The Frontiersman

by William W. Johnstone

  “Mebbe so,” Lang mused, “but it’s gonna be a bloody lesson on both sides.”

  Based on what Breckinridge had seen so far, he didn’t doubt that a bit.

  With Sergeant Falk in command, the group followed a slightly different route on the return trip, angling more to the north. Falk intended to stop at Independence, Missouri, the jumping-off point for the Oregon Trail.

  “There’s a garrison there,” he explained. “I’d like to get those maps off my hands as soon as possible. I don’t know if they’re worth anything to the army or not, but I know if I lose ’em, I’ll be in trouble.”

  That decision set well with Breckinridge. He knew it would be dangerous for him to return to St. Louis. He was willing to do it, to keep his promise to Lieutenant Mallory, but if there was a way of fulfilling that pledge without putting himself in harm’s way, he was in favor of that.

  Tom Lang and Sergeant Falk had both been over the Oregon Trail and told Breckinridge about the wonderful country that waited at the end of that exodus for settlers. It didn’t interest Breck one bit. If he had wanted to remain a farmer, he could have stayed back in Tennessee. Well, he could have, he thought to himself, if the law hadn’t been after him for killing Jasper Carlson.

  First Jasper, then Rory Ducharme, Breckinridge mused. In both cases, he had been defending himself. The accusations leveled against him were unjust. But in the eyes of the law, all that mattered was that the two dead men had wealthy, powerful fathers.

  It wouldn’t be like that in the mountains, Breck thought. Out there in the wilderness, a man’s survival would depend only on his own strength, skill, and cunning.

  He looked forward to the day when he could pit himself against that world.

  In the meantime, the surviving members of the mapmaking expedition reached Independence sixteen days after the battle with the Osage. Only a couple of years earlier, the settlement had been a sleepy little village on the Missouri River, but all that had changed with the opening of the Oregon Trail and the large number of immigrants who had poured into the place to outfit themselves for the six-monthlong journey ahead of them. Independence was now a bustling town with wagon trains departing almost every week—sometimes several in a week.

  There was also a garrison of soldiers, as Sergeant Falk had said. The non-com led the way to a cluster of tents around a parade ground. The place was too small and primitive to call it a fort.

  A heavyset officer with a lot of gold braid on his jacket emerged from the largest tent to greet them. Breckinridge didn’t know what all the decorations meant, but as he and Tom Lang sat on their horses, the scout told him quietly, “That’s Colonel Lansing. He’s the hellfire-and-brimstone sort. He’ll probably chew Falk up one way and down t’other for comin’ back without the lieutenant.”

  The fat, red-faced, side-whiskered colonel did exactly that, launching into a tirade when he learned that Lieutenant Mallory had been killed and the expedition cut short. He seemed slightly mollified when Falk turned the map cases over to him, but then he got wound up again.

  Tom Lang lifted his reins and started to turn his horse away.

  “Come on,” he said to Breckinridge. “Ain’t no reason for us to listen to this, and I need to wet my whistle.”

  That sounded good to Breckinridge. He had seen Falk hand over the maps, so he considered his pledge to Mallory carried out. He had no other business with the army.

  Tom Lang led the way to a tavern. It was called the Red Buffalo, and a sign with a buffalo painted that color hung over the door. Lang and Breckinridge dismounted, tied their reins at a hitch rail, and went inside.

  The last time he had gone into a tavern, Breckinridge reflected, he had found Sadie Humboldt and Jack MacKenzie inside. Before that evening was over he had killed a man and made himself even more of a fugitive. Understandably, he felt a little wary as he stepped into the dim, smoky room and looked around, halfway expecting to see more trouble waiting for him.

  Instead, as far as he could tell, everybody in the place was a stranger to him. Breckinridge relaxed a little. That was the way he liked it these days.

  The Red Buffalo was crowded, but the crowd hadn’t yet formed that could stand up to Breckinridge Wallace when he wanted through. He wasn’t rough or rude about it, just inexorable. People naturally moved aside from him as they would have scurried out of the path of a moving mountain. Tom Lang followed along in his wake.

