Preacher's Peace (12 page)

The Indians of the Ponca tribe went all out to welcome Artoor and his fellow travelers. The women made Indian fry bread and roasted game, the men performed dances, and Artoor was invited to join them in the inner circle of the council fire. When McDill started to sit in the inner circle as well, without being invited, a couple of warriors stood in his way.

“Art, tell these ignorant savages to stand aside and let me sit down,” McDill said.

“You can sit anywhere you want, McDill, except in the front circle,” Art said.

“What do you mean I can't sit in the front circle? I'll sit any damn where I please.”

Art, who was already seated, turned to look back toward McDill. “You can sit anywhere you want, McDill, except in the front circle.”

“You're sitting there.”

“I was invited.”

“Why wasn't I invited?”

“Perhaps it is because you presumed to sit there before you were invited.”

“That makes no sense. If they were going to invite me anyway, why not just let me sit there now?”

“It is the Indian way,” Art said without any further explanation. His patience had long since begun to wear thin.

Grumbling, McDill sat further back, joining the other trappers.

Spotted Pony held his arms forward, spread shoulder-width apart, palms up. A shaman placed a lit ceremonial pipe into his hands, parallel with Spotted Pony's shoulders. Gingerly, Spotted Pony lifted the pipe above his head and mouthed a prayer. Bringing the pipe back down, he turned it very carefully, pushing the bowl forward with his right hand, bringing the mouthpiece back with his left. He took a puff on the pipe, then used his right hand to wave some of the escaping smoke back into his face. Afterward, he held the pipe out toward Art, inviting him to smoke as well.

Art smoked the pipe with Spotted Pony, being very careful to follow the same prescribed ritual. Art then passed the pipe around to the others in the inner circle, and only after all had smoked did the conversation begin. He wasn't a regular user of tobacco, but he understood the importance of the pipe to the Indians.

“You are the one called Artoor?” Spotted Pony asked.

“Yes.”

“You have killed many Indians, Artoor.”

“Yes. I have killed many Indians, and I have killed white men. But I have only killed those who were trying to kill me.”

A very old and wrinkled man leaned over to say something to Spotted Pony. This was the shaman, the medicine man who'd lit the pipe and placed it so carefully in Spotted Pony's hands when the ritual began. The shaman spoke in a mixed guttural, singsong voice, nodding his head often as he spoke.

Spotted Pony nodded as well, as the other spoke.

“He Who Sees says that your heart is pure and your words are true, Artoor,” Spotted Pony said. “You have killed only those who try to kill you.”

He Who Sees spoke again.

“You and another were riding on a big canoe on the water when Arikara attacked you. They killed the one with you, but they did not kill you.”

Art nodded, wondering how the old man knew. “They killed my friend, Clyde Barnes.”

“You killed many of them.” It wasn't a question, it was a statement, and Art saw no reason to reply.

The shaman spoke again.

“But you have made an enemy of Wak Tha Go,” Spotted Pony continued.

Art looked confused. “I do not know Wak Tha Go,” he said.

“Wak Tha Go is the warrior who killed your friend,” Spotted Pony explained. “You killed many of his warriors and now, because the tepees of many were empty when he returned to the village, Wak Tha Go is no longer welcome among the Arikara, his own people. He is not welcome by the Ponca, the Mandan, the Sioux, or the Crow. The heart of Wak Tha Go is very hot, and cannot be cooled. He wants only to kill you.”

“I hope to make peace with the Arikara, as I hope to make peace with the Ponca, Mandan, Sioux, Crow, and Blackfeet. I would even make peace with Wak Tha Go, if he would cool his heart.”

“You have brought gifts for the Ponca?” Spotted Pony asked.

Art smiled, grateful that Mr. Ashley had provided for this moment. “Yes. The fur chief who lives in St. Louis has sent many good gifts to show his appreciation for allowing trappers to take beaver.”

“It is good that we should have peace,” Spotted Pony said.

