Blackfoot Messiah Page 5

  The thin film of perspiration on his bare, sun-browned shoulders and sides under the straps of his overalls made his skin glow. He fixed big, cornflower blue eyes on her face. She wondered if her worry lines had become permanent. From the looks of Charlie, they must have.

  “Mom, what are we having for supper?”

  “Fried bread with molasses and potato soup,” she answered, painfully aware of how inadequate that sounded.

  Charlie’s usually smooth, childish features twisted into an expression of misery. “Again? That’s what we had last night.”

  “And the night before. Be grateful we have that. And that Mr. Tate shared his rabbits with us on Sunday.”

  “I want meat tonight!” Charlie stubbornly insisted.

  “Well, we simply don’t have any.”

  Charlie took on a coy, wheedling expression. “I could get us some. At least some rabbits. I’m a good shot, you know that, Mom. Please, let me take my rifle and go after some rabbits. I won’t go far, and I know better than to shoot in the direction of the wagons.”

  He had already robbed her of her two best arguments. She swore that the boy would become a lawyer, or a politician some day. Or worst yet, both. What could she say to counter his intentions, good though they might be? Carefully, she framed her sentences.

  “What horse would you use? The grass is so scarce that your pony’s too weak to carry you.”

  Bright enthusiasm lighted Charlie’s face. “I can always use Jake.”

  “A mule? One not broken to saddle at that, Charlie. I don’t think it would be safe.”

  “I ride his back every day we’re on the trail. An’ when I take the others out to graze. He knows me an’ he don’t mind. Really, Mom.”

  Eve sighed. Rabbit would taste mighty good. A deep, vertical furrow formed between Eve’s brows. “If you go—and mind, I said if— you would have to stay within sight of the wagons.”

  “Mo-oom,” Charlie enunciated with exasperation, small fists on hips. “There aren’t any rabbits within sight of the wagons. I’ll be all right. After all, you said I would have to be the man of the family now. Please let me prove I can do it.”

  What could she say? What could she do? With a suppressed sigh, Eve swallowed her mother’s fears and relented. “All right. But you take your father’s pocket watch with you, and you be back here in two hours exactly, or you’ll never go again.”

  Charlie abandoned his mannish stance and leaped up to wrap arms around his mother’s neck. “Oh, Mom, thank you, thank you. I’ll bring us rabbits, I promise. Enough we can share.”

  “And wear your boots,” Eve added as Charlie turned from her.

  When the boy scampered off to get the watch and his rifle, powder horn and bag of balls, Eve stood staring after him. Her son complaining about small portions and the lack of real meat. His little sister with a slight fever and runny bowels. What more could she endure? A sudden thought came to Eve.

  Could it be the water? Painfully aware that they were far from the established trail, the specter of everyone falling victim to some terrible sickness arose to haunt her. Surrendering to a moment of despair, Eve began to suspect that no one would ever come along to lead them out of this desolation.

  While Eve Billings battled with her dejection, Preacher and his companions took their nooning at Muddy Creek Crossing. The coach that had passed them had also stopped there. While the hostler changed the horses, Preacher watched the passengers descend to take their meal in the shade.

  A chubby, moon-faced Osage woman, wife of the stage agent, and her gaggle of youngsters, stair-stepped from about thirteen to seven, brought out heaped platters of fried chicken, bowls of baked squash and beans, stewed onions swimming in butter and cold, boiled potatoes. All this bounty came from a large, well-tended kitchen garden that Preacher saw behind the ramshackle stage station. For the hefty sum of ten cents each, Preacher and the mountain men also sat down to the feast.

  For that purpose, the relay station had trestle tables set out under a large, gnarled old cottonwood. A young woman passenger took note of Preacher’s handsome features. Pursing her lips, she fixed her violet eyes on his profile and batted long lashes flirtatiously.

  Antoine nudged Preacher in the ribs. “You got an admirer, I see.”

  “Huh? Who’d that be?”

  “Over to your left. There’s a purty young thing givin’ you the eye.”

  Preacher cut his eyes quickly to the left and caught a flutter of long, black lashes. The woman brought a fan up to cover her face and uttered a brief titter. Preacher looked away. For several minutes he dedicated his attention to a chicken leg. Three Sleeps kicked him on the shin. Preacher jumped as a result.

