The Frontiersman

by William W. Johnstone

  Taken by surprise, the leader of the pirates had no chance to maintain his balance. With a startled yell, he pitched forward. Both pistols blasted as he involuntarily jerked the triggers. The balls smacked into the deck between him and Christophe.

  Breckinridge grabbed the edge of the deck with both hands and hauled himself out of the river. As water streamed from his clothes, he started toward Bolton. As a rule, Breck didn’t believe in kicking a man while he was down—but he would make an exception for the pirate.

  Instead, he was the one on the receiving end of a kick as Bolton rolled over and drove his boot heel into Breckinridge’s belly. Breck doubled over as all the air was forced from his lungs and pain filled his midsection.

  Since he was already falling forward, he let himself go all the way and landed on top of Bolton. Doing his best to ignore the sickness in his belly, Breckinridge hammered a fist to Bolton’s lumpy face. He wanted to pound it even more out of shape.

  Bolton struck at Breckinridge’s head with one of the empty pistols. Breck jerked aside so that the weapon only scraped along slightly above his ear. The blow hurt but didn’t do any real damage. Breck grabbed Bolton’s throat with his right hand and hit him twice in the face, swift and hard, with the left.

  Bolton bucked up from the planks and threw Breckinridge to the side. He wasn’t as big as Breck, but his muscles were like corded cables under the skin. He twisted and brought the point of his elbow down in Breck’s belly, inflicting more suffering to that already tender area. As Breck curled around the pain, Bolton seized Breck by the throat and banged his head against the deck.

  Breckinridge realized that he was up against maybe the most vicious, dangerous fighter he had ever faced. Certainly this was the most perilous scrap he had been involved in since he’d run into those four Chickasaw renegades in the woods back home. Like the Indians, Bolton was fighting to the death.

  That knowledge allowed Breckinridge to summon every bit of strength he could dredge up from deep inside him. He thrust his arms between Bolton’s and broke the pirate’s hold on his throat. Then he grabbed the front of Bolton’s shirt and flung the man to the side. Bolton crashed against the cabin in the center of the keelboat and bounced off. When he landed on the deck he looked stunned.

  He was at least partially shamming, though, because when Breckinridge went after him to finish him off, Bolton rolled over and slashed upward with a knife he had pulled from a sheath at his waist. Breck caught himself and jerked back just in time to prevent his aching belly from being ripped open. He locked both hands around the wrist of Bolton’s hand that held the knife and twisted it around as he left himself drop on top of the pirate. His great weight forced the blade down. Bolton’s eyes bulged out in pain and shock as his own knife went deep into his chest.

  Then those eyes rolled back in their sockets and a grotesque rattle came from Bolton’s throat. His body went slack as death claimed him.

  Breckinridge figured he didn’t have time to savor his triumph. He wrapped his hand around the knife’s handle and ripped it free of Bolton’s body as he pushed himself to his feet. He looked around for the next enemy who wanted to attack him.

  Instead he saw that the keelboat had come to a halt in the river, except for the fact that it was drifting slowly back downstream. Only one of the canoes was still intact, and it was empty. Bodies floated facedown in the river, and more dead pirates littered the deck.

  Christophe limped toward him, supported on one side by Andre. The captain exclaimed, “Never have I seen such a fight! It was a veritable clash of the Titans!”

  Breckinridge rubbed his stomach and said, “I’m a Titan with a sore belly, that’s for sure. Are all the rest of those varmints dead?”

  “Dead or taken off for the hills,” Christophe replied. “The men on shore abandoned their comrades after you blew two canoes out of the water with one shot, mon ami!”

  “How in blazes did I manage to do that?”

  “The cannonball’s, how do you say, trajectory, she was lower than usual since you fired it from the deck. It went through one canoe and then struck the one behind it! It was the most superb artillery shot of all time!”

  “The luckiest shot, that’s for dang sure,” Breckinridge muttered. “All I did was point the blasted thing in their general direction.”

  “In war, results are all that matter,” Andre said. “And we have won this war with the pirates.”

  “We beat Bolton and his bunch. What if there are more up ahead?”

