Damnation Valley

by William W. Johnstone

  “You may be right about that. But I still think it would be better to take that pile of furs you have and sell them to Garwood.”

  Breckinridge couldn’t argue with his friend’s logic. They had struck a deal with the six men who were going to accompany them, promising partial payment once the pelts were sold and the rest of the money when Carnahan had been brought to justice.

  They had loaded the pelts in three canoes, the supplies they would be taking with them into another that would be paddled by Breckinridge and Morgan, and then the whole party had set off, paddling down the creek on which the Crow village was located until it merged with the Yellowstone. They had been traveling downstream for a couple of days on the river, making good progress since they didn’t have to fight the current.

  They paddled several more miles downriver from the site of the battle with the Blackfoot warriors before making camp. The flames of a campfire were dancing merrily in the clearing where the men had spread their bedrolls when a voice hailed them from the river about fifty yards away.

  “Hello, the camp! All right to come on in?”

  Breckinridge had leaned his long-barreled flintlock rifle against a log. He picked it up as he came to his feet. His thumb rested on the rifle’s hammer.

  Morgan and the other men were instantly alert, too. They weren’t expecting trouble, but out here a man always had to be prepared for it.

  Breckinridge said, “You boys stay here. I’ll go talk to those fellas.”

  “I’ll come with you,” Charlie Moss said. “If they’re lookin’ to start a fight, you’ll need somebody sidin’ you.”

  That wasn’t necessarily true—Breckinridge had waded into plenty of ruckuses where he was outnumbered and still emerged triumphant—but he didn’t see any reason to hurt Moss’s feelings by saying so. He just nodded his agreement and let his long legs carry him toward the river. Moss had to hurry to keep up.

  When they reached the bank, in the fading light Breckinridge saw two canoes floating a short distance offshore. There was only one man in each canoe. With four-to-one odds against them, they didn’t constitute any sort of threat, Breck supposed. He called, “Howdy, fellas. You by yourselves?”

  “Just the two of us,” one of the men answered. “Name’s Roy Deming. This is my partner Fred Kane.”

  “Howdy,” Kane said. “We saw your fire and thought you might be willing to have some company for the night. We can share some coffee.”

  “Come on in,” Breckinridge told them. He still had his rifle cradled in his left arm in case of trouble, but he used his right hand to wave the men toward shore.

  Deming and Kane dragged their canoes up onto the bank. Kane got a bag of coffee out of their supplies and carried it with him as he and Deming walked toward the fire with Breckinridge and Moss. As they entered the circle of yellow light cast by the flames, Breck studied the two newcomers.

  Deming was tall and thin, with a shock of dark hair under a pushed-back hat. Kane was shorter and stockier without being fat. His brown hair fell to his shoulders, and he had a rather bushy beard to match. Both men wore new-looking buckskins.

  “First time trapping out here?” Breckinridge asked.

  Deming laughed. “Do we look that much like greenhorns?”

  “Don’t worry about it. Spendin’ time in the mountains seasons a man pretty quick-like.”

  Moss added, “At least you knew to call out when you came close to our camp. Taking a fella by surprise is a good way to get yourself shot.”

  “That’s just common sense, isn’t it?” Kane asked.

  “Yeah, but sometimes that’s in short supply, even out here,” Breckinridge told him.

  They reached the fire, and the two men introduced themselves to Morgan and the others in Breckinridge’s party. Kane said, “I see you’ve already got a pot of coffee going, so we can use this I brought in the morning.”

  “Help yourselves to some salt pork and beans,” Richmond offered. He’d been in charge of rustling up tonight’s supper.

  As they were eating, Deming asked, “Any trouble with the Indians hereabouts?”

  “We were told that the Crow usually get along pretty well with white men,” Kane added.

  Breckinridge nodded and said, “That’s true. All the tribes in these parts will generally leave you alone if you leave them alone. Except the Blackfeet.”

  The two newcomers exchanged a worried glance. Deming said, “I didn’t know this is Blackfoot country.”

