The Frontiersman

by William W. Johnstone

  With warmest wishes,

  Your brother,

  Edward Wallace

  Breckinridge must have read that letter a hundred times during the months it took him to get back to Knoxville. At first he had a hard time following some of Edward’s formal, fussy sentences, but he understood the important part. He could go home without having to worry about being arrested, tried, and hanged for killing Jasper Carlson.

  That didn’t change the fact that he was probably wanted by the authorities in St. Louis for Rory Ducharme’s death. But they didn’t know his name or where he was from. Somebody in Red Mike’s place might have heard Sadie call him Bill, but that wouldn’t help anybody find him. Breckinridge believed that if he steered well clear of St. Louis, he didn’t have much to worry about from the law.

  The real question was . . . did he really want to go home?

  Since leaving Tennessee, he had gone through considerable hardship and tragedy. He had seen people who meant something to him die suddenly and violently. He had come within a hair’s breadth of death himself on numerous occasions. He had been forced to kill to defend himself and others. Just on the surface of it, that didn’t sound like a life anyone would want. Anyone who wasn’t crazy, anyway.

  But thinking about all the bad things that had happened didn’t mean he had forgotten about the good times, like traveling up the Mississippi River and feeling the great power of the Father of Waters, or waking up before dawn and watching the glory of the sun rising over the prairie. Even though he had barely begun to explore the frontier, Breckinridge had already had the experience of laying eyes on places that few white men had ever seen before. That feeling couldn’t be duplicated in Tennessee; it hadn’t been untouched wilderness for a couple of hundred years.

  Breckinridge had explained what was in the letter as he and Tom Lang sat in the Red Buffalo drinking beer. He said, “Here’s the thing . . . I ain’t sure I want to go back.”

  The old scout nodded solemnly and said, “I knew that was what you were about to say ’fore the words ever came outta your mouth, son. You don’t have to tell me about how the frontier gets under a fella’s skin. I come out here from Pennsylvania nigh on to thirty years ago, and I never could bring myself to go back. Had a wife and a family and ever’thing. I missed ’em, I reckon, but I couldn’t live a tame life again. I was ruint.”

  “You abandoned your family?” Breckinridge said.

  “Well, I felt bad about it,” Lang replied defensively. “But I sent ’em money right along, and I got a fella who could write to write my wife a letter and tell her I wouldn’t be comin’ back. Shoot, for all I know she told ever’body I was dead and married herself a new husband. I hope she did. She wasn’t a bad sort.”

  Breckinridge told himself not to pass judgment on Tom Lang. Every man was responsible for his own actions, and while he might believe he knew how he would react in a certain situation, there was no way of being sure that was right until the time came.

  One thing he knew, though, was that he didn’t like the way things had been left with his family, running off like that in the middle of the night with everybody worried that they would never see him again. Even if he didn’t stay, he could spend some time with his parents and brothers.

  He could even see Maureen again.

  That thought sent a flush of embarrassment through him. He had spent time alone on the trail with Sadie, even though nothing had really happened between them. He had done more than spend time with Laura. Those things probably made him unfit company for a proper young lady like Maureen Grantham. True, she wouldn’t know what he had done . . . but he would know.

  He would figure out what to do about Maureen when he got there, he decided. For now he knew he wanted to see his family. He said as much to Tom Lang.

  The old scout had nodded and said, “Sure, you go pay ’em a visit. But you’ll be back out here on the frontier, Breck. Mark my words. Sooner or later, you’ll be back.”

  * * *

  All the mounts used by the mapmaking expedition belonged to the U.S. Army, of course, so Breckinridge had to turn his horse over to Sergeant Falk before he left Independence. He told Falk about his plan to return home for a visit, and the gruff non-com said, “When you’re done with that, why don’t you give some thought to enlisting in the army? We could use a man like you, Wallace. You’re a ring-tailed devil in a fight.”

  “I appreciate that, Sergeant, but I reckon I ain’t cut out to be a soldier.”

