Blackfoot Messiah

Book 7: Preacher/The First Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone, J.A. Johnstone

Genres: Historical Fiction; Westerns; General Fiction

Synopsis

In the seventh book in his bestselling Preacher series, William W. Johnstone gives his millions of avid fans exactly the kind of gritty, action-packed Western novel they look for from this prolific and hugely popular writer.

"A Messiah Shall Lead Them . . . "

In the Wyoming wild, Blackfoot warriors prepare for battle, their bloodlust stirred by a legendary prophet promising victory in a war that will forever rid the plains of the white man. To legendary mountain man Preacher, it isn't a promise—it's a threat. But being out-numbered in a savage frontier means justice will be as hard-earned and uncertain as . . . survival.

". . . To An Early Grave."

With a loyal Cheyenne as his guide, and a spirited Dragoon squadron for cover, Preacher forges up the treacherous Sante Fe trail. But the only way to win this war is to unmask the hell-raising Messiah whose godforsaken message is leading a desperate people into certain massacre . . .

Release date: June 28, 2015

Publisher: Pinnacle Books

Print pages: 302

Sample

Preacher had to go east to travel west, he discovered, when he decided to accept an assignment from the U.S. Army. Times had been lean for a while. Trapping was a thing of the past. Only a handful of men clung to the old ways, trapped and traded pelts to a market with little demand. Not so the legend called Preacher. Wisely he had salted away ample gold and silver coin, even invested some, most recently in what sounded to many like a fool’s venture; Mr. Fulton’s steamboat works.

As the smoke-belching paddle wheelers proliferated, so did Preacher’s profits. Although ten years of only investment income had severely drained his reserve, he could no more leave the High Lonesome than many of the mountain men. Which meant he had to take whatever he could get to stay in supplies and keep afloat. Thus it was that he grudgingly considered accepting a commission from the War Department to act as trail guide and scout for a regiment of Dragoons. Preacher read again the letter that had accompanied the commissioning papers that had yet to see his signature.

What a stupid idea, Preacher thought. Then, as was the habit of many men who lived alone in the stunning quiet of the High Lonesome, he spoke his ruminations aloud.

“That’ll only cause trouble where there’s none now. What’s got in ol’ Quincy’s head?” Preacher was referring to Quincy Vickers, an old friend. “He lived out here, and trapped, and knows the Injuns. Maybe it ain’t this idee at all. Might be he needs his irons hauled out of the fire.”

Knowing the striped-pants crowd from past experience, Preacher was well aware of their propensity for overreaction and . . . for stupidity. He was to sign the papers and take them to Bent’s Fort, where two copies would be sent by fast messenger to Jefferson Barracks and Washington City. There he would pick up the first installment of the fee offered him. After a heavy sigh and an idle scratch of his thick, yellow-brown hair, Preacher picked up a quill pen and dipped it in his ink pot. With meticulous care, he formed the letters of his name.

Preacher shut and latched the door to his wintering place, careful to poke the latch string back inside. He’d be busy all summer, most like. He curled a dally of the lead rope of his packhorse around the overlarge horn of the Mexican saddle and swung atop his most recent acquisition, a crossbreed Morgan stallion which had a sturdy mountain mustang for a dam. Preacher had named him Tarnation. He shook the reins and drummed heels into stout sides.

“Well, Tarnation, we’d best be eatin’ miles. I reckon I can find some companionable fellers down Bent’s Fort way to accompany me on this commission as they called it.”

In his letter, Quincy Vickers had told Preacher that he was authorized to hire on up to four men, at a rate of three dollars a day. Leave it to the government, Preacher mused, to offer enough money for some men to kill over it.

Big Nose Harper and his sidekick, Algernon Bloore, had gotten roaring, stumbling, falling-down, crap-in-their-drawers drunk the previous night. Now, some seven hours later, they didn’t fare much better. Still too soaked in alcohol to suffer hangovers, they nevertheless sought some “hair of the dog.” Their source, no matter how ill-advised, was William “Nifty” Bates, who had recently opened a trading post and road ranch saloon at the summit of Trout Creek Pass. Nifty was frankly afraid of Big Nose.

Big Nose Harper was a bear of a man, with a barrel chest, long, thick arms, tree-trunk legs, and his most memorable feature which gave him his nickname, an overlarge nose that had been smeared over his face. He held in contempt all “shopkeepers,” to which subspecies he considered Nifty Bates belonged, and he went out of his way to make their lives miserable. Nursing his alcohol fog, Big Nose now went about tormenting Nifty.

“This whisky tastes like frog pee. You waterin’ it down again, you cheat?”