  When they reached the bar, Lang ordered whiskey and Breckinridge told the aproned barman to bring him a bucket of beer, though he wasn’t sure how he’d pay for it. Breckinridge looked around again and saw that most of the folks in here were men, and there were all sorts, from fresh-faced youngsters much like himself—only smaller, of course—to white-bearded old-timers like Tom Lang.

  Several women appeared to work here, but they weren’t serving drinks. Instead they led men through a curtained doorway and into and out of doorless rooms on either side of a hallway lit by a guttering candle in a wall sconce at the far end.

  Seeing Breckinridge watching them, Tom Lang laughed and said, “You need to go pay a visit to one o’ them calico cats, boy?”

  “They’re doin’ a boomin’ business,” Breckinridge said without answering Lang’s question.

  “Of course they are! Independence is full of fellas who are about to leave for the Oregon country. That means they’re facin’ six months of no towns and no places like this. They know there’s a chance they might not make it that far, too. It’s a hard trip, and there’s a thousand ways to die between here and there. So this is sort of their last hoo-rah, I reckon you could say. The last chance to have a little sweetness in your life for a long time . . . maybe ever.”

  Breckinridge nodded. What Tom Lang said made sense. And Breck felt a powerful stirring when he looked at the women. He was no more immune to their appeal than any other man.

  But he thought about Maureen Grantham and hesitated. He didn’t have some foolish notion about being faithful to her or anything like that. She didn’t have any claim on him, or he on her. He knew, though, that if he went with one of those tavern gals, he might think of Maureen while he was with her, and that seemed disrespectful.

  Thankfully, he didn’t have to worry about making that decision. It had already been made for him by his empty pockets.

  So when Tom Lang prodded him by saying, “How about it, son?” Breckinridge shook his head.

  “I don’t have any money, remember?”

  Lang threw back his head and laughed.

  “Oh, hell, is that your only problem?” He reached in one of the pockets of his fancy buckskin jacket and slapped a silver dollar on the bar. As he pushed it toward Breckinridge, he said, “It’s on me. Go ahead, take it.”

  “I couldn’t do that,” Breckinridge said. “You might want to use it for yourself. I mean, to get you one of... one of . . .”

  Lang laughed again and said, “Good Lord, I’m too old to be cavortin’ with some harlot. For me, the pleasures of the flesh mean a good drink, a pipe full of fine smokin’ tobacco, and a nice comfortable place to sit and rest my feet. Young fella like you, though, all full o’ piss and vinegar, needs to do somethin’ about it. Take the money and find a gal. In a place like this, a dollar ought to buy you a pretty good one.”

  Still Breckinridge hesitated. Then a soft hand touched his arm, and he turned his head to look down into a smiling face surrounded by chestnut hair.

  “Hello,” the girl said. “My, you’re a big one, ain’t you?”

  Breckinridge figured she had spotted the coin Tom Lang was urging on him and had swooped in, hawk-like, to try to get her hands on it. A girl in a profession like hers had to have some predatory instincts.

  Yet she somehow managed to retain a trace of innocence about her. Maybe it was that smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose, or the shyness—real or feigned—in her green eyes.

  “What’s your name?” she went on.

  “Breckinridge,” he replied, and as
he said it his fingers closed around the coin on the bar. He ignored the cackle of victory from Tom Lang. “What’s yours?”

  “Laura,” she said.

  “Just Laura?”

  Her expression hardened slightly as she said, “I didn’t ask you for a second name, did I?”

  “No, ma’am, you sure didn’t,” Breckinridge admitted hastily. “I beg your pardon for bein’ rude.”

  Her smile came back as she said, “Oh, don’t worry about it, Breckinridge.” She leaned her head toward the hallway. “Would you like to come back to my room for a little while?”

  He took a deep breath and said, “Yes, ma’am, I believe I would.”

  * * *

  The experience was a new one for Breckinridge. He had been with gals before, back home, but there had never been any payment involved. Laura had made sure she had that silver dollar before she slipped out of her dress.

