Preacher's Peace by William W. Johnstone

billowing up from one of the buildings. Fire was leaping from the roof.
    â€œWe better get down there. Those folks are going to need help,” another shouted.
    A crowd gathered quickly around Dunnigan’s store, and Art went with them, watching as the building burned furiously. From up the street he heard the sound of a clanging bell and galloping horses.
    â€œHere comes the fire engine!” someone shouted.
    â€œAin’t nothin’ left they can do,” another said.
    The team pulling the fire wagon came to a halt in front of the burning building. The driver and his assistant jumped down from the wagon seat and began playing out the hoses.
    â€œYou men . . . get on the pumps!” the driver shouted and a half-dozen men, three on each side, began pumping the handles to build up the pressure. Within a shorter time than Art would have imagined, a powerful stream of water gushed from the hose toward the fire. Others present grabbed buckets and began replacing the water in the tank that was pumped out by the men on the pump handles.
    After several minutes of diligent application of the water, the men gained control of the fire. The flames drew down, then disappeared altogether. After several more minutes, even the large billows of smoke were gone, replaced by a few smoldering embers. The building was totally destroyed, but quick action had prevented the fire from spreading to the adjacent buildings.
    * * *
    In LaBarge’s Tavern that evening, Art learned that, in addition to the storeowner, Danny Dunnigan, four other men had lost their lives in the explosion and fire.
    â€œOne of ’em must’ve been smokin’ a pipe,” someone said. “You’d think a fella would have better sense than to smoke a pipe while he was workin’ around gunpowder.”
    â€œMcDill, I done seen you smokin’ around gunpowder lots of times,” someone said.
    At the mention of the name, Art looked up to see who McDill was. McDill, he knew, was one of the two men who had created the problem with the Arikara.
    McDill was a big man with a flat nose and a scar that hooked down across his left eye, causing a deformation of the eyelid before it disappeared into a bushy, red beard.
    â€œWell, I’ll tell you this,” McDill said. “I got me enough sense to know how to do it without gettin’ my fool head blowed off, which is more than you can say for Thompson now, ain’t it?”
    â€œThompson was one of the men killed?” another patron asked. “George Thompson?”
    â€œOne and the same.”
    â€œWhy, Thompson was supposed to lead Ashley’s trading party, wasn’t he?”
    â€œHe was supposed to,” McDill said. He chuckled. “But I don’t reckon he’ll be doin’ that now.”
    â€œWho you think Ashley will get to lead the party, now that Thompson’s got hisself killed?”
    â€œWell, I reckon it’ll either be me, or Ben Caviness there?” McDill said. He pointed to one of the men who was sharing his table. That man was nearly as big as McDill, but dark-haired and clean-shaven. “Either one of us could do the job all right.”
    â€œBetter’n all right,” Caviness said, his massive arms crossed against his chest.
    Ben Caviness, Art knew, was the other man who had traded whiskey to the Arikara. The damage he and McDill had done had set back relations between the Indians and the whites, possibly for good. At least it would take some sincere talking and trading to win back the trust of the tribes who had once been friendly to the white fur trappers.
    â€œPercy McDill, there ain’t no way in hell William Ashley is goin’ to let either one of you lead that party,” a patron said. “Ever’body knows you two is the ones that caused all the troubles with the Indians last year.”
    â€œ ’Twas a misunderstandin’ is all,” McDill said. “There wa’nt nothin’