The Frontiersman

by William W. Johnstone

  “Richard,” Maureen said again.

  Aylesworth was steady on his feet now. He hurried across the room and knelt at her side. He took hold of her right hand in both of his.

  “I’m here, darling,” he said. “Hold on. The doctor is on his way.” He looked around. “The sheriff is here, Maureen. You need to tell him how Wallace shot you when he was trying to kill me.”

  Breckinridge began, “That’s a damned—”

  The sheriff pointed the pistol at his face and said, “You shut up.”

  “Tell the sheriff,” Aylesworth urged.

  “I . . . I don’t know,” Maureen said in a weak voice. “It was all so . . . insane. It all happened . . . so fast . . . But you’re right . . . Richard . . . you must be . . .”

  Breckinridge’s blood seemed to turn to ice in his veins. She was going along with Aylesworth’s bald-faced lie! Again, he knew he shouldn’t be surprised. She was so firmly under her husband’s thumb she would agree with anything he said, no matter how much Breck wished it were otherwise.

  He looked at Ophelia, wondering if she would speak up and reveal the truth. She had been in the foyer when Aylesworth burst in and took that shot at Breck. She had seen what happened.

  But the maid’s eyes met his, and her head went back and forth in the tiniest of shakes. She wasn’t going to dispute the word of a man who held the power of life and death over her.

  “I reckon if Miz Aylesworth or that baby dies, you’ll hang for sure this time, Wallace,” the sheriff said.

  Breckinridge’s heart slugged heavily in his chest. Once again life had taken one of those sudden lurches and yanked the world right out from under him.

  Only this time it might be the trap door of a gallows falling out from under him, he thought.

  “I know you gave me your word,” Johnson went on, “but I’d feel better if your hands were tied—”

  Breckinridge wasn’t going to let that happen. If he went along meekly with the sheriff, he was doomed. He knew it, and he knew what he had to do next. Three deputies stood between him and the door. Normally he wouldn’t worry about being able to plow right through three men.

  But a couple of them had taken out pistols, and the sheriff was armed, too. If he made a move toward the door, they would shoot him down.

  When he exploded into action, it was in another direction. He whirled around and one long stride brought him to the parlor’s front window. The sheriff yelled, “Stop him!” and one of the pistols boomed. Breckinridge lowered his head and twisted so that he hit the window with his shoulder. The glass shattered and flew outward around him.

  Two more shots roared, one after the other, but none of them found their target. At least, he didn’t feel any of the balls strike him as he tumbled through the broken window onto the porch. Broken glass stung him, but he was able to ignore that as he rolled over and surged to his feet. As he leaped off the porch he saw the other deputy coming back into the yard with the doctor, and the part of his brain that wasn’t frantic with the need to escape was glad of that. Now Maureen would get the help she needed. Maybe both she and the baby could be saved.

  “Get him, damn it!” the sheriff bellowed from the window.

  The deputy tried to get in Breckinridge’s way, but Breck picked him up and threw him aside like a rag doll. He didn’t bother with the gate. He vaulted over the fence and grabbed the reins of the horse he had ridden into town. One of the lawmen must have gotten his pistol reloaded, because another shot sounded as Breck swung up into the saddle.

  Again the ball went wild. Breckinridge hauled the horse around and jabbed his heels into its flanks. The animal leaped forward into a gallop. Breck headed for the edge of town and the road that led to his family’s farm.

  Once again he was on the run from the law, and once again it was completely unjustified. He was getting damned sick and tired of that feeling.

  * * *

  He kept the horse at a gallop all the way to the farm. By the time they got there the animal was about done in. Breckinridge knew he would have to have a different mount. He hoped he could hang on to this one instead of losing it like Hector.

  Sammy and Max set up a commotion as he approached, and that brought his father out of the barn and his mother out of the house. Breckinridge didn’t see any of his brothers and took that to mean they were all working in the fields, getting a cover crop down for the coming winter.

