die!” he barked.

  The younger children began to whimper in fear. Even the older children shivered, but they were older and braver, and did no
t cry.

  * * *

  Wak Tha Go had been just on the periphery of the council circle, listening to everything that was being said. When he saw the council circle dissolve and saw the children move toward the center, and heard The Peacemaker start his story about Buffalo Cow Woman, he snorted and walked away.

  “Buffalo Cow Woman,” he said under his breath, scoffing at the name. Everyone in the village was listening to children’s stories when they should be listening to stories about his great exploits and even greater plans for the future. Let them listen now, he thought. He would leave this village and go to join the Blackfeet. The Blackfeet were warriors, not old women like The Peacemaker and the cowards who listened to him.

  Three

  On the Missouri River, Monday, June 21, 1824

  After Art put into shore and secured the boat, he carved a mark in the railing. He had no idea what the date was, though he figured it to be sometime in mid-June or later. If he had remembered to find out the date before he left Rendezvous, he would know now, because he had carved a notch for every day since he left. He had been on the river now for thirty days. The days had been long and lonely since Clyde’s death.

  Once he made camp, Art took his rifle out into the woods, and less than half an hour later was back with a rabbit. He skinned the rabbit, salted it well, skewered it on a green willow branch, then put it over a fire, suspended between two Y-shaped sticks. Within minutes the rich aroma of roasted rabbit filled the air.

  Art had never gone down the Missouri, so he really had no idea how far it was to St. Louis, nor how long it would take him to get there. He was sure that the river didn’t go in a straight line. In fact, what with all the twists and turns, he would be surprised if the river route didn’t double the distance a crow flies. But he had neither horses nor mules, and floating down the river—even if it was longer—was certainly superior to walking.