  Christophe shook his head and said, “Word will get around that we destroyed most of his gang, and any other brigands will think twice about attacking the Sophie, mark my words. No one will dare make a move against us as long as have this young, redheaded Hercules with us!”

  “Yeah, well, I’m only goin’ as far as Saint Louis with the boat,” Breckinridge pointed out.

  “I hope to change your mind about that,” Christophe said with a grin. “But if I cannot, I cannot.” His shoulders rose and fell in an eloquent shrug. “For the time being, we are pleased to have you with us, young Breckinridge. By the way, where is the cannon?”

  Breckinridge sighed and said, “On the bottom of the river, I reckon. I couldn’t hang on to it when it knocked me off the boat.”

  A look of alarm appeared on Christophe’s face for a moment, but then he shrugged again and said, “We will just have to recover it. It will be good as new once we have cleaned the mud from it. Now, we must do something about these bodies . . .”

  “The river is as good a place as any for them,” Andre said.

  * * *

  It bothered Breckinridge a little, dumping the corpses overboard like that. Sure, the dead men had been pirates who would have killed Breck and all the other men on the keelboat without blinking an eye, but if it had been up to him he would have given them a decent burial anyway. None of the Sophie’s crew seemed interested in doing that, however, so he didn’t argue with them.

  Before any of the bodies were rolled overboard, Christophe insisted that Breckinridge should go through their belongings and claim any weapons he wanted. Any money the pirates had on them would be added together and split up evenly among the crew.

  Breckinridge took Asa Bolton’s knife and pistols. The knife was a good one, a heavy-bladed Bowie with a razor-sharp edge, a brass guard, and a handle wrapped with strips of leather. The pistols were equally fine and, as the tools of Bolton’s killing trade, obviously well cared for.

  None of the dead men had had rifles with them, so Breckinridge still had to get himself a long gun when he reached St. Louis. Now he had the funds to do so, however, once Christophe had apportioned the coins found on the pirates.

  One member of the crew, the little Englishman named Sinclair, had been killed in the fighting. A burial party took him ashore and laid him to rest while Andre, the best diver in the group, stripped down to the bottom half of a pair of long underwear and searched under the water for the lost cannon.

  It took several dives, but Andre located the cannon and secured ropes to it. Then Breckinridge and a couple of other men hauled it up onto the boat and laid it wet and muddy on the planks.

  With all that going on, it was too late in the day to push on toward St. Louis, so they tied up the Sophie and made camp on the shore. Breckinridge had a huge bruise on his belly where Bolton had kicked and elbowed him, but other than that he was all right. Christophe gave him the night off from guard duty and told him to rest. Breck was more than happy to obey.

  Three days later they reached their destination. The bruise on Breckinridge’s stomach was starting to fade, and he had suffered no lasting ill effects from the battle with Asa Bolton. He was taking his turn at the oars, and as the big settlement sprawled on the western bank of the river came into view, he had to stare at it. He had never seen so many buildings in one place before, or so many wharves and docks. St. Louis was ten times bigger than Knoxville, he thought. No, a hundred times bigger!

  That might be an exaggera
tion, he realized, but still, this was far and away the largest town he had ever seen. He felt excitement coursing through him at the prospect of visiting it, while at the same time the idea made him a little nervous. He wasn’t sure he knew how to act around that many people at once.

  Christophe’s wounded leg didn’t keep him from standing at the tiller and working the long sweep. With an ease born of long practice, he steered the Sophie perfectly into position next to one of the docks. A couple of the crewmen jumped onto the dock and tied the keelboat to the sturdy pilings.

  A stocky man in a brown beaver hat came along the dock toward the boat. He appeared to have been waiting for the Sophie’s arrival. When he stopped next to the vessel, he called up to Christophe, “I expected you yesterday, Marchant, or even the day before.”

  “We ran into some unexpected trouble, M’sieu Skelton,” Christophe replied.

  “You didn’t lose any of my cargo, I hope,” the man said with a worried frown.

  “One bale of cotton, that is all. And I will make good the loss.”

  “Damn right you will,” Skelton groused. “What happened?”

  “Pirates. Asa Bolton’s gang.”

  “Bolton! That son of a bitch is the scourge of the river.”