  Unless they came in quickly, he wouldn’t have a chance to say good-bye to them. He regretted that, but it couldn’t be helped. By now the sheriff would have organized a posse, and he’d be on his way out here to clap Breckinridge in irons and drag him back to jail.

  “Good Lord, son, you’re about to run that poor horse to death!” Robert said as Breckinridge reined in. “What’s wrong?”

  “The law’s after me,” Breckinridge said as he dismounted and started uncinching the saddle so he could throw it on another horse.

  Samantha had come close enough to hear. She said, “Saints preserve us, what have you done now?”

  Breckinridge felt a flash of anger. He could tell that both his parents assumed he was to blame for whatever trouble he had found. Seemed like they could give their own flesh and blood the benefit of the doubt just this once.

  There wasn’t time to worry about that, though. As he carried the saddle and blanket into the barn, he said over his shoulder, “Richard Aylesworth shot his wife.”

  “Merciful heavens!” Samantha said. “Is . . . is she . . . ?”

  “She’s alive, and I think she’ll be all right. I ain’t so sure about the baby she’s carryin’.”

  “That poor girl.”

  Robert asked, “What’s this got to do with you?”

  “Aylesworth told the sheriff I was the one who did the shootin’. I said that was a bald-faced lie, but Maureen . . .” The words Breckinridge were about to say threatened to choke him, but he forced them out. “Maureen backed up his story. Even after what he did, she wouldn’t turn against him. So the sheriff thinks I busted into their house, beat on Aylesworth, and tried to shoot him but hit Maureen instead.”

  “There’s no one who can tell Sheriff Johnson the truth?”

  Breckinridge thought about the maid Ophelia, then shook his head.

  “Not this time, Pa. Not unless Maureen goes back on what she said. And I don’t reckon I’ll be gettin’ lucky like that a second time.”

  Samantha moaned and hugged herself. A chilly wind blew through the barn, but Breckinridge didn’t think the breeze was what caused his mother’s reaction.

  “It’s not right,” she said. “You shouldn’t have to run for your life a second time. It’s just not fair.”

  “Life don’t seem to care about fair,” Breckinridge said. “If it did, a lot more people would get what was comin’ to them.”

  He didn’t know if he was talking about Richard Aylesworth . . . or himself. It didn’t really matter, he supposed.

  “So you’re leaving,” his father said.

  “I got to, Pa. The sheriff will be on his way with a posse.”

  Breckinridge’s mother said, “I need to get you some food. Wait here.”

  “Make it fast, Ma. As soon as I get another horse saddled, I need to get out of here.”

  Samantha hurried toward the house while Robert said, “Take that big bay. He’s a good sturdy mount. Not as good as Hector was, but . . .”

  “I’ll do my best to hang on to him,” Breckinridge promised.

  He would do that by never trusting anyone again, the way he had trusted Sadie Humboldt and Jack MacKenzie.

  “Which direction are you going?”

  “I want to head back to the frontier, but I can’t go west. That’d take me right into the posse. Reckon I’ll head east this time, into the Blue Ridge. I know those hills pretty darn good. I think I can give the sheriff the slip, then swing around either north or south and work my way back west.”

  “Do you think you’ll be able to come home again later, lik
e you did this time?”

  Breckinridge sighed and shook his head.

  “I wouldn’t count on it, Pa. Most fellas only get one miracle in their lives.”

  “You didn’t even get to see Edward again,” Robert said despairingly.

  “I know. Maybe I’ll run into him somewhere along the way while I’m headin’ back to the frontier. If I don’t . . . well, forever’s a long time, Pa. No point in wastin’ too much time thinkin’ about what might or might not happen, because we just don’t know.”

  “You’re right, we don’t,” Robert agreed in a voice choked with emotion. He grasped his son’s arm, then pulled him close and slapped him on the back as they roughly embraced. “Take care of yourself. Never forget that we love you.”

  “I won’t, Pa. I give you my word on that.”

  Breckinridge’s mother came hurrying back with a sack of food. Breck tied it to the saddle on the big bay horse his father had told him to take.