  “She’s at it again. Givin’ you the big ol’ come-on eye. A right toothsome lass, you ask me.”

  “Then you flirt with her,” Preacher grumbled.

  Three Sleeps Norris sniggered “Wouldn’t mind at all.”

  Suddenly the older woman with the flirtatious one caught her at it. This ample-bosomed dowager took an abundant pinch of forearm and hissed loud enough to be heard by Preacher and his friends.

  “Agatha, for shame. I’ll thank you to conduct yourself like a lady.”

  “But he’s sooo handsome.”

  Her visage turned to stone, the elder companion took another pinch, this time of cheek. “You disappoint me, Agatha Sinclaire. That frontier trash isn’t fit to shine your shoes. If you cannot behave in a refined manner, I’ll see that you return to the coach.” That said, she turned her acid tongue on Preacher. “And you, you unwashed barbarian, I’ll thank you to keep your lustful eyes off my ward. It’s your kind that have sullied this beautiful country. Those uncouth louts with you are no better. Have they no shame? It’s scandalous the way they smirk and waggle their heads. Why . . .”

  Her invective slid off Preacher like water ran off a duck. When the older woman finally ran down, Preacher removed his floppy hat and scratched his head, as though looking for lice. He ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth and came to his boots.

  “Well, now, ma’am. I allow as how the girl is a toothsome bit, right enough, but me an’ my friends have important business at Jefferson Barracks and I can’t take the time to dally.”

  With a squawk of indignation, the dowager abandoned her meal, grabbed the wrist of her charge and hauled the two of them off to the coach. Seated at another table, the same two scruffy ragbags from the previous day took in all that transpired. They exchanged meaningful glances and rose to silently slip away.

  Preacher took note of that and stored it for later. He stared long after their rapidly retreating backs. They, too, were headed east. He and the other mountain men finished their food and started off for the Lost Springs Station. Something told Preacher it would be a long afternoon. One he might live to regret.

  A grinning Charlie Billings returned to the wagon train with four plump rabbits strung over the neck of Jake. His slender-barreled .36-caliber squirrel rifle lay across his thighs. For all her elation over the fresh meat, Eve still noticed with irritation that Charlie had ignored his boots. He had also fastened a length of rope around his waist and slipped the shoulder straps of his overalls, so that he rode bare-chested as a wild Indian.

  “Charles Ryan Billings, you put up the bib of those overalls right this minute. You’re a scandalous sight. You look like a heathen red savage.” Part of her irritation came from the memory of the four reports she had heard distantly from beyond a hill.

  She had bitten her lip at hearing each shot. Worried that Charlie had injured himself, that he lay bleeding and near death, she could hardly contain herself, remain at the wagon and knead her bread dough. Now he shows up, looking like a brown-skinned imp of Satan, grinning and showing off his hunting skill. Abruptly her irritation fled and an ocean of love swelled up in her chest.

  “Look what I’ve got, Mom! It was easy.”

  It took all her will not to run forward and embrace him, and she failed to keep from blurting he
r thoughts. “My wonderful boy. We’ll share them with the Tates and the Warners.”

  Charlie produced a pout. “I thought we’d smoke ’em and have meat for all week.”

  Eve put her hands on her hips and glowered at her son. “We have been gifted by others, now we can return their generosity. I’ll fix you a hind leg and a chunk of loin.”

  “All right,” Charlie agreed. He reined Jake to the right and rode to the Tate wagon.

  Eve nearly called him back; he had done nothing about adjusting his clothing. “I swear, that boy would go buck-naked if he could get away with it,” she said aloud to herself.

  “Why, Mommy?” Anna asked from the spot of shade under the wagon.

  Startled, Eve turned to her. “Because he has your father’s orneriness, sweetie. Now, do you feel strong enough to help make dough balls with me for the fried bread?”

  “Yes, Mommy, but my tummy hurts some.”

  “Oh, Anna, Anna,” Eve spoke through a tight throat as tears welled in her eyes.