  “They figure anywhere they happen to be is Blackfoot country, and they’re mighty touchy about it, too.” Breckinridge paused. “We ran into a few of’em earlier today.”

  “What happened?” Kane asked, his eyes wide.

  “You don’t have to worry about those particular Indians,” Morgan said drily. “They won’t bother you.”

  Kane and Deming looked at each other again, and Deming said, “Oh.”

  “But they could have friends,” Breckinridge said, “so keep your eyes open. If you see any Indians, you’d do well to steer clear of’em, just on general principles.”

  “We’ll remember that,” said Kane.

  Deming frowned and added, “Mr. Garwood didn’t say anything about there being Blackfeet around here.”

  “Could be he doesn’t know about it,” Breckinridge said. “You stopped at Garwood’s trading post?”

  “We sure did,” Kane said. An enthusiastic note had entered his voice. “I’m looking forward to going back there, too.”

  “Why’s that?” Morgan asked.

  “Why, the girls, of course.”

  Breckinridge, Morgan, and all the other men gathered around the fire sat forward a little.

  “Girls?” Morgan repeated.

  “Garwood’s daughters,” Deming said. “What was it he called them, Fred?”

  “His young ’uns,” Kane replied. “Or do you mean their names? Let me see if I can remember . . . Desdemona, Ophelia, and . . . Eugenia, that’s it. Isn’t that right?”

  Deming nodded and said, “Yeah, I think it is.”

  Charlie Moss looked at Morgan and said, “I don’t remember seein’ any girls around that place when we stopped there a while back.”

  “Yeah, but we didn’t go inside,” Morgan pointed out. “Garwood mentioned his children, but I just assumed they were boys—”

  Kane laughed and said, “If you’d ever laid eyes on those three, Mr. Baxter, you wouldn’t ever take them for boys!”

  “I think he likes to sort of keep them hidden away,” Deming said. “Can’t really blame him, them being probably the only white women in a hundred miles or more, and mighty nice to look at, to boot. I reckon he doesn’t want a bunch of scruffy fur trappers getting ideas in their heads . . . no offense meant.”

  “Especially since we’re scruffy fur trappers, too,” Kane added with a laugh. He nodded toward the river. “I saw the bundles of pelts in your canoes. You boys have been really lucky so far this season, if you’ve taken that many furs.”

  “Yeah, we have,” Breckinridge said. He didn’t want to have to explain the circumstances, so he didn’t mention that many of those pelts had been taken the previous summer and fall by other trappers whose identities were unknown to him.

  The thought put a frown on his face. He hadn’t really considered it before, because all he really cared about was finding Jud Carnahan and settling the score with him, but what he was doing wasn’t really honest. Those furs weren’t his, by rights, and yet he was going to sell them and use the money. That wasn’t as bad as what Carnahan and his gang had done—they had murdered as well as robbed their victims—but it wasn’t exactly proper, either. Despite his numerous past brushes with the law, Breckinridge considered himself an honest man.

  Maybe, once this was all over, he would try to find out the names of some of the men Carnahan had stolen from and killed. If he could track down their families, he could see to it that they got some of the money from the furs.

  That would have to wait, though.
Avenging those men, and all the others Carnahan had killed, had to come first.

  The night passed quietly, and after breakfast the next morning the two groups parted, Deming and Kane heading on upstream to try their luck at trapping while Breckinridge and his companions paddled on down the Yellowstone toward the trading post.

  Around midday they followed a narrow, winding valley between two high ridges until they reached a point where the valley widened out into a grassy meadow perhaps a mile wide. Set back a hundred yards on the northern bank of the stream was a large, rambling log building with a pole corral behind it and a log barn on the other side of the corral. A smaller, sturdy-looking building sat off to one side. A number of trees around the place had been cleared off, leaving stumps, and a stockade wall enclosed the compound. The double gates in the wall were open, so Breckinridge was able to look through them and see the buildings inside.

  “Pretty impressive place,” he commented to Morgan as they beached their canoe.