  “Tell your mother good-bye while I fetch your guns,” Robert said.

  Breckinridge hugged Samantha. She said, “I can’t believe I’m telling you good-bye again. I thought you’d be around from now on.”

  That wouldn’t have happened even without the tragic incident at the Aylesworth house, Breckinridge thought, but he didn’t see any point in telling his mother that. Instead he hugged her and said, “I’ll be all right, Ma. You know I can take care of myself.”

  “Maybe the best of all of us,” she agreed. “But that won’t stop me from worrying about you.”

  “I know. Reckon that’s the way it’s meant to be with parents and young’uns.”

  “I hope you get to find out for yourself someday. I hope you’ll have a fine family.”

  Breckinridge sort of doubted that. He had been able to imagine himself married to Maureen and raising a whole passel of kids, but since that would never happen now, he figured it was unlikely he would ever find anybody else he’d want to settle down with. He would always carry that lost dream inside him.

  Robert came back with Breckinridge’s rifle, pistols, and knife, along with a full shot pouch and a couple of powder horns.

  “You’ll be armed for bear, or whatever else you might run into,” he said as he handed over the weapons to his son.

  “Thanks, Pa.” Breckinridge hugged both his parents again, then put his foot in the stirrup and stepped up into the saddle. He turned the bay and lifted a hand to wave farewell. “Say so long to the boys!”

  Before he could do anything else, he heard a swift rataplan of hoofbeats. A glance at the road showed him a group of at least half a dozen mounted men racing toward the farm. They were still several hundred yards away, so he lifted the reins and jammed his heels into the bay’s flanks. The horse leaped into motion. Breckinridge’s wave to his parents was a hasty one as he galloped away from the barn.

  He didn’t follow any road or trail as he departed. Instead he took off across country, racing through fields, jumping the bay over rock fences, weaving around clumps of trees. He thought he heard some shots behind him, but he couldn’t be sure about that. If the members of the posse were shooting at him, they didn’t hit him, and that was the only important thing.

  The terrain began to slope upward into the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Breckinridge knew every foot of those hills. He was counting on that knowledge to help him escape. Also, it was only a couple of hours until dark, and he was certain that if he could elude the pursuit until night fell, they would never catch him.

  Anyway, he didn’t have much choice except to get away, he told himself.

  There was nothing waiting for him back in Knoxville except a hangman’s rope. No hope, no reversal of fortune, no miracle this time.

  Only death.

  * * *

  A month later, Breckinridge led the bay onto a ferry. An early snowfall covered both banks of the Mississippi River, and an icy wind blew from the north. Breck wore a blanket capote over his buckskins and had a cap made from the skin of a raccoon on his head. He had never cared for hats, but when a cold wind blew, like today, the coonskin cap felt good. He had made it himself from an animal he shot during the westward journey.

  The posse had clung stubbornly to his trail for a while, but Breckinridge got away from them just as he expected to. His natural skill in the woods gave him an advantage over the townsmen the sheriff had brought with him. Once he had circled wide around Knoxville and headed west, he was confident no one was after him.

  He had taken a few odd jobs along the way—blacksmithing, unloading freight, splitting wood—and between the money he earned and the game he was able to shoot he hadn’t gone hungry or wanting for other supplies. He hadn’t socialized much with people, which was hard given his friendly nature, but he didn’t want to get taken in the way he had been before.

  Now he had reached the Mississippi at last, and he looked across the dark, grayish-blue surface of the river at St. Louis sprawled on the opposite shore. He would have preferred setting out for the mountains right away, as soon as he had procured some more supplies, but winter was the wrong time of year. He would run the risk of getting caught out in the open by a blizzard and freezing to death. Like it or not, the smartest thing to do would be to wait for spring.

  St. Louis was a big town. He intended to lie low and not draw attention to himself... as much as that was possible with his size and his red hair.

