Preacher's Peace by William W. Johnstone

Author:William W. Johnstone [Johnstone, William W.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Kensington
Published: 2016-05-18T04:00:00+00:00

Nine

On the Missouri River, North of the Yellowstone

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 . . .

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.