The Darkest Winter

by William W. Johnstone

  “That’s not what I—” Morgan stopped when he saw the grin on Breckinridge’s face. He laughed and said, “Yes, I’ll be back in so-called civilization, but you’ll be here with our friends . . . and Dawn Wind. Now, tell me . . . who’s getting the better end of this deal?”

  Breckinridge glanced over at Running Elk and said, “We don’t know how Runnin’ Elk feels about the idea, or White Owl and the rest of the Crow.”

  Running Elk put a hand on Breckinridge’s shoulder and said, “Breck’ridge . . . stay.”

  “He’s picked up enough English to know what we’re talking about,” Morgan said. “So that ought to tell you nobody’s going to object. You’re one of them, Breck. Probably more than I ever will be, although I’m honored to call the Apsáalooke people my friends.”

  “You make a mighty powerful argument,” Breckinridge admitted. “The only part I really don’t like is you headin’ back downriver by yourself.”

  “I’ll be fine,” Morgan insisted. “Why don’t you talk about it with Dawn Wind and see what she thinks?”

  “I’ll do that,” Breckinridge said.

  He had a pretty good idea how she was going to react when he told her, though.

  * * *

  They were sitting together on the buffalo robes in the tipi they shared as Breckinridge explained the idea. Just as he expected, Dawn Wind threw her arms around his neck and hugged him tightly. She whispered something in the Crow tongue.

  “What was that?” Breckinridge asked.

  “I am thankful to the Great Spirit for keeping you with me, Breckinridge,” she said.

  “Now, hold on. I ain’t said that I’m goin’ along with Morgan’s idea.”

  “Why would you not? It is a good thing for every-one.”

  “Well, it seems that way . . .”

  She leaned back a little and said, “Why do you worry? Why do you always see the worst thing that can happen and not the best?”

  She had a point, he thought. When he was younger, his optimism had known no bounds. No matter what troubles came, he had always believed, deep down in his heart, that sooner or later things would work out all right.

  The events of the past couple of years, beginning with the trouble that had forced him to leave home, had tempered his outlook considerably. No longer did he believe that his strength and enthusiasm for life could carry him through any ordeal.

  But at the same time, he wasn’t cut out to be overwhelmed by doom and gloom, either. He still believed in seizing the good things in life. Dawn Wind was right. He couldn’t allow the uncertainty of the future to make him turn his back on happiness.

  “You’ve done convinced me,” he said. “Morgan will go back to St. Louis with our furs, and I’ll stay here.”

  She nodded and snuggled into the curve of his arm around her shoulders. “It is good, Breckinridge,” she said. “We will warm each other through the winter and then welcome the spring together.”

  That sounded mighty good to him, too.

  * * *

  A surprise was waiting when it came time to load the pelts into the canoes and get ready for Morgan’s journey to St. Louis. Running Elk announced that he was going along, too.

  “Are you sure you want to do that?” Morgan asked the young warrior. “St. Louis is really different from anything you’ve ever known here in the mountains.”

  The two of them were in Dawn Wind’s tipi, sharing supper with her and Breckinridge. Morgan looked at Dawn Wind and went on, “Maybe you should translate what I just said for him, so we’ll know he understands what he’s getting into.”

  Dawn Wind nodded and spoke to her brother in the Crow tongue. He nodded somewhat impatiently and said in English, “Running Elk knows.”

  “Civilization stinks a lot worse,” Breckinridge said. “It’s a heap more crowded, too, and the skeeters there along the river are mighty bad.”

  Dawn Wind translated that, too. Running Elk waved away the cautionary words. He spoke at length in his language.

  Turning to Breckinridge and Morgan, Dawn Wind told them, “He says it is time for our people to learn more about the white man’s world. More and more of them are coming here, and the more the Apsáalooke know about them, the easier it will be to live with them in peace.”

  “He’s got a point,” Breckinridge said with a shrug of his massive shoulders. “And if Runnin’ Elk goes along, you won’t have to make the trip by yourself, Morgan.”

  “I’d be fine,” Morgan replied. He was the one who sounded impatient now. “I don’t need Running Elk to come along and take care of me.”