* * *

From each village, an Indian messenger was sent ahead to the next, telling of the peace mission of the trapper known as Artoor. Because the messengers were sent ahead, every village turned out to welcome Art, and soon he had negotiated peace treaties with nearly all the Indians along the Missouri: the Poncas, Sioux, Cheyennes, Hidatsas, Mandans, and even the Arikara. The Indians all acknowledged the rights of the trappers and fur traders to take beaver on their land, and Art promised fair treatment to the Indians on all future trades.

“No more will our people trade bad whiskey for good pelts,” Art promised with all sincerity.

For his part, the Arikara chief known as The Peacemaker promised that the Arikara would make no more war, but, he also warned that Wak Tha Go, who had made his own personal war against Artoor, had left the Arikara and now lived with the Blackfeet, and called himself a Blackfoot.

“I think Wak Tha Go and the Blackfeet will not make peace with you,” The Peacemaker said.

“I will try to make peace with him,” Art replied. “I have lived with the Indian and I consider the Indian to be my brother. I have no wish to kill my brothers.”

* * *

At the mouth of the Yellowstone, Art sent word to the Blackfeet, Assiniboin, and Crow, inviting them to come talk peace. Only the Crow could be coaxed in, and their chiefs came to the meeting arrayed in their finest blankets and robes.

The meeting, designed to discuss peace, nearly started a war. Art displayed the gifts he intended to give the Indians in exchange for their promise not to make war on the white fur trappers. When one of the chiefs reached for the gifts before he was invited to do so, McDill clubbed him over the head with his pistol butt. Angry, the other chiefs threw off their robes and raised their war clubs, forcing Art and the others to wade into the fray, swinging their muskets. Within a few moments, all five Indians were on the ground and it was obvious to Art that McDill was about to kill one of them.

“No, McDill!” Art shouted.

McDill was on the ground with his knife at an Indian chief's throat. The Indian was staring up at him defiantly, unable to defend himself, but unwilling to show fear.

McDill held the knife there for a long moment, until Art pointed his rifle at McDill.

“I said no. Leave him be,” Art said.

“Whose side are you on?” McDill asked. The man or the redskin?”

“I'm on
my
side,” Art said. He desperately tried to hold his anger in check. “If you kill him we'll have the entire Crow nation on our backs.”

McDill made no effort to release the Indian chief.

“Let him up—now,” Art said, cocking his rifle. “If you don't, I will kill you.”

The other Indians, who by now had regained their feet, looked on with wide eyes at the drama playing out between the white men. They had never seen such enmity between these fur trappers before.

“You'd kill one of your own?” McDill asked.

“You aren't one of my own, McDill,” Art said flatly.

McDill let out a long sigh, then stood up and put his knife away.

“Sure, Art, I was just funnin' with him anyway,” he said.

Warily, the chief regained his feet and looked over at Art.

“Help yourself,” Art said, pointing to the gifts.

The Indian hesitated.

“Here,” Art said. He picked up a fine bone-handled knife and handed it to the chief. “This is for you.”

Smiling, the Indian held the knife out and looked at it.

“Here, for you. For all of you,” Art said with an inviting swipe of his hand.

“Wait,” McDill said. “Not all them gifts is for the Crow. We still got the Assiniboin and the Blackfeet to worry about.”

“That's a fact,” Art said. He nodded toward the remaining chiefs, who were now gathering up the presents. “But the time may come up here when we need some allies. And these Indians may just be what we need, provided you don't try any more dumb-fool stunts like the one you just pulled.”

When the Crow left the encampment an hour or so later, they were laden with every gift Art's little party had remaining. Now, if the trappers encountered the Blackfeet, or any other hostile tribe up here, they might be able to count on the Crow for help. In fact, just before the Crow left, one of them, the one who had nearly been killed by McDill, approached Art.

“You would have killed your own to save me?” he asked, speaking English quite well. Art was surprised because, until this moment, they had communicated only in sign language.

“Yes,” he said.

“How are you called?” the Indian asked.

“I am called Artoor.”

The Indian nodded. “I have heard of you, Artoor. I am Red Tail.” Red Tail put his right hand on Art's left shoulder, and Art did the same to him.

“And I have heard of you,” Art said.

“It is good that you would kill one of your own to save the life of a Crow. Because you would do that, we will throw out all that has passed behind us. The Crow will be the friend of Artoor.”

