The Darkest Winter

by William W. Johnstone

  An arrow whipped past his left ear. Breckinridge turned and saw a painted savage nocking another missile. Before the Indian could draw the bow back and loose the arrow, Breck shot him in the chest with the rifle. The man flew backward as the heavy lead ball drove into his body.

  Morgan’s rifle blasted as well, but Breckinridge didn’t have time to see how his friend was doing. Two more warriors appeared and charged him. One had an arrow ready and fired it as he ran. Breck reacted instinctively and with blinding speed, sweeping the rifle barrel around in time to hit the flying shaft and deflect it.

  Then Breckinridge dropped the rifle and yanked out both pistols. They boomed in unison and the powerful charge in each made it kick against his strong grip. The Sioux tumbled off their feet as the balls tore through them.

  Breckinridge heard several angry yips from the Indians. He let out a bellow of his own and followed it by shouting, “Come on, boys! Let’s get ’em!” He ran back and forth, crashing around in the brush so much that he sounded like a dozen men. At least, that was the impression he was trying to create.

  It must have worked. No one else attacked him or Morgan, who appeared at Breckinridge’s side and exclaimed, “I think they’re running away!”

  “That was the idea,” Breckinridge said. He shoved the pistols behind his belt again, picked up his rifle, and reloaded it with swift, practiced efficiency. Then he led the way to the rear edge of the thicket and looked out to see half a dozen buckskin-clad figures running away from the river. The two youngsters he had knocked out were gone, so he figured they had regained consciousness and fled with the others. He asked Morgan, “How many of ’em did you get?”

  “Just one. What about you?”

  “Three, I reckon. And busted another one’s jaw. I didn’t see him layin’ where I knocked him down, though, so he must’ve got up and took off for the tall and uncut with the others.”

  “That’s about right. You’re at least four times as dangerous as me, Breck.”

  “I ain’t keepin’ score,” Breckinridge said. “Do we head back to our canoes, or you reckon we ought to go talk to Carnahan and his bunch?”

  “They’re bound to be curious about who pulled their fat out of the fire,” Morgan said. “If we don’t want to have to deal with them, we’d best be moving.”

  That was Breckinridge’s opinion, too. They turned to head toward the trees and work their way back through the growth to where they had left the canoes, but before they could do so, several men stepped out of the brush and pointed rifles at them.

  “Stand right where you are,” one of the men ordered in a harsh voice.

  Those tones sounded a little familiar to Breckinridge, so when he looked around, he wasn’t particularly surprised.

  The man who had just issued the command was the rawboned son of a bitch with the eye patch and the saber, which rested in a scabbard hung from his belt. Now he held a rifle, as well. That weapon was trained on Breckinridge’s chest.

  Chapter 7

  “Take it easy, fellas,” Breckinridge said. “In case you hadn’t noticed, I reckon we’re all on the same side.”

  The rifle pointed at him didn’t budge. The man with the eye patch said, “How do we know that? It could have been you two shooting those arrows at us. A white man can pull a bow the same as a savage. English longbowmen changed history at the battle of Agincourt.”

  “I wasn’t there, so I’ll have to take your word for it.”

  One of the other men called, “Hey, Ralston, got a couple of dead redskins over here.”

  “And here’s another one,” a second man added. “Looks like he’s been shot.”

  The man with the eye patch finally lowered his rifle slightly. “You two did that?” he asked.

  “We did,” Morgan said. “We saw some fellow trappers in trouble and stepped in to help.”

  “How many of them were there?”

  “Counted a dozen ponies,” Breckinridge said.

  “How did the two of you manage to defeat a dozen men?”

  “We took ’em by surprise. Anyway, we didn’t kill ’em all, just made ’em believe they was trapped in a crossfire, so they’d skedaddle.” Breckinridge shrugged. “Seems to have worked.”

  The man pointed his rifle at the ground. “Where are the horses?”

  “They got scattered when we jumped the young fellas holdin’ ’em.”

  One of the men asked, “Why are you actin’ so suspicious, Ralston? These gents saved our hides, seems to me, like.”