  “I never said that. You two get along good, though. You can keep each other company. This country’s so big, it can be mighty lonely for a fella if there ain’t nobody else around.”

  “I suppose that’s true. I’m just afraid Running Elk won’t like St. Louis once we get there.”

  “He can stand it until next spring.”

  Morgan frowned in thought for a long moment, then finally nodded. He looked over at Running Elk and said, “All right, you can come along. The trip will be easier with some company, I suppose.”

  Running Elk never grinned or laughed, but good humor was visible in his eyes, belying his solemn expression as he nodded. “It will be . . . good trip,” he said.

  “We can hope so,” Morgan said.

  * * *

  Later that evening, Breckinridge was walking across the village toward Dawn Wind’s tipi when Morgan came up behind him and called his name. Breck stopped and looked back at his friend.

  “I’ve been bundlin’ up some of them pelts,” Breckinridge said. “We’ve had such good luck that we’re gonna have to work hard to fit ’em all into the canoes.”

  Morgan laughed. “I know. We certainly can’t complain about the number of beaver we’ve taken this season.”

  Breckinridge thumbed back his hat and said, “Yeah, I’ve heard old-timers say that trappin’ ain’t what it used to be, that the beaver are gonna run out, but it don’t hardly seem possible, does it? The creeks are teemin’ with ’em.”

  “Yeah.” Morgan seemed a little distracted. “Breck, I want to talk to you about something, now that we’ve got it all settled about you staying here and me going back to St. Louis with the furs.”

  “You ain’t wantin’ to, what do you call it, renegotiate our partnership, are you?”

  “What? Hell, no! We’re in this equally and always will be.”

  Breckinridge nodded. “I’m glad to hear it. What was it you wanted to palaver about, then?”

  Morgan leaned his head toward the stream and said, “Let’s go and sit down by the creek.”

  Breckinridge frowned. That sounded like something serious. He wasn’t sure he wanted to have this conversation, whatever it was. But he couldn’t turn down the request from his best friend.

  There was a big log on the creek bank, a short distance from the village, where Breckinridge liked to sit sometimes and whittle in his spare moments. He and Morgan went to it now and sat down. The moon was up, and its silvery light sparkled on the creek’s constantly moving surface. A night bird called somewhere in a tree. The air had a chill in it, but not enough to be uncomfortable.

  As Morgan took out his pipe and began packing tobacco in it, Breckinridge said, “All right, what’s all this about? I got to admit, Morgan, the way you’re actin’ has me a little spooked.”

  “Oh, there’s no reason to be worried,” Morgan said. “We have a deal, and I’ll stick to it. It’s just that, before we split up for the next six months or so, there’s something I want to know.”

  “About me? Hell, we ain’t got no secrets from each other.”

  “That’s just it, Breck. We do. I want to know what happened last fall when you went home. I want to know what happened to Dulcy.”

  Breckinridge stiffened. Involuntarily, his hands clenched into fists, although he had no desire to hit Morgan or anybody else. He had learned the hard way that a good swift punch wasn’t going to solve some pr
oblems.

  When he trusted himself to speak, he said, “That ain’t any of your business.”

  “I think it is,” Morgan insisted. “You’re my friend, Breck, and I know that whatever it was hurt you.”

  “I’ve done put it behind me.” Breckinridge waved a hand toward the village. “Hell, I’ve got friends here . . . and I’ve got Dawn Wind.”

  “And for a long time you tried to push her away because of what happened back in Tennessee. You know that’s true. How can you say you’ve put it behind you when it still hurts too much for you to talk about it?”

  Breckinridge stared off into the night and muttered, “You’re a nosy son of a gun, you know that?”

  “Yeah, I am. But I think it’s time you talked about this. Besides, if you think back on it, Dulcy was my friend, too. Not like what you and her had, of course, but I was still fond of her. I want to make sure she’s all right.”

  “She’s fine, as far as I know,” Breckinridge said. “I ain’t seen her since before I headed west again.”

  “Didn’t you take her back there to meet your family before the two of you got married?”