  “No more,” Christophe said with a big grin. “Bolton will never attack another keelboat, thanks to my giant young friend there.”

  He leaned on the tiller and waved a hand at Breckinridge, who would have just as soon Christophe hadn’t called any attention to him. Surely the authorities in a town as big as St. Louis would be in communication with the law back east. They might know he was wanted for murder. At least Christophe had been discreet enough not to call him by name.

  Skelton squinted at Breckinridge and said, “Who’s that? New man, ain’t he?”

  “Indeed. This is his first trip upriver. I have been trying to persuade him to become a permanent member of my crew, but it seems he has his heart set on adventuring.”

  Skelton grunted. He seemed to have lost interest in Breckinridge already, and Breck thought that was a good thing. The businessman went on, “I’ll send my men with wagons to unload the cargo and take it to my warehouse. Once I’ve checked it over, we’ll meet at Red Mike’s and settle up, as usual?”

  “Certainment,” Christophe replied.

  Skelton bustled off. Christophe leaned on a cane Andre had fashioned from a tree branch and climbed down from the cabin roof to join the other members of the crew.

  “You are all free to go except for two men who will stay here and guard the cargo until M’sieu Skelton’s men take charge of it,” he said. “Any volunteers?”

  “I’ll do it,” Breckinridge said. He was still nervous about venturing into the city, so the longer he could postpone that, the better.

  “So will I,” rat-faced Harry added.

  Christophe nodded and said, “We will all meet at Red Mike’s tonight, and after Skelton has paid me I shall distribute your wages.”

  One of the other men asked, “When are you headin’ back to New Orleans, Cap’n?”

  “Bright and early tomorrow morning, I hope, if I can secure a cargo tonight as I fully expect to do.” Christophe grinned. “So enjoy your evening ashore, gentlemen. With any luck, tomorrow we will all be back to work!” He looked at Breckinridge. “With the exception of you, mon ami. Are you certain I cannot convince you to remain a riverman?”

  “I reckon not,” Breckinridge said. “I’ve sort of got my heart set on seein’ me some real mountains.”

  * * *

  No one tried to bother the cargo while Breckinridge and Harry waited for Skelton’s men to come and get it. The sight of Breck sitting on a keg with a big Bowie knife and a brace of pistols tucked in his belt probably discouraged anybody who might have given a thought to stealing anything.

  Once the cargo had been unloaded, Harry asked, “What are you gonna do now, Breck?”

  “Well, it’s a while yet before we’re all supposed to get together at this Red Mike’s place. Thought I might go see about buyin’ a rifle and maybe look at some horses. Red Mike’s, that’s a tavern, right?”

  “Yeah. Follow the waterfront. You can’t miss it. How are all those bumps and bruises you picked up on the trip?”

  “Just about gone,” Breckinridge said.

  Harry grunted and shook his head.

  “You heal up faster’n anybody I ever saw. It’s almost like there’s somethin’ supernatural about it.”

  “Nah,” Breckinridge said with a grin. “Just good clean livin’, that’s all.”

  “Maybe so. Or maybe the cap’n was right when he referred to you as Hercules. Maybe you’re one of those old-time gods come down to walk among mortal men.”

  That idea made Breckinridge throw back his head and guffaw with laughter. He shook his head and said, “Not hardly!”

  “Well, maybe I’ll come with you while you look around,” Harry offered. “You don’t know your way about Saint Louis, and I’ve been here plenty of times.”

  “I’d sure be obliged to you for that, Harry.”

  The two men stepped ashore, and Harry led Breckinridge along the wharf and into a street paved with cobblestones. Breck had never seen such a thing before, even back in Knoxville.

  Harry guided him to a general mercantile store so big it took up an entire block. A sign over the double doors at the entrance proclaimed it to be CRANSTON’S EMPORIUM. Harry said, “Whatever you need, you ought to be able to find it here. I’ve heard that all the mountain men outfit at Cranston’s.”

  “That sounds like just what I need. I aim to be one of them mountain men.”

  Harry shook his head and said, “I can’t even imagine it. I don’t know why anybody would want to go way out there in the middle of nowhere with nothin’ around but savage redskins and wild animals.”