  Ralston frowned. “We would have been all right without their help. We had the savages outnumbered, remember? And they were armed with bows and arrows. They wouldn’t have been able to overcome our rifles.”

  “Mebbe so, but we might’ve lost a man or two first, since they had good cover and we didn’t. We couldn’t even see what we was shootin’ at. I reckon we ought to be obliged to . . . ?”

  The man who spoke looked at Breckinridge and Morgan and raised his eyebrows quizzically.

  “Breckinridge Wallace,” Breck introduced himself. “This here is my partner, Morgan Baxter.”

  “Name’s Al Nusser,” said the man who had defended them to Ralston. He was stocky, dressed in buckskin trousers, a homespun shirt, and a coonskin cap. Brown whiskers stuck out on his jaw like the bristles of a brush. He jerked a thumb at his companions and went on, “Bart Coogan, Fred Norton, Deke Simms, and Gordie Ralston.”

  “That’s Major Gordon Ralston,” the man with the eye patch snapped.

  After listening to the man talk for the past few minutes, Breckinridge was convinced that Ralston had been one of the would-be thieves back in St. Louis. Hearing him called Gordie just now confirmed that. One of the other robbers had called out that name in the dark street near Red Mike’s.

  Breckinridge didn’t let on about that. He didn’t see any point in revealing that he knew what Ralston had done—or tried to do. He hadn’t told Morgan about the incident. Best just to let it stay in the past.

  He didn’t intend for the two of them to spend much time with Carnahan’s bunch, anyway.

  “You ain’t an officer anymore, Ralston,” Nusser said. Evidently there was little or no love lost between the two men. “Your army days are behind you.”

  “Jud made me his second-in-command,” Ralston protested.

  “Still don’t make you a major anymore. But shoot, it ain’t any o’ my business. You can call yourself the Queen of the May as far as I’m concerned.” Nusser turned to Breckinridge and Morgan, either unaware or unconcerned that Ralston was glaring at him behind his back. “You fellas ought to come on to camp with us. After the way you pitched in and ran off those Injuns, least we can do is feed you a good meal.”

  One of the other men suggested, “Maybe Jud’d let us crack open one o’ them jugs of corn liquor.”

  “There’s an idea,” Nusser said with a grin. “Come on, boys, we’ll introduce you to Jud Carnahan. He’s the one who put this little trappin’ expedition together.”

  Breckinridge leaned his head toward the trees and said, “We left our canoes over yonder around the bend.”

  “Well, go get ’em and paddle on to where we’re camped. We’ll be waitin’ for you.”

  Breckinridge and Morgan exchanged a glance. There was no way they could turn down the invitation without creating hard feelings, and they didn’t want to go out of their way to do that, especially outnumbered eighteen to two.

  The idea of sitting down to break bread with at least one son of a bitch who’d tried to rob and kill him less than a week earlier rubbed Breckinridge the wrong way, but he’d had to put up with a lot of unpleasantness in his life. He supposed he could stand a little more.

  “We’ll see you in a few minutes,” he said.

  As they walked through the trees toward their canoes, Morgan said quietly, “I suppose we had to help them, but that doesn’t mean I want to befriend those brigands.”

  “I ain’t too happy about that, neither,” Breckinridge said. �
��But we’ll just share a meal with ’em and then push on. Probably never see ’em again after today.”

  “You really think so?” Morgan asked dubiously. “They strike me as the sort that might decide to kill us and take our canoes and all our supplies.”

  “They can try, but they’ll play hell doin’ it,” Breckinridge said. “Keep your powder dry, Morgan.”

  * * *

  They paddled around the bend and then put in to shore again. The campfire had been built up even more as night settled down. The flames leaped high and cast flickering, reddish light over a large circle. The men had left cover and were on their feet again, some moving around, others just standing near the fire.

  Breckinridge and Morgan pulled their canoes up onto the bank, not too near the canoes belonging to the larger party. They took their rifles, now reloaded, and walked toward the fire.

  Jud Carnahan was easy to pick out among the trappers. He was a head shorter and much broader than any of them. He walked out to meet the two newcomers. His long beard jutted out in front of him.