“And you will not make war with the trappers and fur traders?”

“We will make no war,” Red Tail said. Abruptly he turned and joined the others. Mounting, they rode away quickly, yipping and howling as they proudly displayed their gifts.

Perched high on the end of a bluff that protruded over the water, stood a fort constructed of palisade logs. There were two projecting blockhouses on corners opposite each other from which the guards would not only have a view of the river approach and surrounding countryside, but could also cover, by rifle fire, the outside walls of the fort itself. The American flag fluttered from a wooden pole atop the nearest blockhouse.

Although the structure had all the appearances of a U.S. Army fort, it was actually the trading post Ashley had told Art about. It had been established by the American Fur Company, and was ably commanded by Joe Walker, the head of the trading garrison.

The front gate to the fort was closed tight when Art and his entourage arrived. Art looked toward the blockhouse that had a view of the gate; it appeared to be empty.

“Maybe there's nobody here,” McDill suggested.

“Someone is here,” Art said. “The gate has to be closed from the inside.”

“Is not good military sense to leave blockhouse empty,” Hoffman said.

Dog barked, and a face appeared over the balustrade of the blockhouse.

Art laughed. “Dog had the right idea,” he said. “All we had to do is knock.”

The man in the blockhouse pointed a rifle down toward them, more than a bit unsteadily.

“Who are you, and what do you want?” he called.

“The name is Art, and we've got a letter for Joe Walker,” Art said, holding up the letter. “From Mr. William Ashley in St. Louis.”

The man in the blockhouse stared at them for a long, silent moment. His face was screwed up, as if he had been eating lemons.

“For God's sake, man, do we look like Indians to you?” McDill called up to him.

The guard called down to the inside of the fort. “Open the gate.”

A moment later the gate creaked open and Art and his group rode inside. Just inside the gate in the middle of the open area, which resembled a small parade ground, sat a cannon. A dog came running toward them, his fangs bared. Dog hunkered down toward the ground and growled. The canine who had approached stopped, barked a quick, ribbony yap at Dog, then turned and ran away. A man came up to meet them.

“You the one the Indians called Artoor?” he asked.

“Yes,” Art replied.

“We heard you were coming. Come on in, Mr. Walker is waiting for you.”

“How did you hear we were coming?”

“Word spreads upriver faster than people do,” the man said.

* * *

Joe Walker was only two inches over five feet tall, and nearly as big around. He had a bald head and a full brown beard, and he scratched at his bushy whiskers as he read the letter Art presented to him.

“How are things back in St. Louie?” he asked.

“Noisy,” Art replied.

Walker laughed. “Noisy indeed,” he said. “Yes, I would say the city is noisy, all right. I miss it, though, all the people—and especially women . . . not many women out here, except the Indian gals, who are nice but don't palaver the American language much.”

Art said, “Some people talk too much as it is.”

“You and your men must join me for dinner. I am anxious to hear more about your trip.”

Art's party actually cleaned themselves up a little before they sat down with Joe Walker in his quarters for a sumptuous meal.

“How goes your peacemaking mission?” Walker asked over the meal of fried trout and baked potatoes.

“How did you know of our mission?” Art asked.

“Word has come from the friendly tribes downriver,” Walker explained.

“So far it has gone well. We have made peace with the Arikara and they were on the warpath last year.”

“But you have not made peace with the Blackfeet.”

“No.”

“Nor will you,” Walker said. “The Blackfeet are why we built this fort. Such savages are they that even their own kind will have little to do with them. However, I wish you good luck in your effort. Were peace to be made with them, it would make our task much easier.”

“Well, we sure want to make your life easier,” McDill said. The Hessian, Hoffman, shot him a hard look. But McDill was unaware of his own stupidity. “What did I say?” he asked when there was only silence after his remark.

Walker went on. “We are here to improve the business prospects of the American Fur Company, and we appreciate the efforts you gentlemen have exerted to ensure our success.”

“Glad to be of service,” McDill muttered under his breath so that only Caviness could hear him.

After the meal, Art and Walker talked on long into the night about the goings-on in the territory, swapping information. Art was determined to know as much as he could about what lay ahead for him and his men.