  “I did. We didn’t have any trouble along the way, neither.” Breckinridge sighed. Maybe Morgan was right. Maybe it was time to unburden himself, although he was damned if he was going to sit around and wallow in self-pity. He would tell the story straight and unadorned, with no fancy frills. “The trouble didn’t start until after we were back home . . .”

  Chapter 20

  Tennessee

  The Wallace family farm lay about five miles from the settlement of Knoxville. Old Ebeneezer Wallace, Breckinridge’s grandfather, had taken up the land in return for his service in the American army during the Revolutionary War.

  There he and his wife had raised a large family, and one of his sons, Robert, had taken over the running of the farm when Ebeneezer grew too old and feeble. The patriarch now lay in the family plot along with his wife, several children, and a few grandchildren taken from life too early.

  Robert and his wife, the beautiful, redheaded, former Samantha Burke, had raised five sons to manhood on this land: Edward, a scholar at heart; Thomas and Jeremiah, stolid sons of the soil; Henry, a hard worker but a bit of a hothead . . . and the youngest, born well after his parents expected no more children, Breckinridge.

  Breckinridge . . . was trouble.

  He had admitted all that freely to Dulcy, telling her everything about his rambunctious, often violent past as they journeyed from the frontier back here to Tennessee.

  There was no real point in them keeping secrets from each other. He knew perfectly well that she was a widow who had drifted into a life of prostitution after the tragic loss of her husband and young daughter to a fever.

  He had never held that against her. Nobody was perfect, after all, least of all the reckless, redheaded giant known as Breckinridge Wallace.

  Dulcy was understandably nervous, though, as she sat on the wagon seat next to Breckinridge while he guided the vehicle toward the farm.

  She was almost a decade older than him but still a very beautiful woman with rich, dark brown hair, brown eyes, and striking features. There was a small scar on her upper lip just above the right corner of her mouth, a tiny note of imperfection that gave her loveliness a touch of character.

  She pushed one of the dark wings of hair back from her face and said, “Are you sure you don’t mind keeping the truth about me from your family, Breckinridge? I don’t want you to feel like you have to lie for me.”

  “I don’t reckon I consider it lyin’ to leave out part of a story,” he told her. “Now, you know me. I don’t much give a damn what anybody thinks, especially my pa and my brothers.”

  “What about your mother?”

  “Well,” he said with a grin, “I got my red hair from her, and it’s true she can raise some hell when she takes a mind to, but I can handle her when I have to. There just ain’t any need to. You’re a widow woman I met at a rendezvous, and that’s plenty to tell ’em as far as I’m concerned.”

  “Thank you, Breck.” Dulcy looked down at the wagon’s floorboards. “I don’t want your family to think any less of you because you’re marrying a whore.”

  Breckinridge lightly slapped the reins against the backs of the mules pulling the wagon. “What you used to be ain’t the same as what you are now,” he said. “Folks can change. Hell, I ain’t quite as dumb as I used to be.”

  Dulcy slipped her arms around Breckinridge’s right arm and leaned her head against his shoulder. She said, “I don’t think you’re the least bit dumb.”

  “I probably could’ve used a mite more schoolin’. Never could hardly bear to sit inside, though, when there were so many interestin’ things goin’ on outside.” He nodded toward the large, whitewashed farmhouse they were approaching. “Anyway, here we be. These fields we been drivin’ past are all Wallace fields, and there’s the house.”

  Several dogs saw the wagon coming and charged out to meet them, barking loud and raucous greetings. Breckinridge recognized a couple of the big, shaggy brutes, but the others were new, born since the last time he’d been here. They charged around enthusiastically, spooking the normally placid mules as Breck brought the team to a halt in front of the house.

  He looped the reins around the brake lever, put a hand on the edge of the seat, and vaulted to the ground. Two of the big dogs jumped up on him and started trying to reach his face with their slobbering tongues.

  Breckinridge let out a booming laugh, wrestled with the dogs, and said, “Howdy, Sammy! Howdy, Ranger! Dang, it’s good to see you old varmints again!”

  The farmhouse’s front door opened and Breckinridge’s mother appeared on the porch. Samantha Burke Wallace was a small woman who had always seemed bigger because of her powerful personality.