  “Howdy,” he greeted Breckinridge and Morgan. “Welcome to our camp.” He put out a hand with short, thick fingers. “Name’s Jud Carnahan. I’m heading up this bunch.”

  Breckinridge clasped the man’s hand. Carnahan’s grip was strong. “I’m Breckinridge Wallace,” Breck said.

  Carnahan nodded and said, “Seems like I’ve heard of you, Wallace. Weren’t you mixed up in some ruckus at a rendezvous last year?”

  “It didn’t really amount to much,” Breckinridge said, which was stretching the truth more than a mite. “Ruckus” was an understatement.

  “And you’re Morgan Baxter,” Carnahan went on as he turned to Morgan and shook hands with him. “You boys come on over to the fire. We’ll have some grub here in a bit, but the coffee’s ready now. We even have some white lightning you can use to sweeten it, if you want.”

  Breckinridge didn’t think it was a good idea for him and Morgan to be drinking much while they were around these men, but he just nodded noncommittally and glanced at Morgan. He could tell his friend shared the same thought.

  “You met the major and some of the other boys already,” Carnahan said as he ushered Breckinridge and Morgan toward the fire. “I’ll introduce you to the rest of them.”

  Breckinridge didn’t think that was necessary but didn’t argue. Breck knew he wouldn’t remember most of the names Carnahan spouted. He had to wonder, though, if some of them were the would-be robbers he had battled back in St. Louis.

  One of the trappers was preparing a meal of biscuits, beans, and salt pork. He grinned up at the newcomers and nodded pleasantly when Carnahan introduced him as Chet Bagley. Round-faced, with thinning blond hair, he didn’t seem to be quite as much of a hard case as the others. He said, “Pleased to meet you, boys. Hope you brought an appetite with you.”

  Breckinridge returned the grin, patted his belly, and said, “I carry one around with me, permanent-like. My ma always said I ate like I’ve got two hollow legs, not just one.”

  Bagley laughed. “I’ll do my best to fill ’em up.”

  Men were starting to sit down cross-legged near the fire. Carnahan gestured that Breckinridge and Morgan should join them. They sank onto the ground and accepted clay mugs of hot, strong coffee that Bagley handed to them.

  Breckinridge took a sip of his, nodded in appreciation, and said, “What did you do with the bodies of them Sioux we killed?”

  “Left them for the scavengers, of course,” Ralston answered immediately from where he had sat down on the other side of the fire. “What else would we do with them? They can rot, as far as I’m concerned.”

  “Their friends are liable to come back for ’em. Might’ve been a good idea to move your camp on upriver a ways.”

  “This is a good campsite,” Ralston said. “Plus we’ve already built a fire. I see no reason to waste it.”

  “Take it easy, Major,” Carnahan said. “Our new friends are just trying to be helpful. They’re old hands, and we’re just getting started in the trapping business.”

  Breckinridge knew that he and Morgan had only limited experience at living on the frontier, but even so, they weren’t greenhorns like Carnahan and his men appeared to be. He said, “It’ll probably be all right. Just post plenty of guards tonight.”

  “We always do. Admittedly, the savages took us by surprise this time.” Carnahan’s voice took on a grim note as he added, “But they won’t again.”

  Bagley began passing around plates of food. The men dug in, hungry after a long day of paddling upriver.

  As he ate, Breckinridge said, “We should’ve shared some of our supplies with you fellas.”

  “No need for that,” Carnahan said. “We have plenty. And you two already contributed by chasing off those redskins.”

  “I still say we didn’t need help,” Ralston muttered.

  Carnahan let out a harsh laugh. “The major’s used to being in command. I don’t reckon he likes it much when he isn’t giving the orders.”

  Ralston’s face paled with anger, making the black eye patch stand out even more against his face. He didn’t say anything, though. He just reached for a jug that sat on the ground near him, picked it up, pulled the cork with his teeth, and added a dollop of the clear liquid inside to his coffee.

  “Don’t get pie-eyed, Major,” Carnahan warned. “You’ll be standing a turn at guard duty tonight like the rest of us. I know you aren’t used to that, but it’s only fair.”