  Unlike the primitive, mule-drawn ferry at Cooter’s Landing, this one had a steam engine, and when enough passengers had boarded, some on horseback and others in buggies and wagons, the vessel chugged across the river and came to a stop next to a wharf supported on thick pilings. Men waiting on the dock lowered a broad gangplank into place for the passengers to disembark.

  Breckinridge led the bay off the ferry and looked around. He wasn’t far from the Black Ship, he realized. Maybe he would pay a visit to Red Mike’s place. He might see some familiar faces if he did, he thought.

  For now, though, he was just glad to be west of the Mississippi River again. He knew he would miss his family, but he vowed that he would never set foot east of the mighty river again.

  There was too much civilization over there.

  And civilization was just too damned much trouble.

  BOOK SIX

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Breckinridge groaned and rolled over. He bumped against something soft and warm. The girl called Sierra groaned, too. Like Breck, she had had too much to drink the night before. Under normal circumstances, he would have reached out to caress that inviting flesh, she would have responded, and they would have had themselves a fine old time.

  Now their headaches were too bad to do anything except lie there and hope that the room would stop spinning soon. At least Breckinridge assumed that was the way Sierra was feeling. It sure described his own current state.

  Finally the call of nature became too urgent to ignore, so Breckinridge was forced to get up and dig the chamber pot from under the bed. When he managed to accomplish his business without falling down, he decided he might as well go over to the window and get a little fresh air. That might help clear his head even more.

  He swept the threadbare curtain aside and pushed up the windowpane, ignoring the fact that he was naked as a jaybird. Sierra’s room, where he’d been staying for the past few weeks, was on the second floor of the less-than-respectable boardinghouse, so it wasn’t like there were any passersby right outside the window. As for anybody who might be across the street, Breckinridge didn’t give a damn.

  Then, as sometimes happened at the most inopportune moments, he recalled that he hadn’t been raised to be such a degenerate. His current circumstances—hungover and living with a soiled dove—would have appalled his mother. Even his pa, who wasn’t as stiff necked as the woman he’d married, probably would have been disappointed in him, Breckinridge thought. Scowling, he turned away from the window, grabbed the bottom half of a pair of long underwear from the back of the chair where he had thro
wn them the night before, and pulled them on.

  Then he returned to the window to drag in some more air. It was chilly, but nothing like the frigid winter just past. Spring had come to St. Louis.

  Soon it would be time to go.

  That thought did more than anything else to drive the cobwebs out of Breckinridge’s brain.

  He left the window open but pulled the curtain back across it. He needed only a few minutes to get dressed. When he had pulled on the high-topped moccasins, he stepped over to the bed and slapped the enticing curve of Sierra’s rump through the sheet.

  “Hey, get up,” he told her. “I want to go get something to eat.”

  She let out a pitiful moan and buried her head with its wild mass of curly black hair deeper in the pillow.

  “Eat?” she repeated in a trembling voice. “How can you even think about eating now?”

  “I was feelin’ a mite puny when I woke up, but some fresh air took care of it.”

  “We don’t all have your iron constitution, Breckinridge. I’m not crawling out of this bed until the sun has gone down.”

  With her Mexican accent, when she said his name it came out Breckinreedge. Her father had come from down there below the border, she had explained one night. He had shipped out from Vera Cruz, wound up in New Orleans, worked his way north to St. Louis, and married a half-Cherokee whore. Sierra was the result of that union, so named because her pa missed the mountains of Mexico where he was born and raised. The mixture of blood had produced a honey-skinned beauty who had followed her mother into the world’s oldest profession.

  Breckinridge had met her at the Black Ship and the two of them were drawn to each other at first sight. Within a week they were living together. Sierra couldn’t replace Maureen in Breckinridge’s affections, of course—she certainly wasn’t the sort of gal he could ever dream of marrying—but they had a mighty good time together and she probably didn’t take whatever was between them any more seriously than he did.

  Soon he would be leaving, though, and they would have to say good-bye. As much as Breckinridge was looking forward to heading for the mountains, he had to admit he was going to be sad to bid farewell to Sierra.