Wak Tha Go got up with the sun and walked through the quiet village. The fire of last night's council had been reduced to a pile of white ash that gave off only a tiny amount of smoke.

The Blackfeet were aware that Artoor was making peace with all the other nations, and they held council to decide whether or not they would accept his peace offer. There were some who counseled peace. Chief among the peacemakers was a man named Running Elk, who was the oldest and wisest shaman of the village.

Wak Tha Go was very much against making peace. And though Wak Tha Go was a recent émigré to the Blackfoot Nation, he had been totally accepted as one of them. This was in part because of his reputation as a fierce warrior, and in part because he was a member of the Bear Society, one of the most honored of the war societies. Wak Tha Go proposed that, instead of making peace with Artoor, they send out a war party to find him and kill him. Wak Tha Go even offered himself as leader of the war party.

The discussion was heated on each side of the issue, but by the end of the evening no real decision had been made. As far as Wak Tha Go was concerned, “no decision” was just as effective as a decision in favor of war. That was because it effectively kept the current policy in place. And the current policy of the Blackfeet was belligerence with the white trappers and hunters.

Still thinking about the council of the night before, Wak Tha Go left the tepees and the smoldering campfires, then climbed to the top of the one-hundred-foot promontory that jutted out over the Yellowstone River. From there he could see the sun, now a glowing orange ball poised just over the distant horizon. As the sun rose higher in the sky, it began to spread pools of brilliantly shining gold and silver across the surface of the water. Then, when it became so bright that it started to hurt his eyes, Wak Tha Go turned to look back at the village he had just left.

Here and there wisps of smoke curled up from holes in the tops of the tepees, evidence that the people of the village were just beginning to rise. Then, quite unexpectedly, the rising hackles on the back of his neck told Wak Tha Go that he was not alone. He spun around quickly and was shocked to see Running Elk behind him.

Wak Tha Go had not heard Running Elk approach, indeed would not have thought him capable of even climbing the hill, and yet there the old man was, sitting cross-legged on the ground, looking at Wak Tha Go with a gaze that seemed to penetrate to his very soul.

“How did you get here?” Wak Tha Go asked.

No answer.

“What are you doing here?”

When Running Elk still didn't answer, Wak Tha Go went on, speaking to cover the awkwardness of the moment.

“If you have come to speak again of making peace with the white man, you may as well shout your words into the wind, for my ears are closed,” Wak Tha Go said.

Running Elk remained silent.

“Why do you not speak?”

The old man stared with eyes that were so penetrating as to be almost frightening. Wak Tha Go had never seen such intensity in anyone's eyes before.

Running Elk was wearing a red shirt, trimmed in yellow. This was not the kind of clothes one wore on ordinary occasions, and Wak Tha Go wondered about that. He also noticed that Running Elk's knife, bow and quiver of arrows, his war club, and his pipe all lay on the ground beside him.

“How did you get by me?” Wak Tha Go asked. “And why are you wearing your finest clothes and carrying your most prized possessions?”

Wak Tha Go was very uncomfortable now, and the more he tried to cover his embarrassment, the more obvious his embarrassment became. “Are you making a journey?”

“Yes,” Running Elk replied, speaking for the first time. “I am making a journey”

“Where are you going?”

“Where I go is not important,” Running Elk said. “I have come to tell you of things to come.”

“You will tell me of things to come?” Wak Tha Go scoffed. “Are you one who can see into the future?”

“I am a man of knowledge,” Running Elk said.

“So, you are a man of knowledge, are you? Then tell me of my future.”

“You have two futures.”

Wak Tha Go laughed. “How can one man have two futures?”

“You have two futures, but can only choose one. One is the future of peace. One is the future of war.”

“I will not ask you which future I should choose, for I know what you will say. You would have me choose the future of peace.”

“I cannot choose for you.”

“Then I choose the future of war.”

“You choose war so you can have revenge against one white man.”

“Yes.”

“You are a brave and ferocious warrior. But you have not chosen wisely. Many of my people will be killed.”

“I don't care how many are killed as long as I kill the one called Artoor.”

Running Elk shook his head. “Artoor will not be killed.”