“N-n-no, not at all, Mr. Harper,” the barkeep stammered. Bates would soon sell out, inspired in part by the events of that afternoon.

Harper slammed his pewter mug on the pine-plank bar hard enough to make dust rise. “I say yer waterin’ it. An’ m’name’s Big Nose.”

“No I’m not, Mr.... er . . . Big Nose.”

Harper’s mean, close-set eyes narrowed. “Are you makin’ fun of my honker?”

“Oh, no. You—you told me to call you Big Nose.”

Big Nose looked offended. “I never said no such thing. Any man calls me that’s lookin’ for a killin’. A pantywaist like you’s good for a knuckle-drubbin’.”

A shadow fell across the toes of the boots worn by Big Nose, cast by a figure that filled the doorway. “Why don’t you pick on someone nearer your size, Big Nose? Or should I call you blubber ass?”

Harper spun to face his detractor. “Who in hell are you?”

“They call me Preacher.”

“Folks say he’s a mean one, Big Nose,” sniggered Algernon Bloore, who was more than a few biscuits shy of a plateful.

“Shut up, Algie,” Harper snarled. He sized up Preacher and found him wanting. Whisky had so clouded his reasoning that he failed to see the hard, deadly glint in the gray eyes of the raw-boned man in the doorway. “Now, if you’ll oblige me by gettin’ the hell outta here, I’ll have another drink. Barkeep, make it snappy.”

Emboldened by the presence of Preacher, Nifty Bates took a stand. “No, sir. You’ve had too much. The bar is closed to you.”

Harper cut his eyes to Algie. Surprise registered on both their faces. No man ever spoke to Big Nose Harper that way. Growling, Big Nose reached across the plank bar and balled the front of Bates’ shirt in both hands. With a yank that looked effortless, and was, he hauled the proprietor off his feet and across the bar.

Taking quick, mincing steps, which caused his long, greasy black locks to churn in protest, Big Nose Harper crossed the room and threw Nifty Bates out into the dusty dooryard. He then dusted hamlike palms together and snarled a reply to Bates.

“I say who drinks an’ who doesn’t around here.”

Preacher took exception to that. “Like hell you do.”

Glee brightened the pig eyes of Big Nose. “Mr. Preacher, prepare to meet yer maker.”

With that, he came at the living legend of the mountains, arms widespread for his favorite bear hug. It had crushed the life from seven men before this. Big Nose saw no problem in making it eight. Which proved to be a terrible mistake.

Preacher crouched and duck-waddled out of the grasp of those powerful arms. When Big Nose blundered past, Preacher popped up and slammed an open palm into the side of the brawler’s head, cupping it over the ear. If not for the thick ropes of greasy hair, the blow would have burst the ear drum of Big Nose. All it did, though, was set up a furious ringing and made him even angrier.

Big Nose whirled and swung at Preacher’s chin. Preacher pulled his head back a few inches and let the big knuckles swish past. Then he went to work on the exposed ribs of Big Nose. Soft thuds sounded clearly enough to be heard by Nifty Bates. Dull-witted Algie Bloore decided to get in some licks on Preacher to win favor from his companion. He got a solid kick in the stomach for his efforts, flew backward with a hefty grunt and smashed into the bar. At once he began to spew up the liquor he had consumed.

By then, Big Nose had rallied and again grappled to encase Preacher in a bear hug. Preacher would have none of that. He backpedaled and swung a short, hard right to the face of Harper. Big Nose’s most prominent feature got a little bigger when Preacher connected with the much-broken bridge. Preacher followed with a left hook that snapped Harper’s jaw shut with a loud click. A second later, arms and legs twined around Preacher from behind.

Always a sneak, though not bright enough to profit by it, a somewhat recovered Algie Bloore had maneuvered to where he could leap on Preacher’s back. “I got him, Big Nose, I got him!” he yelled gleefully.

Instead of struggling, Preacher simply flexed his knees and rammed himself backward into a six-by-six upright that supported part of the roof. Algie’s shout of triumph turned to a squeal of pain.

“B’god, b’god, I think my back’s broke.”

“You’ll git over it,” Harper growled. Then he came for Preacher.

Always obliging, Preacher stepped away from the post and let Algie fall limply to the floor. He met the onrush of his opponent with a series of fast lefts and rights. A small grunt came from Harper with each impact. Half a dozen and he staggered sideways, his vision blurred. Fresh rage welled up inside him and he reached for a knife.

A shaft of sunlight through the open doorway made the keen edge a streak of fire. Harper advanced on Preacher, who produced his Greenriver and took a couple of swipes through the air. When Harper lunged Preacher cut him across the back of the hand. The knife fell from pain-filled fingers. Preacher kicked it aside.