  “Garwood told me he was building to last,” Morgan replied. “I think he hopes to have an actual town here one of these days . . . with himself as the biggest, richest businessman in it, of course.”

  “Of course,” Breckinridge said. He had never fully understood such vaulting ambition, since it didn’t come naturally to him, but he recognized it in other men.

  As for himself, he was content simply to live his life on his own terms, free to roam the wild, to see and do things other men had never done. The snow-capped mountains, the blue sky with an eagle soaring through it, the music of a cold, clear stream as it raced along over a rocky bed . . . those were the things that were the stuff of life for him.

  At least, he would have been content to live like that if Jud Carnahan hadn’t come along and stained the wilderness with blood that had to be avenged. Breckinridge hoped that once he had settled the score, he could go back to such an easy, uncluttered existence.

  By the time the men had pulled all four of the canoes onto the shore, a man was walking through the gates of the trading post toward them. Despite the frontier surroundings, he dressed like a successful merchant from St. Louis or even Philadelphia, in a sober black suit, a shirt with pearl fasteners, and a silk cravat. He had a salt-and-pepper beard and a shock of curly dark hair. A jeweled ring sparkled on one of his fingers.

  “Gentlemen,” he greeted them, “welcome to Fort Garwood.” He smiled as he recognized Morgan. “Ah, Mr. Baxter! So good to see you again. You said you hoped to be coming back my way soon.” He turned to Breckinridge and looked him up and down. “And this young Goliath must be the friend you sought. Wallace, isn’t it?”

  “Breck Wallace,” Breckinridge said as he stuck out his hand. “Pleased to meet you, sir.”

  They shook, Breckinridge’s big paw practically swallowing Garwood’s hand as they did so, and then, with widening eyes, Garwood looked at the cargo in the canoes.

  “My word,” he said. “Are those all beaver pelts?”

  “Mostly beaver. There are a few other animals mixed in.”

  “And you’ve come to sell them to me?”

  Morgan said, “That’s right, sir. I’m sure you’ll give us a good price.”

  “A fair price,” Garwood said. “Some of you men will have to bring them in.” He nodded to Breckinridge and Morgan. “While they’re doing that, we’ll go in and have a drink and talk business.”

  Breckinridge said, “Morgan, you can handle that part of it. I can do more good unloadin’ these pelts.”

  He grasped the rawhide straps lashed around two of the bundles, lifted and swung them out of the canoe as if they weighed hardly anything at all. None of the other men attempted to carry more than one bundle at a time.

  Breckinridge followed Morgan and Garwood toward the gates. They were just passing through the opening when, without warning, a shot blasted from the trading post and a rifle ball smacked into the gatepost right beside Breck.

  Chapter 3

  As splinters flew from the gatepost, Breckinridge acted without thinking. He dropped the bundles of furs, grabbed Morgan with his left hand, and half shoved, half threw his friend back outside the gates and to one side where the stockade wall would protect him from any more shots.

  Then Breckinridge hauled one of the pistols from behind his belt and dropped to one knee, leveling the weapon at the trading post as he searched for a target. A number of crates were stacked in front of the building, and he thought the shot had come from behind them. A haze of powder smoke floating in the air above the crates confirmed his guess.

  But before Breckinridge could find anything to aim at, Absalom Garwood jumped in front of him, waving his arms and shouting, “Wait! Hold your fire, hold your fire!”

  “Get out of the way,” Breckinridge snapped. “We don’t know how many ambushers are up there.”

  “There are no ambushers,” Garwood insisted. “Just my daughters.”

  A frown creased Breckinridge’s forehead.

  “Why in blazes would your gals be shootin’ at us?” he asked. “You’re right here with us. They ought to know we ain’t lookin’ for trouble.”

  “I don’t know why.” Garwood twisted his head around to look at the trading post. “Girls, no shooting! These are friends!”

  A slight figure in buckskins and a coonskin cap stood up from behind the crates and waved.

  “Sorry, Pa! It was an accident.” The voice was definitely female, despite the garb. “Ophelia’s rifle went off, but she didn’t mean for it to happen.”