  Ralston still didn’t say anything. Breckinridge saw his angular jaw clench. There would be trouble between those two before this expedition was over, Breck thought.

  He wouldn’t have wanted to bet on who would come out on top, though. Ralston was a thief and a killer, Breck knew that for a fact, but Carnahan’s eyes, set deep in pits of gristle under bushy black brows, were as cold and hard as agate, despite his outwardly jovial manner.

  The men passed around the jug, some of them adding the liquor to their coffee, others tilting it to their mouths and downing long swallows of the raw stuff.

  Breckinridge handed the jug along to Morgan when it came to him. Morgan took just a small nip before passing the jug to the next man. Breck thought Carnahan’s eyes narrowed a bit at that, but he wasn’t sure. Maybe Carnahan just didn’t like the idea that his hospitality wasn’t being accepted in full.

  “You fellas are gonna spend the night with us, aren’t you?” Carnahan asked after a while.

  “We don’t want to be any bother—” Morgan began.

  “No bother,” Carnahan said.

  “We didn’t figure to join up with a big company,” Breckinridge said.

  “A larger group’s safer from the Injuns,” bristle-bearded Al Nusser pointed out.

  “Maybe these two are just unfriendly,” Ralston said.

  Carnahan frowned. “Nobody said anything about you joining our company, Wallace, although after what you and Baxter did today, you’d certainly be welcome. But the decision is entirely up to you.”

  “Two more men would make all our shares smaller,” Ralston said.

  “No need to worry about that,” Breckinridge said. “Me and Morgan will be movin’ on in the mornin’. You boys seem like a fine bunch of fellas”—that was a lie, but a prudent one—“but we like to strike out on our own, don’t we, Morgan?”

  “That’s the plan,” Morgan said.

  Carnahan nodded and said, “All right. You’ll stay the night, though?”

  “It’s too late to be pushin’ on now, so I reckon we will,” Breckinridge said. There were snags in the river that made traveling at night dangerous. It would be too easy to rip out the bottom of a canoe in the dark.

  He just hoped they would both still be alive to see the sun come up in the morning.

  Chapter 8

  Carnahan put the cork back in the jug before any of the men could get drunk. Breckinridge had to give the man credit for that. With the threat of the Sioux looming over the expedition,
having the men too liquor sodden to be alert could be fatal.

  After supper, Breckinridge and Morgan went back to the canoes for their bedrolls and spread them not far from the craft. None of the others seemed to care or even notice. Breck wanted to be able to leave these parts in a hurry if he and Morgan needed to.

  So far, he didn’t see any real reason to be suspicious of the group of trappers. True, at least one of them—Gordon Ralston—had tried to rob and kill him back in St. Louis. But that didn’t mean Ralston intended to continue his lawless ways out here away from the settlement. Surrounded by all the dangers of the frontier, the man might be more interested in having allies than victims.

  Even so, Breckinridge figured it would be a good idea for him and Morgan to take turns staying awake during the night. If nothing else, one of them would be alert in case the Sioux tried a sneak attack to get their revenge. Breck was convinced that sooner or later, the Indians would try to get payment in blood for the men they had lost.

  “I’ll take the first watch,” Morgan volunteered when Breckinridge made his low-voiced suggestion. “You go ahead and get some sleep.”

  Breckinridge didn’t put up an argument. He rolled in his blankets and dozed off almost immediately, like the healthy animal he was.

  His was a deep and dreamless slumber, the sleep of a young man with a clear conscience. He woke up easily, long after midnight, when Morgan laid a light touch on his shoulder.

  Breckinridge sat up and asked, “Anything?”

  “Quiet as can be,” Morgan reported. “Other than a considerable amount of snoring from those other fellows.”

  Breckinridge grinned in the darkness. He heard the racket coming from some of Carnahan’s men as they slept. The campfire had burned down to embers, but those embers still glowed brightly enough for him to see the blanket-wrapped shapes scattered around on the ground.

  He turned his head and picked out the dark figures of two men standing near the canoes, rifles cradled in their arms. He whispered, “Where are the other guards?”