  Once she did, however, things were much like Breck remembered. And she seemed to enjoy it as much as he did, just like the girls back in Tennessee. She enjoyed it so much, in fact, that he was too busy to think of Maureen even once.

  When it was over, she didn’t rush him to get dressed and leave, but rather stayed curled in the circle of his brawny arms for a while, muttering something about how Dooley would kill her for wasting time, but she didn’t care.

  Breckinridge figured Dooley was the fella who owned the Red Buffalo. He wanted to promise Laura that he would take care of her, that he wouldn’t let Dooley or anybody else hurt her.

  He kept his mouth shut. Promises like that tended to backfire on him.

  Finally she said they couldn’t stay there any longer, no matter how much she wanted to. She squeezed her arms around him, kissed his cheek, and said, “You almost make me believe in things again, Breckinridge.”

  “Shoot, everybody believes in things, don’t they?”

  Her smile was sad as she said, “Not always. Sometimes, after being disappointed long enough, often enough, believing in things just makes you hurt. So you stop. But then somebody like you comes along . . .” She sighed and slipped out of bed. “Get those buckskins back on. It’s time to go.”

  Breckinridge got dressed. He and Laura left the room and went back to the tavern’s main room.

  The bartender must have been watching for them. He came out from behind the bar and stalked toward them, scowling. He was a tall, angular man with a pockmarked, hatchet-like face and a shock of dark hair.

  “You were back there too long,” he accused Laura. “You’d better have got some extra money out of it.”

  She lifted her chin, and Breckinridge sensed that such defiance was unusual in her.

  “You got to let us have a little extra time now and then, Dooley,” she said. “A girl gets worn out—”

  “I don’t care about that. You know the rules. You don’t get your cut for the rest of the night. That’ll square it.”

  “Mister, it’s my fault,” Breckinridge began. “You shouldn’t—”

  “Shut up and get out,” Dooley snapped. “This is none of your business.”

  Breckinridge was starting to get mad himself. He didn’t like the way this fella talked to Laura, and he wasn’t going to allow Dooley to mistreat her. His hands clenched into fists and he started to take a step that would put him between Dooley and Laura.

  She clutched at his arm in fear and said, “Breckinridge, no! Look around.”

  Breckinridge looked. He saw men sitting on stools in the corners of the room. Each of them held a pistol. The tavern’s other customers, recognizing the impending trouble, were moving out of the line of fire.

  “I don’t allow any brawling in my place,” Dooley said with an arrogant smile. “Just like I don’t let trollops tell me my business.” The smile went away and was replaced by a puzzled frown. “Wait a minute. Did she just call you Breckinridge?”

  “That’s my name,” Breckinridge said, suddenly worried that Dooley somehow knew about the trouble he was in with the law.

  “Breckinridge Wallace?”

  Now it was Breckinridge’s turn to be surprised, even a little thunderstruck.

  “What if I am?” he asked cautiously.

  “I’ve got a letter for you.”

  How in the world . . . ?

  “You can have it,” Dooley went on, “for five dollars.”

  Breckinridge sighed and said, “Well, that’s a shame, because I don’t have five dollars.”

  “I do,” Tom Lang said as he stepped up to them. “I’ve been listenin’, and I’ll ransom that there letter from you, Dooley. You got to promise you’ll let this little gal off the hook for that extra money you think she owes you, though.”

  Dooley frowned. He said, “I don’t like to let nobody tell me how to run my own business—”

  “You know me, Dooley Simmons,” Lang said in a hard voice. “You know I don’t tolerate no foolishness. My word carries some weight in this town, too. If I tell folks they ought to steer clear of the Red Buffalo, what do you think they’ll do?”

  “You wouldn’t do that,” Dooley blustered.

  “Don’t try me.”

  The bartender rolled his eyes, shook his head, and sighed. He muttered, “All right, all right. Laura, you go on and tend to your business. Forget what I said earlier.”

  “Thanks, Dooley.” Laura came up on her toes, and Breckinridge bent down so she could kiss his cheek again. “And thank you, Breckinridge. Thank you for making me believe in something again for a few minutes . . . and damn you for it, too.”