  SIX

  Preacher and his mountain man friends decided to spend the night in the dormitory-style hotel east of the stage station at Lost Springs. The Spanish had named the location during the Coronado expedition in the sixteenth century. The climate had been entirely different three hundred years earlier. The springs they had located and marked with tall stakes and flags had disappeared on their return from a fateful encounter with the Pawnee. They had called them The Lost Springs. Preacher explained the reason behind his suggestion to stay over a sit-down meal in the tavern.

  “We’re gettin’ into country where people get suspicious of fellers campin’ under the stars. Makes ’em edgy. So we might as well start gettin’ used to a roof overhead.”

  “Sounds reasonable,” Antoine Revier agreed. “Say, the feller who owns this place has got himself one powerful good cook. Who would have ever thought someone way out here could do a proper souffle?” He smacked his lips in appreciation. His spoon paused over the gold-brown dome of the fancy corn pudding, which chose that moment to collapse.

  Three Sleeps sniggered and Preacher pointed at the souffle disaster with his chin. “It supposed to do that?”

  Defensively, Antoine dug into the dish. “It’s the thought that counts. My pappy. Now there’s a man who could cook a perfect souffle.”

  Preacher raised his brow. “That’s right, your pap was a Frenchie, a voyageur.”

  “Mais oui. He was also a great cook. A chef. A master in the kitchen.”

  Three Sleeps Norris waggled his head. “Cookin’s women’s work.”

  Antoine bristled. “Not so! The world’s greatest cooks are men. Why, back in the days of knights and noble ladies, women were not even permitted to serve the food, let alone cook it. My friends, you are entirely too limited in worldly experience. Now, leave me to my souffle in peace.”

  Three Sleeps sounded wounded. “It’s part ourn, too.”

  Nose rising in the air, Antoine passed judgment on that. “You haven’t the taste to appreciate it.”

  “Even if it is flat?” Preacher inquired.

  Antoine relented, at least a little. “Awh, dig in, Preacher, it’s ruined anyway.”

  After their evening meal, Preacher and his companions staked out floor-level, straw-stuffed mattresses and then went in search of distraction. Antoine and Three Sleeps found the bar, where a curious fellow worked fast and skillfully at charcoal sketches of some of the patrons. They watched in fascination while the features of a stolid Osage seated at one table emerged on the stretched canvas. Antoine nodded toward the Indian and his likeness.

  “Right clever. D’you mind if I ask what yer doin’ that for, mister?”

  The artist looked up from his work. “I am preparing my canvases to do the subjects in oil.”

  Three Sleeps gaped at him, unbelieving. “You’re gonna boil all these fellers in oil?”

  Chuckling, the artist disabused him of that idea. “Far from it, my friend. I am going to paint them.”

  That set Three Sleeps back a bit. “Oh, oh, yes. You’re an . . . an artist?”

  “Just so. Would you like me to do you and your friend here in oil?”

  “How long’d it take?”

  The artist took a second to consider that. “An evening to do the sketch. Two, three days to finish the portrait. Then you could take it with you.”

  “Hmmm. Sorry, we got to keep movin’ east. Be gone at first light tomorrow.

  “That’s a shame. Perhaps another time. My name is Catlin. If we meet again, I hope you have the time for me to paint you.”

  For Preacher distraction turned out to be a gaming table. Five men sat around the green baize circle when he approached.

  “Evenin’, gents. I answer to Preacher. Oh, no,” he hastened to add when one man produced a black scowl. “I’m not going to give you a sermon on the evils of gamblin’. Matter of fact, if there’s room, I’d be obliged for an invite to join the game.”

  Abandoning his scowl, the pudgy, soft-handed man produced a welcoming smile. “The name’s Jessup. I own this place. These gentlemen are noble followers of the bullwhacker calling. Sit right down, Preacher. Your money is as good as any man’s.”

  Jessup had his hair slicked down and smelled of bay rum. He had small, close-set eyes that missed meanness due to a warm, friendly twinkle. He and the others completed the hand while Preacher dumped a stack of gold pieces on the table. Jessup passed the deck to the man on his right, who nodded to Preacher.

  “Among the teamsters, I’m known as Long Tom. What’s yer pleasure?”

  Preacher did not lack in card-playing etiquette. “You name it, Tom.” Introductions went around the table, and Preacher met Billy Green, Hank Lupton and Frank Spence.