  “Don’t like taking orders, eh?”

  “Or givin’ ’em, neither,” Breckinridge replied with a grin. “I’d rather just go along and sort of just let every fella do what he thinks is best.”

  “That way lies anarchy, Wallace.”

  “You could be right, Sergeant,” Breckinridge said, since he wasn’t exactly sure what that two-bit word meant.

  “How are you going to get where you’re going without a horse?”

  Breckinridge had been careful not to mention just where “home” was. Over the past few months he had developed a natural caution and believed that it was usually better not to tell people any more about him than they had to know.

  “Shank’s mare, I reckon,” he said as he glanced down at his feet. It was going to be a long walk to Tennessee, but he had done most of it before and could do it again, he supposed.

  Falk frowned and said, “There’s a dispatch rider heading for Washington tomorrow. He’ll have a small escort with him. I might be able to persuade Colonel Lansing to assign a civilian scout to the detail. I doubt if the colonel will approve the added expense of wages, but he might go along with providing a horse and supplies.”

  “Sergeant, that’d be a mighty nice thing for you to do. A group like that headin’ east don’t really need a scout, though, do they? It ain’t like they’ll be headin’ into Indian territory.”

  “No, but there’s always the danger of cutthroats and highwaymen—”

  “Who’d have to be plumb crazy to tackle an army detail.”

  “Blast it, Wallace, do you want me to do you this favor or not?” Falk demanded.

  Breckinridge grinned again. He said, “I sure do, Sergeant, and like I said, I’m mighty thankful to you.”

  Falk’s efforts paid off, and Breckinridge was assigned to the dispatch rider’s escort. That gave him a horse for the trip across Missouri. He left the group before it reached St. Louis, however, and struck out southeast on foot.

  When he came to a small town with a landing on the Mississippi River, he stayed there until he was able to land a job on a keelboat heading south to New Orleans. The captain, a bushy-browed, hawk-nosed old-timer named Dunstan, was acquainted with Christophe Marchant, and when he heard that Breckinridge had worked on the Sophie, he was glad to take him on as a member of the crew.

  “I’ll be leavin’ when we get down to Memphis, though,” Breckinridge warned the captain. “I can’t go all the way to New Orleans.”

  “That’s all right,” Dunstan said. “I’ve got a man laid up with a bum knee, but he ought to be better by then. You’ll be taking his place.”

  That was agreeable to Breckinridge. His luck generally seemed to work out in little things like that, as if he had a guardian angel watching over him.

  But he had a guardian devil, too, who took great delight in smacking him down every time he least expected it.

  The trip downriver was uneventful. Dunstan’s boat, which bore the ungainly name of the Mudhen, put in at Memphis just long enough to let Breckinridge off. Breck recalled Christophe talking about what a tough town Memphis was, but he also remembered that Jack MacKenzie had traded away Hector here. Breck didn’t expect to be lucky enough to find the horse and be reunited with him . . . but stranger things had happened in his life.

  That particular stroke of good fortune wasn’t to be. Breckinridge never saw Hector during the time he spent in Memphis, which was only a week. He stayed out of Blufftown, the roughest part of the settlement, and did some blacksmith work to ear
n enough money to buy some supplies. He figured he would do some hunting along the way and stretch the provisions out just as long as he possibly could.

  The walk across Tennessee was less arduous than the one in the other direction had been, more than six months earlier. Breckinridge didn’t have to survive on roots and whatever small animals he could snare this time, but he still had some cold, hungry nights along the way. Winter was looming, so he kept moving at as fast a pace as he could manage. He wanted to be home before the worst of the weather arrived.