“Yeaaaaah!”

Preacher whirled to find a revived Algie Bloore hurtling at him, a knife extended in one hand. Preacher parried and sidestepped. He kicked Bloore’s feet out from under the slightly built, ferret-faced man and Bloore went sprawling on the plank floor. His face was gouged by the rough boards; his knife skidded across the room. Preacher paused to take stock.

Both men looked fairly well whipped. Big Nose Harper stood, slope-shouldered, his breath harsh and irregular, head bowed. He tried, clumsily, to wrap a bandanna around his wounded hand. Preacher strode to the bar and pulled a beer for himself.

“Look out!” The warning shout came from Nifty Bates in the doorway.

Preacher spun on one heel to see Algie Bloore pull a long, single-barrel, caplock pistol from his waistband. Now, Preacher had been willing to oblige when the pair of frontier trash yanked steel on him, but he figured this was going too far. Recently outfitted with a pair of. 44 Walker Colts, Preacher unlimbered one. He smoothly cocked the hammer as the muzzle cleared leather and snapped his elbow inward to elevate the barrel and level it on the target.

For all of his getting started last, Preacher’s bullet reached the target first. Algie Bloore’s head snapped backward from the impact of the 200-grain ball. A fist-sized chunk of his skull erupted from the left rear and showered the wall with gore. Reflex triggered his pistol and sent a ball into the front of the bar, close by Preacher’s leg.

Enraged beyond caution by the swift death of his partner, Big Nose Harper dragged out a pair of double-barreled pistols. He thumb-cocked one awkwardly and swung it in the direction of Preacher. His first barrel discharged and put a ball into the wall beside Preacher’s head a split second after Preacher put a .44 slug from his Walker Colt in the center of Harper’s forehead.

Ears ringing from the confined detonations, Preacher examined his handiwork. Thick layers of powder smoke undulated in the cool interior of the saloon. Shakily, Nifty Bates entered. He walked over to Preacher and wrung his hand in gratitude and relief.

“I ain’t never seen such fancy shootin’ in my born days. Drinks are on the house, Preacher. Dinner, too. This pair’s been nothin’ but a misery and torment to me the past three days.”

Up in the Blackfoot Mountains of Montana Territory, a huge gathering of warriors whooped it up around a large fire. The entire carcass of a bison, cut into quarters, turned on green-wood spits over separate cookfire. Off to one side, three Blackfoot braves handed out shiny new rifles from wooden crates at the back of a wagon. Each man gifted with one of these received a bag of a hundred lead balls and a horn of powder. For the time being, they would not be given the percussion caps. Four older men, seated around a large drum, hit the final double beat and concluded their song. The warriors stopped dancing and gathered in a wide semicircle around a startlingly white buffalo-hide lodge.

A young-looking man stepped out of the entrance and struck a pose before them. Although in his mid-thirties, he had the look of a man in his early twenties. His coppery face was elastic and unlined. He wore ankle-high moccasins, beaded and quilled in traditional Blackfoot design, a knee-length loincloth and an abbreviated, soft, pliable, elkskin hunting shirt. Over that was a most unusual item of garb, which lay in turn beneath a second, larger hunting shirt. Hair-pipe bracelets adorned his forearms and a breastplate of bison teeth, hair-pipe beads and brass cones covered his chest. He raised his arms above his head to command attention. The silence, immediate, became profound.

“My brothers, there are many among you who say Iron Shirt is too young to make strong medicine. You say that I have been a medicine man for only ten winters. Yet, I say to you that I have the strongest medicine. I received it in a vision when I visited among the Paiute. My spirit guide appeared to me and showed me a hidden valley. ’Dig here’ the spirit said, pointing at a low mound. ’You will find the power of White Buffalo. You will learn the ways of making the medicine that will bring back White Buffalo and drive the white-eyes from our land forever.’ I dug there, and I found what the spirit wanted for me. Then I was shown the dance we have just danced, and much more. It makes me safe from any white man’s bullets. It will work for you also. The day is coming soon when the white men will fall to the earth like soft hailstones. I bring you rifles, the newest and best. Plenty of bullets, too. When you have finished the ritual of Iron Shirt, you will be stronger than any bullet.”

“You say the white man’s bullets cannot harm you, Iron Shirt. Prove it and we will follow you,” a doubter among the experienced warriors challenged.

Iron Shirt looked at his detractor contemptuously for a moment, then forced an amiable expression on his face. He was, after all, selling something. He pointed with his chin at one of his earlier converts.