  Long Tom shuffled and announced, “Five-card stud.”

  Preacher played tight and smart. He folded after the third card. Jessup stayed to the bitter end with a bluff, Preacher noted. The next dealer called for five-card draw. Preacher was dealt a pair of queens, a ten, eight and deuce. He stayed and drew two cards. That gave him two pair. Jessup ran another bluff, raising the bet every time. Hank Lupton folded the first time Jessup did that. Billy Green’s hand hovered over his stack of coins before he saw the final raise. Again Jessup lost. Preacher had the winning hand.

  It soon became apparent to Preacher that Jessup should keep to his trade of tavern-keeper. He proved to be a terrible gambler. In one complete round at the table, he’d failed to take a single pot.

  When it came Preacher’s turn to deal again, he leaned forward and prefaced his call of game with an explanation. “There’s a game I learned off a river boat captain up on the Platte one time. It’s called seven-card stud. Played jist like five-card, but with three down cards, stead of one. Makes for an excitin’ game.”

  He dealt it, watching Jessup closely. The man had a terrible hand, not even a pair or good face cards showing after two up cards. Why didn’t he fold? He was truly awful. Someone real good could come along and clean him out, Preacher speculated. No matter, Jessup kept calling the bets. After the third card, he had a possible flush. A straight flush at that, Preacher noted. The bets, raises and cards went around. Preacher blinked.

  Jessup had bettered his hand. This time he raised the bet. The final card went around, down. Only four players remained. Preacher had folded on his third card. Billy Green held the high hand in up cards. He bet a five-dollar gold piece. Jessup doubled it. When the pot was right, Jessup turned over his cards to reveal the straight flush.

  Looking much relieved, he raked in the pot. Play resumed with Jessup dealing. He played badly over the next two hours. Preacher made it a habit never to count his stack of gold until the game ended. He did not like the idea of playing to scared money. This night proved his habit unnecessary. When he left the game, his poke bulged considerably more than when he had entered.

  “Thank you, gents, for a right entertaining evening. Now I need some shut-eye before the sun catches me by surprise. Good night.�
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  “Have a nightcap, Preacher. On me,” Jessup offered.

  “Thank ye kindly, but no thanks. I do need my sleep.”

  Makepeace Baxter had been badly misnamed by his doting parents. As a child, he had made war on small animals, tormenting them until they died. He loved to pull one wing off of several flies and watch them crawl around in circles until they dropped over from starvation. Another favorite was to pull the legs from frogs and toss them in a water trough to drown. His absolute favorite was to catch a cat on the tines of a pitchfork and watch as it writhe to a horrible death.

  When he entered his teens, his tastes had become more refined. He tortured children smaller than himself, and threatened to kill them if they told. Once, at the age of fourteen, he went too far. A child died and he ran away from home, to live the next three months in terror of being caught and accused. Makepeace never went back. Over the ensuing years, he had found his niche among the lowest of the low, in the ranks of criminals.

  He robbed, and often maimed, drunks for what money they might have. Lately, in this forsaken part of Indian Territory, he had taken up with the pair who sided him tonight. Now a hulking eighteen, he crouched in the sagebrush at the edge of the clearing on the southeast side of the creek created by the lost springs, which flowed sweetly from clefts in the rocks which formed a portion of the bank. With him were his best friends. His only friends, truth to be told. Youthful louts actually, who could stomach his sadistic ways. Lights had been lowered in the hotel portion of the stage station and the only sign of life came from the tavern.

  Makepeace literally slobbered with anticipation. A bright, tall rectangle bloomed when the door to the tavern opened and out came that salty mountain man. “Him. He’s the one,” Makepeace Baxter whispered to Nate Glover and Wally Slaughter. “He won big in that game.”

  Preacher turned in the direction of the hotel and was striding toward the entrance when the three pieces of human debris made their move. They rushed at him, visions of gold discs filling their undoubtedly deficient brains. This would be easy. Their target looked completely unsuspecting. Makepeace Baxter growled like a dog when he leaped at the man in buckskins. He had not even made contact when he ran into a fistful of knuckles and learned that their victim had not been as unsuspecting as they would have liked him to be.