The Darkest Winter

by William W. Johnstone

  At the same time, he felt uneasy because of the feelings she stirred in him. He had enjoyed some good times with a few tavern wenches, but all the women he’d had serious feelings for had either betrayed him or let him down in some other way. Breckinridge wasn’t foolish enough to believe that all women were like that, but he did wonder sometimes if he was destined—or cursed—to run into the ones who were.

  In this case, he was probably getting ahead of himself, and he knew it. He hadn’t spent all that much time with Dawn Wind. It was crazy to think there would ever be anything between them.

  The ever-expanding trapline meant that he and Morgan had to split up sometimes to cover all the traps. Breckinridge worried on those occasions. Not so much for himself, but for his friend. Although there had been no sign of Carnahan, Ralston, or any of the other trappers from Carnahan’s party, Breck knew there was no guarantee they wouldn’t show up again, looking for trouble. It was possible the encounter with the Indians had spooked them away from the area, but he and Morgan couldn’t count on that.

  Still, they had come here to trap beaver, and that’s what they were doing. It was a job, sure, but Breckinridge enjoyed being out here in the wilderness. Honestly, although he missed his family back in Tennessee at times, there was no place else he would rather be.

  One afternoon he was the farthest distance upstream he had ever been when he spotted some rocky cliffs rearing up nearby. As he approached them, he began to hear a low, roaring sound. It got louder as he continued along the creek, which turned sharply to the left up ahead.

  When he came to that bend, he stopped and looked at the cliffs, which lay a couple of hundred yards away. The creek plunged down from those heights in a glittering waterfall. That was where the roaring sound he’d heard came from. The cascading water was silver and gold in the sunlight. Shining spray hung in the air around it. On top of the cliffs, majestic evergreens reared toward the sky. It was as beautiful a natural sight as Breckinridge had ever seen.

  He felt drawn to investigate the waterfall and tramped toward it. His long rifle was held in the crook of his left arm. His keen blue eyes searched the landscape and saw nothing threatening. Birds flitted through the trees, small animals made rustling sounds in the brush, but there was no sign of anything larger, human or animal.

  When he neared the base of the cascade, he saw a large pool dotted with rocks at the base of the cliffs. The cliffs themselves weren’t as sheer as they had appeared from a distance. Not only that, a path wound upward to the left of the waterfall. Breckinridge figured it was a game trail worn into the rock by deer, antelope, and mountain goats, but it looked like a man could use it, too.

  He decided to find out.

  The path was a little slippery because of the spray that drifted over to it from time to time. Breckinridge felt the tiny droplets of water brushing his face as he began to climb. He had to take the rifle in his left hand and use his right to grasp places where the rock protruded. These handholds were smooth with use, and that told him plenty of men had climbed these cliffs in the past. Maybe for hundreds of years, or however long the Indians had lived in these parts. That thought made him wonder if he was the first white man to come along here. That was doubtful, he decided, considering how many trappers had journeyed to the frontier over the past few decades . . . but it was possible.

  He wasn’t winded by the time he reached the top of the path. He stepped from it onto the level ground at the edge of the cliff and turned to look around. He had climbed fifty or sixty feet. That was enough to let him see for a long way out over the valley between the mountain ranges. To the south, those ranges came together into a formidable barrier. Northward, the valley stretched back to the flatter territory along the Missouri and Yellowstone rivers, which from Breckinridge’s point of view was a hazy brown and tan expanse in the far, far distance. Closer, the valley was a deep, rich green dotted with clumps of color from the wildflowers that still bloomed in profusion.

  The creek brawled along and tumbled over the brink almost at Breckinridge’s feet. It made for nice music accompanying some of the most beautiful, spectacular scenery he had ever laid eyes on. Breck’s massive chest expanded as he drew in a deep breath. How could anybody ever choose to live all crowded up in some stinking city when there were places like this in the world . . .?

  That was the thought going through his mind when something smashed into his head like a hammerblow and sent him toppling outward into empty space.

