Damnation Valley

by William W. Johnstone

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Wallace, I’m not offended. My sensibilities aren’t that delicate. I’m not going to lose any sleep over shooting that man. He would have killed us without hesitation, if he’d had the chance.”

  “Damn right he would have. Beggin’ your pardon for the language.”

  Breckinridge had been keeping an eye out through the loophole while he was talking to Desdemona, and now he saw one of the Blackfeet dart out into the open. The warrior had an arrow nocked in his bow, and the end of it burned brightly. The man ran a good twenty feet while rifle balls kicked up dirt around him, then he stopped short, hauled back the bowstring, and let fly with the burning arrow. A second later, he staggered as two shots slammed into his chest.

  The trading post’s defenders had gotten in range, but not in time to prevent the blazing arrow from being launched.

  The firebrand arched through the air, and there was nothing anybody could do to stop it. The head struck one of the upright logs and embedded itself. Breckinridge couldn’t tell exactly where the arrow had hit, but he heard it land and saw smoke spiraling up on the other side of the wall.

  “Somebody’s got to put out the fire!” he told Desdemona. “Run and get me a blanket!”

  “We can’t open the gates!” she said. “They’ll rush us and get through!”

  “Won’t have to open the gates. Just get the blanket!”

  She still looked dubious, but she turned and ran toward the trading post.

  Breckinridge leaned his rifle against the wall and tipped his head back to study it. The wall was approximately eight feet tall, and the end of each log forming it had been hewn down with axes until it came to a sharp point.

  Morgan had seen the exchange between Breckinridge and Desdemona. He limped over and said, “I’ve seen that look before. What are you up to, Breck?”

  “That fire’s gonna burn the wall down if we don’t do somethin’ about it. I reckon I’m the one to take care of it.”

  Absalom Garwood joined them while Breckinridge was answering Morgan’s question. The trading post’s proprietor wasn’t nattily dressed this morning. In fact, he still wore his nightshirt stuffed down into a pair of trousers. Like the others, he held a rifle.

  “You can’t go outside the wall,” Garwood exclaimed. “Those savages will shoot you!”

  “Their arrows won’t reach quite that far. To get the one that was on fire all the way to the wall, that fella had to run closer. Just bad luck for us he made it far enough before somebody shot him. But all you fellas have to do is keep up a steady fire so the Blackfeet can’t come out of the trees, and I’ll be fine.”

  “I’ve seen some powder smoke down there, Breck,” Morgan said. “They have rifles, too!”

  “Not many, and they ain’t any good with ’em. I’ll take my chances.” Breckinridge shrugged. “Not much choice in the matter.”

  Desdemona, clutching a woolen blanket, ran up to them. “Here,” she said as she handed it to Breckinridge. “Now what are you going to do?”

  “Climb over that wall,” he said. He draped the blanket around his neck and shoulders. “Pour some lead into those trees!”

  “You are a crazy man,” Morgan said, but a reckless grin lit up his face. He took his place at one of the loopholes, as did Desdemona and her father. “Keep firing!” Morgan called to the other defenders. “Space your shots! Keep up the pressure!”

  Breckinridge bent his knees a little, then sprang upward and grabbed the top of a log with both hands. He had climbed plenty of trees when he was a boy, and this wasn’t much different. It helped that he was incredibly strong, but at the same time, his great size meant his muscles had to support and lift more weight.

  He grunted with the effort as he hauled himself up. With his boot soles planted against the rough logs, he was bent almost double. When he had pulled himself high enough, he braced himself and threw a leg over, wedging it between two of the sharpened tops. Angry howls went up from the Blackfeet in the trees as he lifted himself into view.

  From where he was, it wasn’t too difficult to lever himself the rest of the way over the wall and drop to the ground. He landed with surprising gracefulness for a man his size. The burning arrow was stuck in the wall about twenty feet to his left. The fire had spread to a couple of the logs, but it wasn’t burning too strongly yet.

  Breckinridge heard more arrows humming through the air as he ran toward the blaze, bending low so he would be out of the line of fire from any of the loopholes. The arrows thudded into the ground as they reached the end of their flight, but he didn’t look to see how close they were coming to him. Instead he yanked the blanket from around his neck and began beating at the flames with it.

  The rifles continued to fire inside the wall. Breckinridge saw splinters leap from a log to his right and knew that shot had come from outside, which meant one of the Blackfeet had fired it. A grim smile tugged at his mouth. He hoped none of those varmints had been practicing too much lately. That was why most Indians were terrible shots. They didn’t have enough powder and ammunition to practice with the weapons they had taken from the white men they’d killed.