  She regarded Breck with no apparent emotion and said, “I thought I heard a bear roaring out here, but I see now that it’s just you, Breckinridge.” Anyone seeing and hearing her would think that he had been gone for a matter of hours, not months.

  “Howdy, Ma!” Breckinridge bounded up onto the porch and swept her into his arms. Her feet came off the porch planks as he hugged her. “Dang, it’s good to see you again.”

  “I believe you just said the same thing to the dogs,” Samantha pointed out, a little breathlessly because of the way he was hugging her. “Now put me down, you big oaf.”

  “Yes’m.” Breckinridge lowered her to the porch. He turned, held out a hand toward the wagon, and went on, “Ma, I brought somebody with me—”

  “Yes, I can see that. Now go help her down. You can at least try to be a gentleman.”

  “Uh, yeah, sure.” Breckinridge shooed the dogs aside as he went to the wagon. He said, “I’m sorry, Dulcy, I should’ve got you down from there first.”

  “That’s all right,” she told him with a smile. “I understand that you’re happy to be home.”

  He reached up, took hold of her under the arms, and lifted her down from the seat as if she weighed almost nothing. Then he held her hand—his big paw engulfing her slender fingers—and led her up onto the porch.

  “Ma, this here is Dulcy Harris,” Breckinridge said. “Dulcy, my ma.”

  Samantha held out her hand and took the one that Dulcy tentatively offered. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Harris.”

  Dulcy smiled and said, “Actually, it’s, uh, Mrs. Harris.” She added quickly, “I’m a widow.”

  “Oh. Well, I’m sorry for your loss. What brings you to our part of Tennessee?”

  Breckinridge said, “I brung her, Ma. Me and Dulcy are gonna be married.”

  “Is that so?” Samantha didn’t look particularly surprised. “Come on in the house, the both of you. Breckinridge, your father and brothers are bound to have heard the commotion, and they’ll be on their way in from the fields to see what it’s about. Mrs. Harris, can I get you some tea?”

  “That would be lovely,” Dulcy said.

  Samantha took
Dulcy’s arm and ushered her on into the kitchen, leaving Breckinridge to follow them.

  By the time they got there, the back door was opening. Breck’s oldest brother, Edward, came into the house and stopped short at the sight of him.

  “Breck!” Edward said. He hurried across the room, threw his arms around Breckinridge, and started pounding him on the back. Breck returned the enthusiastic greeting.

  He hadn’t seen Edward in more than a year, even though he had returned to Tennessee for a visit during that time. As it happened, Edward had been gone from home at that time, coincidentally enough having gone west to look for Breckinridge and inform him that he was no longer wanted for murder. Now Breck was very glad to see that Edward had made it home safely after that trip.

  The two of them barely looked like brothers. Edward was slim and studious and had inherited their father’s dark hair and saturnine features. He gripped Breckinridge’s arms, looked him over, and said, “You haven’t shrunk any while you were gone, that’s for sure. I think you’re even bigger than you were when you left, if that’s possible.”

  “Fresh air and healthy livin’ done it,” Breckinridge said.

  Edward turned to Dulcy. “And who’s this?”

  “Your brother’s betrothed,” Samantha said.

  Edward’s eyebrows rose. “Really? You’re getting married?”

  “That’s right,” Breckinridge said. “This here’s Dulcy Harris. We’re gettin’ hitched, all right.”

  Edward started to shake Dulcy’s hand, then suddenly hugged her instead.

  “I hope that’s all right, since you’re going to be part of the family,” he said.

  “Of course it is,” she told him. “I’m glad to meet you, Edward. Breck’s told me so much about you.” She glanced at Samantha. “About all of you. I . . . I’m so happy to be here.”

  Breckinridge thought for a second that Dulcy was going to start crying, but she managed to put a smile on her face instead. Then a commotion broke out as Breck’s other three brothers came in and there was a new round of introductions, handshaking, and hugging. Thomas, Jeremiah, and Henry were all pleased to meet Dulcy—and a little surprised to hear the news that she and Breck were getting married.