Read Online Preacher's Peace by William W. Johnstone - Free Book Online Page A

soldiers, and for coming to join them.
    â€œWak Tha Go, will you speak now?” Crazy Wolf said.
    Nodding, Wak Tha Go stood, then turned to face the other Indians.
    â€œI have heard that the Blackfeet turn away the white trappers who come to your land to hunt the beaver.
    â€œI have heard that the warriors of the Blackfeet have fought bravely and well against the trappers while other villages and nations surrender to the white trappers.
    â€œI have heard that there is no warrior more fierce than a warrior of the Blackfeet.”
    â€œAi, yi, yi, yieee!!!” the others cheered.
    â€œWhat would you have of us, Wak Tha Go?” Crazy Wolf asked. “You have abandoned your people because the Arikara want to make peace with the whites? Have you come to bring the word of peace from your people?”
    â€œNo,” Wak Tha Go answered resolutely. “I have come to the Blackfeet because only the Blackfeet will make war. The Arikara are no longer my people. They are more rabbits than people. I belong to the Piegan Blackfeet.”
    â€œShow us that you are deserving,” Crazy Wolf said. “Become a leader of our warriors.”
    â€œI will,” Wak Tha Go answered, and his response was greeted by more cheering.
    The council was not yet over, but Wak Tha Go left. He knew that it was better to leave while they wanted him to stay, than it was to stay when they wanted him to go.
    He would lead a war party of Blackfeet warriors, and he would count many coups and he would steal many things. But what he wanted to do more than anything else was to kill Artoor, the white man he had seen on the boat. Wak Tha Go had learned Artoor’s name from Tetonka, the Mandan who had traded with him.
    St. Louis, Wednesday, July 21, 1824
    He put in at LaClede’s Landing in St. Louis after two months on the river. Even from the river, he could see that the city had changed a lot since he was last here many years before. Missouri was a state in the Union of States now, and St. Louis had grown from a frontier town to a bustling, prosperous city of nearly ten thousand people. That was a lot of people—too many people for someone like Art who had grown accustomed to life in the wilderness and going for days or weeks without seeing another human soul.
    A friendly hand ashore took the rope Art tossed to him, and made the boat secure.
    â€œYou’ll be wantin’ to sell them furs, I reckon,” the man said.
    â€œYou buying?” Art asked.
    â€œNo, Mr. Ashley does the buying. I just work for him.”
    â€œThat would be William Ashley?”
    â€œYes, sir. You know him, I expect.”
    â€œI know of him. If he’s the one buying, I’m selling.”
    â€œVery good, sir. If you’ll permit me, I’ll get the plews loaded and down to Ashley’s office.”
    â€œI’d appreciate that,” Art said, surprised to find someone so helpful upon his arrival. He hoped for his sake that the man was honest as well.
    Fifteen minutes later the pelts were loaded onto an oxcart and hauled down to Ashley’s office. Art sat with his fur bundles, his legs dangling over the back as the cart rolled up Market Street. Dog followed along behind the cart, seeming not to mind the people and the traffic everywhere. Of course, the people gave Dog a wide berth.
    St. Louis was a vibrant city, alive with the pulse of commerce and enterprise: the scream of a steam-powered sawmill, the sound of steamboat whistles from the river, the hiss and boom of the boats’ engines, and the clatter of wagons rolling across cobblestone streets. To someone used to solitude so quiet that he could hear the flutter of a bird’s wings, the noise of civilization was almost unbearable.
    The cart stopped in front of a two-story building. A neatly painted sign out front read: FURS BOUGHT AND SOLD, WILLIAM ASHLEY, PROP.
    Even before Art dismounted, a dignified-looking man, wearing mustard-colored trousers and a