  The blanket was getting charred, but he was making progress putting out the fire. Another shot from the trees smacked into a log to his left. They were bracketing him, and if they kept it up, one of them might actually get lucky enough to hit him. He needed to get this fire put out so he could scramble back into the stockade.

  Just as Breckinridge was beating out the last of the flames, Morgan shouted from inside, “Breck, here comes another one!”

  Breckinridge’s head came around on a swivel. He saw another flaming arrow headed toward the wall with only a slight flutter in its flight. His keen eye judged its path, and he sprinted to intercept it.

  The warrior who had fired the arrow was already down, spasming in his death throes. Breckinridge saw that from the corner of his eye as he raced along in front of the wall. He timed his leap and reached out with his right hand. His fingers closed around the arrow’s shaft and plucked it out of midair. He flung it away from him, and it landed in the dirt, where the flames quickly guttered out.

  He threw on the brakes as Morgan shouted, “Back the other way!”

  Blast it, Breckinridge thought as he wheeled around and spotted a third flaming arrow headed for the wall, couldn’t anybody shoot one of those Blackfeet before the ornery son of a gun had a chance to use his bow?

  At least Morgan had the sense to yell, “Hold your fire! Hold your fire!” at the other defenders, so Breckinridge didn’t have to worry about getting his head accidentally shot off through one of the loopholes.

  He couldn’t reach the third arrow in time to keep it from striking the wall, but he arrived a heartbeat later and yanked it loose. The fire hadn’t had time to catch. He tossed the arrow down, stomped it out, and wondered if he needed to stay outside the wall to catch the next one.

  It didn’t seem that there was going to be a next one. Inside, Absalom Garwood shouted, “They’re leaving! They’re on the run!”

  Breckinridge leaned over, put his hands on his knees, and caught his breath while he lifted his head and peered toward the river. Sure enough, half a dozen warriors had piled into canoes and were paddling away, heading back upstream. The defenders fired after them to hurry them on their way. Breck saw a few splashes as rifle balls plunked into the Yellowstone, but the shots didn’t appear to do any damage. The Blackfeet soon disappeared around a bend.

  “Breck, should we open the gates?” Morgan called.

  “Hold on a spell,” Breckinridge replied. “Let’s make sure they ain’t tryin’ some sort of trick.”

  He didn’t believe that was the case. He didn’t know how large the war party had been to start with, but with the four men he and Morgan had killed yesterday and all the warriors who had been shot down today, their numbers had to be seriously depleted.

  Nobody was more stubborn about seeking revenge than Indians, but they were practical rascals, too. When the p
rice of vengeance was too high, they would cut their losses and leave. Breckinridge had a hunch that was what had just happened here.

  “At least let us open one of the gates enough for you to slip inside,” Morgan said. “We don’t want any of them sneaking up to take a potshot at you.”

  Morgan had a point, Breckinridge thought. He said, “All right, I’m comin’ in.”

  Morgan, Garwood, and Desdemona were waiting for him just inside when he slipped through a narrow gap between the gates. The men who had opened them quickly shoved them closed again.

  “You could have been killed out there!” Desdemona said.

  “We all could’ve been killed if they’d managed to burn that wall down,” Breckinridge said. “Although from what I could tell, it would’ve been a pretty fair fight. We might have run ’em off anyway, but more fellas would’ve been killed.”

  “Did we lose anyone?” Garwood asked.

  “Edward was killed,” Desdemona told him. “He was down at the river fetching water. Mr. Wallace and I were with him when an arrow struck him.” She glanced at Breckinridge. “I wouldn’t have made it back here if it hadn’t been for Mr. Wallace.”

  “Good Lord,” Garwood muttered. “I didn’t know that the situation had been so desperate.” He put an arm around Desdemona’s shoulders and hugged her, then said, “Why don’t you go on inside and reassure your sisters that everything is all right? I imagine they’re quite worried.”

  Desdemona nodded and headed for the building.

  Garwood turned to Breckinridge and went on, “My deepest thanks, Mr. Wallace, not only for helping to save all of us, but especially for what you did for my daughter.”

  Breckinridge shook his head. “We were both runnin’ hell-for-leather, sir, and fightin’ Blackfeet along the way. I reckon she saved me just as much as I saved her.”

  “You’re too modest. Just know that you have my sincere appreciation.” Garwood looked around at the others. “All of you men do.”

  “I wish I’d been able to do somethin’ for Blue Feather . . . Edward, you called him. But them Blackfeet were able to sneak up without me knowin’ they were around. Nobody’s better at that than them. I’ve had run-ins with ’em before.”