  With that she slipped off into the crowd before Breckinridge could say or do anything else.

  Tom Lang took out a five-dollar gold piece and said, “Where’s that letter?”

  “Behind the bar.” Dooley jerked his head in that direction. “Come on over and I’ll get it.”

  Lang pointed and said, “Bring it to that table.”

  Dooley nodded his agreement.

  When Breckinridge and Lang were sitting down, Breck said, “Thanks for steppin’ in like that, Tom.”

  “Aw, hell, don’t mention it. I admit, I didn’t like you much at first, son. Never have cottoned to big galoots like you. But you’ve sort of growed on me these past few weeks. Plus I talked to Sergeant Falk enough to know that you was a holy terror during that fracas with the Osage. I can’t help but respect a good fightin’ man.”

  “I wasn’t good enough to save Lieutenant Mallory’s life.”

  “Well, that’s just it. No matter how good you are, you ain’t gonna win every battle. You ain’t gonna save ever’body who needs savin’. The important part is to keep fightin’ until you die. That’s the way to make the world sit up and take notice of you, son.”

  Breckinridge nodded. He would try to remember the things that Tom Lang told him, because he knew that trouble would come to him again. It always did.

  Dooley brought over a piece of paper that had been folded and sealed with wax. He handed it to Breckinridge, but not until Tom Lang had given him the gold piece.

  “The man who gave that to me said to watch for a young fella with bright red hair who was as big as a mountain,” the bartender explained. “He gave me your name, too: Breckinridge Wallace.”

  “What did he look like?” Breckinridge asked.

  “Good-sized gent with dark hair. Not nearly as big as you, of course.” Dooley frowned. “It’s been more than a month since he was here, so I could be remembering wrong, but I’d swear there was a little resemblance between the two of you.”

  Breckinridge felt his heart slug harder in his chest. The man Dooley described could have been one of his brothers. He asked, “Did he say why he was leavin’ a letter for me with you?”

  Dooley laughed.

  “Hell, he didn’t just leave one with me. He left ’em all over town, in the taverns and the stores and any place else you might come in. Said he’d been looking for you and it was mighty important he get in touch with you. Don’t ask me why, though. That’s all I know.”
/>
  Tom Lang suggested, “Reckon if you open that letter, you might find out.”

  Breckinridge nodded. He pried the wax seal loose while Dooley went back to the bar. Then he unfolded the letter and leaned forward to read it, squinting a little because of the dim light in the tavern.

  As he read, he felt his jaw sagging. Tom Lang must have seen the shock and amazement on Breckinridge’s face, because he asked anxiously, “Good Lord, Breck, what’s wrong?”

  “Wrong?” Breckinridge echoed. He shook his head. “Nothin’s wrong. Nothin’ at all.” He looked up. “I’m goin’ home, Tom. I’m goin’ home.”

  BOOK FIVE

  Chapter Nineteen

  The letter was from Breckinridge’s brother Edward. It read:

  Dear Breckinridge—

  This letter is one of many I have written in hopes of establishing communication with you. I intend to continue writing them and leaving them in places where you may turn up. I hoped to locate you in St. Louis, but since that effort proved a failure I have moved on to other settlements here in Missouri.

  The most important thing for you to know is this: while you no doubt consider yourself to be a fugitive from the authorities, there are no charges levied against you in the matter of Jasper Carlson’s death. One of the young men who was a companion of Jasper’s and Richard Aylesworth’s on the night in question recanted the account he gave originally to the sheriff and instead told the truth of what occurred. Once that happened, several others in the group agreed with his testimony in order not to get in trouble with the law themselves. Jasper’s father was incensed, as was Richard, but there was nothing they could do. All charges against you were dismissed.

  This means it is now safe for you to return home to Tennessee. With the blessing of Father and Mother I have journeyed west to deliver this good word to you. I will continue my travels until I have found you, or until I have exhausted all the places to search. In the meantime, if this letter reaches you, please come home, and in due course of time I will see you there. We are all very grateful that you no longer have anything to fear from the law, and we look forward to sharing your fraternal companionship once more.