  Chapter 14

  The terrible impact might have caused him to black out, but if it did, that senselessness lasted only a split second. Then Breckinridge was aware that he was falling. He saw rocks flash below him and twisted instinctively in midair. A wild heartbeat later, he struck the water.

  He hadn’t had time to gulp down any air, so as he went under he had to fight the impulse to take a breath. Pain rampaged through his head and filled it so full it felt like his skull was going to burst. But after a second the iciness of the water in which he was submerged dulled the agony somewhat.

  His brain was working well enough for him to realize that the pool had saved his life, at least for now. Even though he had struck the water hard, it was more forgiving than the jagged rocks would have been. He had knifed below the surface, and it was deep enough that he hadn’t hit the bottom.

  Now, though, he had to have air. At the same time, he felt consciousness slipping away and struggled to hang on to it. If he passed out, he would drown. No two ways about it.

  However, that wasn’t the only danger. Someone must have taken a shot at him. That was the only explanation that made sense. No one had been close enough to hit him with a club—Breckinridge knew that. Someone had tried to kill him, but the ball had only clipped his head.

  Did the would-be murderer know that? Or had he taken his shot, seen Breckinridge topple off the cliff after being hit in the head, and assumed that he was dead? Would the varmint try to find him and check? If he made it out of the pool, would he just be exposing himself to another gunshot?

  Those questions flashed through Breckinridge’s brain. He had no answers for them, nor did he have the luxury of pondering them. If he didn’t get air, he was going to die—that was certain. He had dropped the rifle when he fell, so both arms were free. His muscles resisted the command at first, but then he stroked hard and broke the pool’s surface. Breck opened his mouth and hauled in a lungful of sweet, life-giving air. He got some water in his mouth, too, and sputtered a little as he floated there.

  Everything spun crazily around him. The sky, the pool, and the cliffs in between traded places with each other in rapid succession. The pain in his head blossomed again. He knew he was still on the verge of passing out. Another man without his incredible vitality would have lost consciousness before now. Breckinridge knew he had to get out of the pool while he had the chance. He struggled to reach the edge, but the growing weakness inside him held him back. It seemed like the water was trying to pull him under again.

  Suddenly, something took hold of his right arm. Breckinridge looked up, but his vision had gone so blurry he couldn’t make out anything except varying patches of light and darkness. A shape moved in front of him. The hands fastened on his sleeve hauled him forward. His feet brushed something. The bottom of the pool? Breck couldn’t think of what else it could be, so he shoved against it at the same time as his rescuer fought to pull him out of the pool. He flopped forward, his muscles limp and useless now. Faintly, he heard what sounded like grunts of effort.

  The world receded around him and he couldn’t hold on to it anymore. Blackness rose up and swallowed him whole.

  * * *

  The first thing he was aware of was a frigid chill that went all the way through him and froze his bones and guts. He felt a feeble bit of warmth pressed against him, but it wasn’t enough to keep him from shaking. Every movement, even those shivers, made pain explode in his head. Breckinridge wanted to go back to the oblivion in which he had floated for a time beyond k
nowing. Nothingness wasn’t nearly as unpleasant as what he was experiencing right now.

  On top of everything else, he was wet. That just made him colder. Water sheened his face and dripped into his eyes, nose, and mouth. It was an even bet whether he would freeze to death or drown first. Assuming, of course, that his pounding head didn’t just split apart like a dropped melon . . .

  “Be quiet,” a voice said in his ear. “They are out there.”

  The words didn’t make sense to Breckinridge at first, but then their meaning soaked into his stunned consciousness. So did the fact that the voice belonged to a woman. He still didn’t know where they were and he wasn’t clear on everything that had happened, but for now he supposed all that could wait. He clamped his jaw shut to keep his teeth from chattering and lay there as still and quiet as he could. Gradually he realized that the woman lay beside him and had her arms around him, trying to share the warmth of her body with him.