“I ask Bent Trees to step to the far side of the fire. Take your gun in hand and point it at my chest.” Bent Trees did as bidden. When he was in position, Iron Shirt continued. “When I say so, shoot me.”

Gasps of surprise and shock arose among the Blackfoot. “He will not aim at Iron Shirt,” one brave stated flatly.

“The gun is not loaded with a bullet,” opined another.

“It is a trick.”

Another convert sought to disabuse them. “No, it is the power of Iron Shirt’s medicine. Watch and see.”

“Now, Bent Trees.”

With a sharp crack, the .60 single-shot pistol discharged. A black hole appeared in the outer hunting shirt worn by Iron Shirt a split second before he violently rocked backward, his face twisted in pain. Several Blackfoot rushed forward. Iron Shirt held up a hand to stay them.

Carefully he reached into the hole and worked his fingers a moment. He came out with a flattened .60-caliber ball. Yips and whoops of victory broke out among the spectators as he held it high and slowly turned full circle. When the jubilation subsided, he spoke again.

“You will be shown the secret of this medicine when you complete the ritual to become part of my Iron Shield Strong Heart Society. Death to all white-eyes!”

Seated inside the lodge of Iron Shirt were three white men, dressed as Blackfoot. One, Morton Gross, with thinning, mousy brown hair and eyes that looked like chips of blue ice, smoked a cigar. All three looked inordinately pleased with the progress being made. The nominal leader of their cabal nodded to Gross.

“It’s fortunate that you have important friends in high places, Morton. Nice to get advance warning that a regiment of troops is on the way, and that it would be guided by an experienced frontiersman.”

Morton Gross made light of his informant’s importance. “He’s only a clerk. The really important ones are so high up they don’t dare make direct contact with us, but my informant was able to read the letter sent to the former mountain man, Preacher.”

Praeger beamed as he bragged to his companions, “And now, if the men we sent to watch the Santa Fe Trail only do their job, our goal is in our hands.”

A day’s ride from Bent’s Fort, Preacher sipped from his first cup of coffee in night camp. Orange shafts slanted over his right shoulder and the night birds and katydids were gradually tuning up for their serenade. They suddenly went silent and Preacher stiffened a moment, then moved with studied casualness as he set aside the tin cup and draped a hand over the butt of his right-hand Walker Colt. A moment later a man’s voice rang out from among the trees.

“Hello, the camp. We done smelled coffee.”

Preacher looked up in that direction. “Howdy to you, stranger. If you be friendly, come on in. There’s plenty for both of us.”

“We be two if that’s all right by you?”

“Fine as frog hair. Come sit a spell.”

Two men entered the clearing on foot, leading their horses. The one in front had a broad, ample girth, chubby arms and legs, and a moon face. The one behind him had a skinny frame, gaunt as a scarecrow’s, with flat, dull eyes and big ears. He wore his hair in a boy’s “soup bowl” cut, Preacher noticed. The friendly voice came from him.

“They call me Fat Louie, though I can’t for the life of me figger why. Ain’t put on a single pound since before my voice changed. This lump o’ lard be my pard, Yard-Long Farmer. I reckon you can work out why the name,” he concluded with a wheezing cackle.

Yard-Long Farmer joined in the laughter. “Yup. When I was ten I had me the biggest tallywhacker of any kid under fifteen in our town,” he offered in the event Preacher could not puzzle through the nickname.

“Name’s Arthur,” Preacher responded evasively. He had heard of this pair and kept alert. “Sit a while.”

He poured coffee around and broke out some cornbread and a pot of molasses. While they munched and sipped, Fat Louie spoke flatteringly to Preacher.

“I tell ya, Arthur, you’re the very best we ever saw. We didn’t cut no sign of you whatsomeever. We wouldn’t have found this camp if we hadn’t near stumbled right into it. You been in the Big Empty long?”

“Since before my voice changed,” said Preacher dryly, mocking Fat Louie’s earlier turn of phrase.

Fat Louie seemed not to notice. “It certain shows. Say, that’s a mighty fine horse you’ve got. Looks like he could go a long ways, rid hard and put up wet, an’ not be harmed. Must be worth a pretty penny.”

“He’s out of a shaggy mountain mustang,” Preacher deliberately belittled his sturdy stallion.

Over the next half hour the conversation went much the same way. When Preacher came to his boots to pour more coffee, Fat Louie cut his eyes to Farmer. The chubby thug nodded slowly. Fat Louie agreed. They had this Arthur off his guard. At once, both rogues whipped out pistols and drew down on Preacher.