“He will be killed, and I will kill him,” Wak Tha Go insisted.

Running Elk held up his hand to silence Wak Tha Go. “I do not have much time,” he said. “Hear my words so that you know what I speak is true.”

“I will listen,” Wak Tha Go said.

“The time will come when the one called Artoor will visit our village, and while he is here his tongue will speak without ceasing from sun to sun. The people will not understand his words, but they will feel his power and the one called Artoor will be given a new name.”

“One cannot be given a new name unless one does a great deed,” Wak Tha Go said. “What great deed will Artoor do, that he will be given a new name?”

“He will do not one great deed, but many great deeds. He will live long and become a man of the past and the future,” Running Elk explained. “Among the Indians of all nations, songs of Artoor's deeds will be sung in councils and around campfires. White men will tell stories of him in the places where they gather, and they will write of him in their books. He will be remembered by the grandchildren of the grandchildren of their grandchildren.”

“And what is this new name to be?”

“He will be called Preacher.”

Wak Tha Go laughed. “Preacher? Preacher is what white men call the teachers of their religion. It is not the name of a great warrior.”

“He will make it the name of a great warrior.”

“How is it that you know all these things, Running Elk? Do you have the gift of seeing into the future?”

“I do not see the future, I am the future,” Running Elk said.

“You speak in riddles, old man,” Wak Tha Go said. He turned away from Running Elk and looked back out over the village. The pearlgray of early morning was sharpening in tone and tint, and the tepees took on definition from the bright light of day. He saw three women in mourning dress approaching one of the tepees. “And if I kill Artoor, what will happen to the future you see?”

Running Elk did not answer, but Wak Tha Go didn't repeat the question. He was too interested in what was going on in the village below. He saw that one of the three women was carrying a deerskin. She stopped just outside the tepee, laid the skin down, unrolled it, then took out a red and yellow shirt, a knife, a bow and quiver of arrows, a pipe, and a war club. It wasn't until then that he realized what was going on. The three women were part of a funeral.

“Look, someone has died,” Wak Tha Go said. He pointed. “The women of his family have come to prepare the body.” Wak Tha Go looked more closely at the women. “Wait, I do not understand what I see. Those are the women of your family,” he said. “Your wife, your daughter, and the wife of your son. Running Elk, what are they doing?” Wak Tha Go turned around to ask his question, but Running Elk was gone.

“Running Elk?” Wak Tha Go called. Running Elk was nowhere around. Wak Tha Go wondered where the old Indian had gone, and how he had gotten away without being seen.

Wak Tha Go turned back toward the village and saw that the women had gone into the tepee. Suddenly he felt a strange, tingling sensation, and his body convulsed as if he had had a chill.

“No!” he shouted. “No, this cannot be!” He hurried down the side of the hill, running so hard that he was panting for breath when he reached the tepee. Pushing open the flap, he went inside. The oldest of the three women looked around at him, and Wak Tha Go saw that her eyes were filled with tears.

“What has happened?” Wak Tha Go asked.

“My husband has died,” she said.

Looking beyond the women, he saw the body of Running Elk, lying on a bed of furs.

“When . . . when did he die?” Wak Tha Go asked in a strained voice.

“Last night, after the council,” the woman answered.

“But no, this can't be,” Wak Tha Go said.

The women misunderstood his reaction.

“It is good to see that you are saddened,” said Running Elk's daughter. “You spoke against him in council. I am glad he is not your enemy.”

Wak Tha Go realized then that he would have to accept a fundamental truth. The person who had come to speak with him this morning was not Running Elk, but Running Elk's spirit. He turned and walked away from the tepee, thinking about the things Running Elk had told him. Wak Tha Go felt privileged to have been visited by Running Elk's spirit, for only those warriors with great medicine were given such visions. But he couldn't tell anyone about it, because Running Elk had come to him to advise the path of peace, when he wanted to ... suddenly Wak Tha Go had an idea.

He would tell everyone of the visit of Running Elk's spirit. And when they would ask him why Running Elk came to him, he would tell them it was because Running Elk had changed his mind and now wished to say that the Blackfeet should make war against the trapper named Artoor.

* * *