Preacher's Peace by William W. Johnstone Page A

boy, you hit that sawed-off piece of a bottle neck on the left there, and I’ll set her free,” Eby promised.
    Art nodded. “You’ve got a bet.”
    Everyone expected to wait for a long moment while Art aimed, but to their surprise he lifted the rifle, aimed, and fired in one smooth, continuous motion. The bottle neck shattered. The reaction from the crowd was spontaneous.
    â€œDid you see that?”
    â€œHurrah for the boy!”
    â€œWho woulda thought . . .”
    Jennie saw Eby raising his rifle, aiming it at Art. “Art! Look out!” she screamed.
    Almost on top of Jennie’s shouted warning, there was a loud bang, followed by a cloud of smoke. When the smoke rolled away, Eby was lying on his back with a large bullet wound in his chest. Turning quickly, Jennie saw another mountain man standing there with a smoking rifle. He had shot Eby.
    â€œClyde Barnes! Where did you come from?” Art asked.
    â€œI decided to come on in early as well,” Clyde said as he held his still-smoking rifle. “I couldn’t let you have all the fun.”
    â€œEver’ one seen it,” the organizer of the shooting match said. “Eby was about to shoot the boy when this fella shot him. We ain’t got no judge nor law out here, but I say it was justifiable homicide.”
    â€œHear, hear!” another shouted.
    â€œAnyone say any different?”
    There were no dissenters.
    â€œThen let’s get this piece of trash buried and get on with the Rendezvous. Oh, by the way,” the organizer said, looking over toward Jennie. “I reckon we also heard the bet. Girl, you’re free.”
    â€œWait, you can’t do it like that,” someone else shouted.
    Once again, Jennie felt a sinking sensation in her stomach. Was this all to be a cruel hoax? Was she destined to remain a slave? But if so, who would be her master? Eby was dead.
    â€œWhat do you mean you don’t do it like this?”
    â€œSomeone is going to have to draw up a letter of manumission.”
    â€œManumission? What is that?”
    â€œIt’s a letter that says this here girl has been given her freedom.”
    â€œWho signs the letter?”
    â€œWe all heard Eby wager the girl to this young fella. That means she belongs to him, until he gives her freedom. I reckon he’ll have to sign it. Can you write your name, mister?”
    â€œYes,” Art said. “I can write my name.”
    The man stuck out his hand. “The name is P. Edward Kane. I’ve done some lawyerin’. I can fix up the letter for you for two dollars.”
    Art took two dollars from his pocket and handed it to the man. “Here’s my two dollars,” he said.
    â€œIt’ll need two witnesses,” Kane said.
    â€œI’ll be one of the witnesses,” the man who had shot Eby said. “The name is Clyde Barnes.”
    â€œAnd I’ll be the other,” another trapper said. “The name is Pierre Garneau.”
    The House of Flowers, St. Louis, Tuesday, June 22, 1824
    Jennie held the precious paper in her hand. Showing this to Constable Billings would validate her claim to be a free woman. She held the paper to her breast and thanked the Lord for her freedom. Then, opening the paper up, she studied the three signatures: Clyde Barnes, Pierre Garneau, and the most important one of all, Art. Only Art. Even in this document, he had used the only name she knew him by. She thanked the Lord for Art too, for the man who had made her freedom, her new life possible.
    The man she knew, she thought. She smiled. She knew him, all right; she knew him that night in what is sometimes referred to as the biblical sense. For that night, she had made a man of the boy, and he had made a woman of her, touching her soul for the first and only time in her entire life.

Four
    On the Missouri River, inside the Missouri State Line, Monday, July 5, 1824
    It was just after midnight, about six weeks since