  Breckinridge still had no sense of time passing. Finally, the woman whispered, “I think they are gone now. I will look. Stay here.”

  She didn’t have to tell him that. He wasn’t going anywhere. He couldn’t.

  He groaned softly, though, as the warmth that came from her went away. The deadly chill began to seep through him again.

  Then she was back, saying in a low but urgent voice, “Come with me. You must help me, Breckinridge. You are too big for me to drag alone.”

  She knew his name. Breckinridge had already started thinking fuzzily that he must know this woman. Something about her voice was familiar. Now that he knew she was aware of who he was, that left only one answer.

  Dawn Wind.

  His eyes were still closed. He forced them open and saw a curtain of water falling only a couple of feet away. He was lying on a rock ledge behind the waterfall. How she had gotten him back here, he had no idea. He must not have completely lost consciousness earlier, when everything had faded away around him. With his help, she had gotten both of them into hiding, although he didn’t remember it happening.

  She knelt in the shallow water next to him, tugging at his buckskin shirt. Breckinridge groaned again, put a hand on the ledge, and pushed himself halfway up into a sitting position. That made his head spin worse, so he had to wait until it settled down. When it did, he lifted his other hand and touched his head with shaking fingers. He found a tender spot.

  “That is where the ball struck you,” Dawn Wind said over the constant roar of the water. “The water washed away all the blood. I do not think the bone is broken, Breckinridge.”

  “I got . . . a hard head.” The raspy sound of his voice surprised him. But as soaked and half-frozen as he was, what did he expect?

  “This way,” she said as she urged him to slide along the ledge to his left. “It stays shallow this way. I cannot pull you out of the deeper water again.”

  She had saved his life. Breckinridge had no doubt about that. What she was doing here, why she had been close by when he was shot, he didn’t know, but right now that wasn’t important. He hunched and scraped and crawled, and the waterfall pounded at him, and once again for a dizzying second he thought he was going to drown. Then he rolled onto another flat, hard surface and lay with his face pointed upward as an enormous light blazed down at him, bringing with it warmth.

  That was the sun, he thought. He lay there with his chest heaving and soaked in as much of the heat as he could.

  He sensed as much as felt someone lying down beside him. Had to be Dawn Wind, he thought. Her shoulder nudged against his with a comfortable intimacy. When he felt like he wasn’t about to die after all, he shaded his eyes with a hand, turned his head, and looked at her. Her eyes were closed as the sunlight washed over her face. The soaked buckskin dress she wore clung to every curve of her body, which was made more obvious by the way her chest rose and fell rapidly.

  “Are you . . . looking at me . . . Breckinridge?” she asked without opening her eyes.

  The question caught him a little by surprise. “I, uh . . . Yeah, I am.”

  “Good. Then you probably . . . will not die. A man on the verge of death . . . does not look at a woman . . . with desire in his heart.”

  He pushed himself up on an elbow. “I never said I had desire in my heart.”

  “It is all right if you do.” She didn’t sound quite so breathless now. Even though her eyes were closed, she turned her head so her face was pointed away from him, as if she were embarrassed. She went on, “When you first came to our village . . . I looked at how large and strong you are . . . and thought about what it would be like if you took me in your arms.”

  Well, if that didn’t beat all, Breckinridge thought. Shot in the head, falls off a cliff, damn near drowns, and still winds up lying on a rock beside a mountain pool with a good-looking woman talking desire at him.

  If Morgan was here, he would probably give his old friend a good swift kick in the rear right about now, just out of sheer jealousy.

  Breckinridge put that thought out of his head and sat up. He asked, “Did you see who shot me?”

  Dawn Wind rolled onto her side facing him and opened her eyes. “No. I saw you on top of the cliff and was looking at you when I heard the shot. Then you fell. I thought you must be dead. I hurried toward the waterfall to be sure. Then you began to thrash around in the pool and I knew you lived. So I jumped in to help you.”