  Garwood shook his head as he looked at Breckinridge and Morgan again.

  “I’m sorry, gentlemen. Not all of my children are equally proficient with firearms.”

  Another woman stood up, this one wearing a gray dress that clung to an unmistakably feminine figure. Blond hair fell around her heart-shaped face and on down her back. Even at this distance, Breckinridge could tell that she was very attractive.

  “I didn’t mean to,” she called. “I just can’t get the hang of this thing!”

  She lifted the rifle she held, and its barrel swung toward the gate and the men standing there.

  Morgan had caught himself against the outside of the stockade wall, then stepped into the opening again. He flinched a little and said, “Maybe she shouldn’t be pointing that thing at us.”

  “Don’t worry,” Garwood said. “She hasn’t had time to reload. She’s rather slow at it, as you might expect. And Desdemona wouldn’t have done it for her.”

  “When I was here before, you mentioned your children, Mr. Garwood, but you didn’t say anything about them being daughters.”

  “Well, look at them,” Garwood said with a wave of his hand toward the trading post. “Would you say anything, in a country full of lonely men?”

  Breckinridge could understand why the man felt that way. The other members of his party had come up to the gate, now that it was obvious they weren’t going to be shot at, and when Breck glanced over his shoulder at them, he saw that they were all staring. It had been a while since they had seen any white women, he knew, and probably even longer since they’d seen any as pretty as these two.

  Garwood inclined his head toward the building. “Come. I promise you’re safe.”

  Breckinridge put away his pistol and picked up the two bundles of furs again. “I never worried overmuch about bein’ shot by some girl,” he said as they started walking forward again.

  His naturally booming voice carried to the front of the trading post, where the young woman in buckskins—Desdemona, Garwood had called her—responded, “Maybe you should, you big ox. A rifle doesn’t care who aims it and pulls the trigger.”

  Morgan chuckled and said, “She’s got a point, Breck.”

  Breckinridge scowled. He was close enough now to see that Desdemona had red hair under the coonskin cap. It was a darker shade than his, but went well with her fair complexion that was lightly freckled across her nose.

  He couldn’t tell yet, but he was willing to bet she had green e
yes, too.

  He noticed such things only because he was an observant sort, he told himself. After everything that had happened with Dawn Wind, and before that, Dulcy Harris, had left him wary of any sort of romantic entanglements. Besides, he had just laid eyes on Desdemona Garwood and hadn’t even actually met her yet.

  A third young woman stepped out onto the trading post’s porch as the men approached. This one was as petite as Desdemona but had dark hair put up on top of her head and wore a dress like Ophelia’s. She looked over the men and the bundles of furs they carried and said, “That’s a lot of pelts, Papa. We’ll have to pay less per pelt than we would for a smaller purchase.”

  “My bookkeeper,” Garwood said with a smile. “That’s Eugenia, gentlemen, my youngest. Then Ophelia . . .”

  The blonde had laid the rifle across one of the crates. She smiled and dropped a polite curtsy.

  “And young David Crockett there is Desdemona,” Garwood concluded.

  “I saw Davy Crockett once, when I was a little ’un,” Breckinridge said. “She don’t look nothin’ like him.”

  “He’s talking about the buckskins and the coonskin cap,” Desdemona said. She hefted the rifle she held, which appeared to be almost as long as she was tall, although she handled it easily. “And Old Betsy here.”

  The self-confidence in her voice bordered on arrogance and bothered Breckinridge. He knew he had no business doing so, but he asked her in a challenging tone, “Can you actually shoot it?”

  Her eyes narrowed at him. “Look at that stockade fence.”

  Breckinridge turned and did so. “What about it?”

  “Count three posts over, to the right of the gate. You see it?”

  “Yeah.”

  Desdemona lifted the rifle to her shoulder, eared back the hammer, paused just for a second, and then squeezed the trigger. As the rifle boomed, splinters and a bigger chunk of wood flew from the very tip-top of the post in question.

  Morgan had turned to watch, too, and he let out a whistle of admiration. “That’s some shooting!” he said.