  And now, finally, he was here, having circled around Knoxville. He trusted what Edward had told him in the letter, but that wariness was still with him. He stood on a hilltop, tall, leaner than he had been when he left but still massively powerful, with a fine rifle and a pair of pistols and a keen-edged knife he used to trim his beard and hack off some of the wild, blazing thicket of hair. He looked down at his father’s farm and watched the members of his family moving around in the late afternoon, finishing the day’s chores. The sky was overcast with thick gray clouds blown by a chilly wind. But the windows of the farm house glowed yellow with light and warmth and beckoned Breckinridge to come down and allow himself to be enfolded by all that he had left behind.

  Fear struck through him. What if they realized he was different now? What if all the blood he had spilled had changed him, rendered him unfit for the companionship of normal people, even his own family? For a long moment Breckinridge was struck by the powerful impulse to turn and walk away, to go back to the new life he had started to make for himself on the frontier. Maybe that would be best for everyone concerned.

  But he knew he couldn’t do that. Not after coming this far. That would be the cowardly thing to do. With his mind made up, he squared his shoulders, drew in a deep breath, and then started down the hill toward his home.

  The dogs knew he was coming before anyone else did. Giant, long-haired Sammy bounded up the slope toward him, barking a raucous welcome. Ancient Max toddled along behind, taking it slow because he didn’t see well anymore. He raised his voice in barks of greeting, too, even though he might not have known who he was barking at. Breckinridge knelt to embrace both dogs as they eagerly licked his face.

  Robert Wallace stepped out of the barn holding a pitchfork, tense and wary as if expecting possible trouble. He called, “Is somebody there? Who—Good Lord! Breckinridge? Is it really you?”

  Thomas and Henry came out of the barn behind their father. Henry let out a whoop and charged toward Breckinridge.

  “Breck!”

  That shout drew Jeremiah and Samantha from the house. In seconds, Breckinridge’s brothers surrounded him, hugging him and pounding him on the back. He greeted them almost as boisterously, holding back slightly because he was bigger than all of them. Then he shook hands with his father and turned to his mother, who stared at him with disbelief in her eyes.

  “I told myself I’d never see you again, so I wouldn’t be disappointed when that happened,” Samantha said. “I convinced myself of it. But now . . . here you are.”

  “He’s come home,” Robert said. “Our boy’s come home.”

  There was a finality to his tone, as if he expected Breckinridge to stay here forever now that he was back. Breck didn’t want to ruin this reunion by speculating about what he might do in the future, so he remained silent. He just put his arms around his mother and cradled her gently against him.

  After a moment, Samantha stepped back, looking a little flustered, and said, “I have to go cook some more food. That supper I’ve got waiting won’t be nearly enough now that you’re here, Breckinridge.”

  That made his brothers laugh. As they all trooped toward the house, Breckinridge said, “Edward’s not here?”

  “He’s still out there somewhere on the frontier looking for you,” Robert explained. “We got a letter from him the other day, though, saying that he’d be starting home soon, so he’ll get here before winter sets in.”

  “Don’t worry, you’ll see him when he gets back,” Thomas added.

  Breckinridge hoped so. But he couldn’t guarantee how long he would be here. That would depend on how the visit went, he supposed.

  For now, he was just going to enjoy being home.

  Chapter Twenty

  The meal was the best Breckinridge had had in months, just as he expected. His mother stayed busy cooking all evening. She set plate after plate of food in front of Breck, and he emptied each of them in turn while his father and brothers looked on in amazement. Finally Robert said, “I see it’s true what they say about some things never changing.”

  “I didn’t eat this good the whole time I was gone,” Breckinridge said around a mouthful of biscuit and molasses.

  “Yeah, you’re skinnier than you used to be,” Henry said. “I’ll bet I could whip you at arm-wrestlin’ now.”

  Breckinridge just grunted to show how unlikely he considered that possibility.

  After a while, he asked, “How are things in Knoxville? How’s Maureen Grantham?”

  He tried to make the questions sound casual, but he wasn’t sure how well he succeeded. Evidently not very well, judging by the sudden wary looks that appeared on his family’s faces.

  They all hesitated for a few seconds, then Robert said, “She’s not Maureen Grantham anymore, Breckinridge. She’s Maureen Aylesworth now. She married the Aylesworth boy a couple of months after you left.”