  “I reckon you saved my life. I don’t see how you got me up on that little ledge behind the waterfall. What made you decide to do that?”

  “I was afraid the man who shot you would come to make certain you were dead. I thought it would be best if you were hidden.” One shoulder rose and fell in a graceful shrug. “A person can do more than they believe is possible, when there is enough danger.”

  “You’re right about that.” Breckinridge frowned. “And I recollect you sayin’ somebody was out here. Did you see who it was?”

  Dawn Wind shook her head. “It is difficult to see anything through the waterfall. That is why I decided we should hide there. I could tell there were two men moving around, that is all.”

  “A couple of Carnahan’s men, I’ll bet. Maybe Carnahan his own self.”

  “The short, ugly man with the long beard?”

  “Yeah, that’s him. He’s got a grudge against me. All of that bunch do. Especially one fella who wears a patch over his left eye. If you ever see somebody like that, you’d best steer well clear of him. He’s pure poison.”

  “I avoid every white man,” she said, “until I know he can be trusted.”

  “And you know that about me?”

  “I would not have risked my life to help you, otherwise.”

  “And I’m mighty obliged to you for that.” Breckinridge paused. “How’d you come to be in this neck o’ the woods, anyway? Are your brother or any more of your people close by?”

  She shook her head. “Running Elk is with a hunting party that left our village going in a different direction. Our band of the Apsáalooke consider all the land on both sides of this creek, all the way to the mountains, as our hunting grounds. I like to explore it.”

  “By yourself?”

  Dawn Wind sat up and pushed her wet braids back from her face. “I am not afraid to be alone. I can run fast, and I can fight if I need to.”

  “I’ll bet you can,” Breckinridge said. He wondered if she had spotted him traipsing up here and followed him, or if it actually was just a pure accident she had been nearby when he was ambushed. Either way, he was a mighty lucky fella.

  She was sitting close enough to him on the big slab of rock that she could lean over just slightly and reach up to touch his head. He started to draw back, then steeled himself to stay still as her fingertips gently explored the area around the wound.

  “Does that hurt?” she asked.

  “A mite. But it feels a hell of a lot better than it did just a little while ago.”

  That was true. The pain had subsided to a dull ache. His vision was clear. The icy wate
r had stopped the bleeding from the wound and washed away the gore that had already seeped out. He could already feel his iron constitution starting to heal him.

  “Yes,” Dawn Wind said as if she knew what he was thinking. “You will live. If you do not grow sick from being so wet and chilled. The sun is warm. We should let it dry our bodies and our clothes.”

  Before he could say or do anything, she got lithely and gracefully to her feet, reached down to catch hold of the bottom of her buckskin dress, and peeled the sodden garment up and over her head.

  Chapter 15

  That left Dawn Wind nude except for her moccasins. She kicked those off as well, then moved to spread her wet dress over a rock to dry. Breckinridge couldn’t take his eyes off her sleek body. She turned to him with a complete lack of self-consciousness and asked, “Are you not going to take your clothes off?”

  Breckinridge swallowed hard. “Well, I, uh . . . I reckon they’d dry quicker that way, wouldn’t they?”

  “Yes, they would,” she said in a calm and steady voice.

  Breckinridge scrambled to his feet and started trying to yank the soaked buckskin shirt off. He moved too fast, though, and his head started spinning again. He put out a hand to balance himself and said, “Whoa.”

  Dawn Wind took his hand and used her other hand to clasp his elbow and support him. Having her standing that close to him, as naked as the day she was born, didn’t do all that much to help his mental state, but at least after a moment his dizziness subsided.

  “Let me help you,” she said.

  “Yeah, that might be a good idea,” Breckinridge admitted. He had thought at first that she was trying to seduce him, but maybe she was just being practical. Their clothes really would dry faster this way, and so would their bodies. She didn’t have to worry about him getting too carried away, either. He was weak as a kitten right now, and if he tried anything, she could probably fight him off without too much trouble, even as big as he was.