  “You fight pirates on the river,” Breckinridge pointed out. “They’re pretty doggone savage.”

  “Yeah, but that’s different.”

  Breckinridge grinned. He didn’t see any point in arguing the matter with Harry. Instead he clapped a big hand on the smaller man’s back and said, “Let’s go see about gettin’ what I need for the trip.”

  Cranston’s Emporium was bigger than several stores back in Knoxville put together, Breckinridge thought as he explored it for the next hour with Harry. Food, clothing, trapping supplies, guns, knives, coffeepots, skillets, tools, powder and shot, saddles, packs . . . Harry was right: everything a man might need to survive in the wilderness could be found here. Breck could have spent plenty of money, if only he’d had it.

  Until he collected his wages from Christophe, all he had was his share of the money taken from the dead pirates. He had hoped that would be enough to buy a rifle, but he quickly saw that wasn’t the case. He was going to need a lot more than what Christophe owed him to purchase enough supplies for a trip to the mountains. That meant he would have to find a job here in St. Louis and save up his wages for a while.

  That was disheartening, especially when Breckinridge looked longingly at the rifles hung on pegs on the wall behind one of the store’s counters. One gun in particular was a real beauty, with a charging ram engraved in vivid detail on one side of the stock and a gleaming brass patchbox on the other. The brass fittings continued on the breech.

  “I never saw anything so pretty,” Breckinridge said with a sigh as he gazed at the rifle. “Well, other than a gal or two.”

  Harry chuckled and said, “I’m glad to hear you say that. But remember, a woman will let you down. Take good care of a gun and it never will.”

  “I just wish I could afford it.”

  Harry hesitated, then said, “If you put my money together with yours, you could, I reckon.”

  Breckinridge shook his head.

  “I couldn’t do that, Harry. I couldn’t ask you to be so generous.”

  “You ain’t askin’, you blamed fool. I’m offerin’. There’s a big difference.”

  “Well, maybe . . .”r />
  Harry snorted and said, “No maybes about it. We’re buyin’ that gun, and you’re takin’ it to the Rockies with you. Shoot one of them grizzle bears with it for me, and we’ll call it square.”

  “If you’re sure—”

  “I wouldn’t have offered if I wasn’t sure.”

  Grinning, Breckinridge waved one of the clerks over. The man handed him the rifle, which he examined closely. Satisfied that it was as fine a weapon as it appeared to be, he haggled briefly over the price before making a deal. The clerk threw in a powder horn and a shot pouch to sweeten the bargain.

  “I’ll pay you back,” Breckinridge said as he and Harry left the store. He had the new rifle cradled in the crook of his left arm.

  “Like Hades you will. That money was a gift, Breck. There’s a good chance we wouldn’t have been able to fight off Bolton’s gang if it hadn’t been for you. We all might have wound up dead. Hell, if you ask me, you deserved all the loot we got out of their pockets.” Harry grinned. “Anyway, it was found money. I was never countin’ on it, and I’ll still get my wages from Christophe. Just remember me once you get out there in the wilderness.”

  “I ain’t likely to forget you, Harry,” Breckinridge promised.

  It was late enough now they could head for Red Mike’s. As they approached the tavern Harry pointed out a painted sign hanging over the entrance that depicted a black ship with black sails.

  “Mike’s an old sea dog who’s sailed all over the world,” Harry explained. “Don’t ask me how he wound up runnin’ a tavern in Saint Louis. He named this place The Black Ship, but everybody just calls it Red Mike’s. He gets all the rivermen, but the fur trappers like to drink here, too. The two bunches get to brawlin’ sometimes, so watch yourself.”

  “Reckon I’m in both camps, or soon will be,” Breckinridge observed. “Anyway, I’m not lookin’ for trouble.”

  They went into the smoky, dimly lit tavern, which reminded Breckinridge of such places back home. He supposed that no matter where you went in the world, one tavern was pretty much like another. They all smelled the same, that was for sure, a mixture of pipe smoke, spilled beer and whiskey, unwashed human flesh, and bodily wastes. The aroma wasn’t what anybody would call pleasant, but it was oddly comforting.