  That news went through Breckinridge like a physical blow. He knew that Richard Aylesworth had intended to marry Maureen, but Richard himself had said that he was going to wait a couple more years.

  Obviously, he had changed his mind.

  The marriage wasn’t the only bit of unwelcome news. Breckinridge’s mother said, “There’s talk that Maureen is in the family way.”

  “She’s expectin’?” Breckinridge said, jolted and a little sickened by the idea of Maureen having Richard Aylesworth’s baby. That just wasn’t right.

  “Aye,” Robert said heavily. “So if you had any thoughts in your head about that girl, son, you might as well forget ’em. She’s a married woman now. You’d do well to stay as far away from her as you can.”

  Breckinridge knew his father was right, but at the same time he had been yearning to see Maureen again ever since he had turned his steps back toward home. Many of those cold, lonely nights on the trail, he had clung to his memories of her, conjuring up her beautiful image in his mind’s eye and drawing warmth and hope from it. She had kept him going, and now he had a hard time accepting the fact that she belonged to someone else.

  Because Richard would regard her as a possession, like a fine rifle or a good hunting dog. Breckinridge was sure of that. That was just the sort of man Richard Aylesworth was.

  Robert leaned forward and asked, “Did you hear me, Breck? I said you need to stay away from Maureen Grantham . . . I mean, Maureen Aylesworth.”

  “I hear you, Pa,” Breckinridge said.

  But he didn’t promise he would do as his father advised. He was going to have to think about that for a while before he made up his mind.

  * * *

  For a couple of days, Breckinridge worked hard around the farm. There were jobs he could do because of his great strength that it took two of his brothers to accomplish. He counted on that strenuous labor to keep his mind off Maureen. The tactic didn’t really work very well, however, as she continued stealing into his thoughts.

  Maybe if he paid her a visit and saw with his own eyes that she was happy, that marriage to Richard Aylesworth was what she really wanted, then he would be able to put her out of his mind and go on with his life.

  The only other alternative was to leave for the frontier immediately, where the daily struggle to stay alive might prove to be a sufficient distraction.

  Breckinridge had given his family a highly edited version of his adventures since he’d left. He didn’t want any of them, especially his mother, to know just how dangerous some of those times had been. But even leaving out a lot of
things, the stories were still exciting enough to stir up some wanderlust in his brothers. He saw it in their eyes as he was talking, and he hoped he wouldn’t be the cause of more disruption in the family. The last thing his folks needed was to have more sons run off to see the vast frontier for themselves.

  On the other hand, he asked himself, who was he to deny his brothers that experience if it was what they really wanted?

  With all that turbulence going on in Breckinridge’s mind, it was no wonder that he quickly found himself growing restless. He longed for the simplicity of the wilderness. Tom Lang had sure been right: the West got into a man’s blood and didn’t want to let go.

  By the time almost a week had gone by, Breckinridge knew it was no use. He had to see Maureen and say a final good-bye to her. That was the only way he could stop being haunted by thoughts of her.

  After the midday meal, he went to the creek for a bucket of water and started washing up. His father saw him and got a worried look on his face.

  “You’re going to see the Grantham girl, aren’t you?” Robert asked.

  “I just want to talk to her one last time, Pa,” Breckinridge replied. “If I don’t, it’s liable to be eatin’ away at me the rest of my life.”

  “What do you think is going to happen?” Robert asked angrily. “You think she’s going to decide she made a mistake marrying Richard Aylesworth and run away with you? She’s with child, Breckinridge! She’s not going to abandon her husband.”

  “I don’t expect her to. I just want to see for myself that she’s all right and tell her good-bye. I never got a chance to that other time.”

  “Maybe she doesn’t want to see you. Did you ever think about that?”

  Breckinridge frowned. He said, “If she tells me to go, then I’ll go. But at least it’ll be settled.”

  Robert snorted in disgust.