“Don’t get goosey, Arthur. We’ll just be takin’ all yer gear an’ yer horses an’ those fancy irons yer wearin’.”

Having been credited with inventing the words gunfighter and fastdraw, this did not faze Preacher in the least. He had known of this pair’s reputation for years, knew them to be cowardly trash who would kill him in a hot tick. He slowly turned toward the louts threatening him.

He spoke in a soft, flat tone. “I don’t think so.”

Fat Louie smirked over the barrel of his pistol. “Oh? What makes you say that?”

“Because you’ve got yourselves a little problem here. Most folks don’t call me by my given name. They call me Preacher.”

Yard-Long Farmer’s eyes went wide and he let his jaw drop before he gulped out a frightened, “Oh ... hell!”

Between the Oh and the hell, Preacher unlimbered a Walker Colt and shot Fat Louie in the center of his breastbone. Louie’s pistol bucked in his hand and he put a ball through the side-wing of Preacher’s long, colorful capote. Then his legs went rubbery and he sank to his knees.

Preacher immediately turned on Farmer and put a .44 ball in the hollow of his throat. Yard-Long went down, gargling his blood. His finger twitched and he fired one of the pair of pistols he held, sending the ball into his left calf. Pain sounded through his gurgles.

“Why? Why me?” he managed to choke out.

Preacher stepped over to him and removed the unfired pistol from his hand. Right then he heard the click of a caplock mechanism. Fat Louie had not yet gone off to meet his maker. Ignoring the question for a moment, Preacher turned to his right and fired in an almost casual way. His bullet went in one ear and out the other, ending forever the nefarious career of Fat Louie LaDeaux. Then Preacher dropped to one knee beside Yard-Long Farmer.

“You know, it’s too bad you and yer partner chose the wrong path to walk. Best you make your peace with the Almighty. You ain’t got much time.”

When Preacher reached Bent’s Fort, he encountered two old friends, Antoine Revier, a half-breed Delaware, and Three Sleeps Norris. Former mountain men who, like Preacher, could not leave the mountains after the fur trade collapsed, they moved like ghosts from one old haunt to another. Three Sleeps Norris burst out through the stockade gate with such animation that dust boiled up around his moccasins.

“I’ll be danged if it ain’t Preacher. Still got his hair, if he has growed a little potbelly.”

Preacher dismounted and they embraced, then danced around and around. “I don’t have a potbelly,” Preacher protested. “And I keep my hair by stayin’ on the watch for those who would lift it.” He stopped their caper and held Three Sleeps out at arm’s length. “I will say that you have grown a mite rounder since I last saw you.”

Three Sleeps faked a pout. “I ain’t no rounder. It’s these clothes.”

“Sure, sure, of course it is. Anybody else around from the old bunch.”

“Antoine Revier is inside now. Also Pap Jacobs is mendin’ from a broke leg. Nobody else at home but a couple of stuffy soldier-boys.”

Preacher frowned. This was embarrassing. “They’re waiting for me.”

Three Sleeps cocked his head to one side. “What? Preacher hangin’ with soldier-boys?”

“Not exactly hangin’. I got some papers for them. To be delivered. Back in Washington City.”

Three Sleeps gave Preacher a knowing wink. “Couldn’t be that you’re signed up to actual work for the Army?”

Preacher swallowed hard and rushed his words. “We’ll-talk-about-that-later. Now I want to wash the trail dust out of my throat.”

“Wal, come on. Old Turner has him a new spring house where he keeps his beer barrels. Like to crack yer teeth it’s so cold.”

The Bent brothers had long since departed from the private fort named for them. Currently a man named Ransom Turner occupied the trading post and saloon, and the immigrant’s store. The fortifications had deteriorated badly. The Arapaho were no longer a threat, and the Kiowa raided farther east. Turner, more a businessman than a frontiersman, had not bothered with repairs. One of the gates, Preacher noted, hung from a single huge iron hinge. They strode across the small parade ground to the front of the saloon to encounter another warm welcome for Preacher.

Seated at last at a table in the plank-floored saloon, Preacher drank contentedly from a large stein of beer, which he used to chase swallows of some whisky of dubious origin. He easily saw why his present companions preferred the beer. Across from him, Antoine Revier leaned toward Preacher. Beady, black eyes glittered with merriment under Revier’s thick mane of black hair and bushy brows.

“Sacré nom, it is good to see you again, Preacher. When was the last time?”

Preacher studied the traces of gray shot through Revier’s hair at his temples and in his luxuriant mustache. A lot of time had gone by. “The ’twenty-eight rendezvous, as I recollect.”

Antoine slapped a big hand on the tabletop. “You are right. It has been at l. . .