  “How will we know that it’s safe, that they’ll leave us alone?”

  “You won’t,” Breckinridge said. “Now that they know the tradin’ post is here, there’ll always be a chance they’ll come raidin’ back this way. You’d do well to keep the gates closed and men posted on guard all the time.”

  Garwood frowned. “That sounds very dangerous.”

  “Yep,” Breckinridge agreed. “It sort of goes with the territory.”

  Chapter 7

  At midday, everyone from the trading post gathered in a meadow surrounded by trees several hundred yards from the stockade. A couple of the Mandan men who had come upriver with Absalom Garwood had spent the morning building a scaffold where the body of Edward Blue Feather, as Breckinridge figured he ought to be called, would be laid. Several members of Breck’s party had dragged off the bodies of the slain warriors. Eight Blackfeet had been killed in the fight.

  The trappers were all armed and alert as Blue Feather’s body, dressed in his finest buckskins, was brought from the trading post and placed carefully on the scaffold with his head pointing toward the northwest and his feet to the southeast. Breckinridge didn’t know much about the Mandans, but it was easy to see this was their sacred ritual when someone died.

  One of the other men, who spoke English as well as Blue Feather had, spoke after the body was in place. “It is the custom of our people for the family of the one who has gone on to gather here at his resting place and mourn his passing for four sunrises and sunsets. Blue Feather had no family. All of them were taken by the great sickness that almost wiped out our people many moons ago. So those of us who were his friends will mourn for him instead.”

  “And we will say prayers for his immortal soul, as is the way of our people,” Absalom Garwood said. “May he rest in peace.”

  With that ceremony taken care of, there was nothing to do except return to the trading post. Two of the Indians stayed behind, resting on their knees next to the scaffold that held Blue Feather’s body. Breckinridge figured they would take turns mourning, and he respected that, but here outside the stockade wall, with the possibility of murderous Blackfeet still lurking in the area, they weren’t exactly safe.

  He drew Charlie Moss aside and said quietly, “I think the boys should take turns standin’ guard out here. They can post themselves over yonder under that tree, so they won’t intrude on the grievin’, but that’s close enough to keep an eye on things and make sure nobody sneaks up on these poor folks.”

  Moss nodded. “That’s a good idea, Breck. I’ll take the first watch myself and tell Richmond to come spell me after a while.”

  Breckinridge clapped a hand on his shoulder and said, “Thanks. I’ll take a turn myself, whenever I need to.”

  With that taken care of, he paused for a moment to look up at Edward Blue Feather’s body on the scaffold. He had known the man for only a few minutes, had only the one brief conversation with him, but he felt the loss anyway. Blue Feather had left a tragic past behind him and come west with the hope of finding something better, only to wind up in a cursed valley, meeting a brutal, unexpected death.

  Maybe most men carried the seeds of their own damnation within them, Breckinridge thought. He would have liked to believe that wasn’t the case, but since setting out on his own, he had seen evidence of it again and again. The only thing a fella could do was keep battling to change that inexorable fate. He would be doomed to failure, more than likely, but the struggle itself was worth something.

  He pushed those gloomy thoughts away and turned to follow the others back to the trading post. Morgan was waiting for him and fell in alongside him.

  “I heard what you told Charlie about standing guard,” Morgan said. “Do you plan on us staying here for the next four days, until they get through mourning that man? I thought we’d start looking for Carnahan again.”

  “Carnahan’s been on the loose for a good while already. A few more days ain’t gonna make any difference. We’ll find him, no matter how long it takes.”

  Morgan nodded. “All right. Honestly, I won’t mind spending some time here. After everything that’s happened, I don’t have quite the stamina that I used to. And I’m certainly not going to complain about the company.” He smiled. “Eugenia is quite lovely and intelligent, and Ophelia has a considerable amount of, ah, earthy charm.”

  “What about Desdemona?” Breckinridge asked.

  “She’s a bit on the prickly side, I’d say, and I’m not fond of the way she dresses like a man. But she’s not without appeal.” Morgan looked over at Breckinridge. “I’d say she only has eyes for you, though, and takes little interest in me.”

  “What in blazes are you talkin’ about? She hasn’t done much more than argue and snap at me.”

  “And that doesn’t mean a blasted thing and you know it,” Morgan said.

  Breckinridge shook his head. “I’m not lookin’ to get mixed up with any gal for a while. My luck in that area ain’t been too good in the past, you may recall.”

  “Maybe not, but you don’t strike me as the sort who gives up easily. You never have.”

  He had just been thinking that there was some honor merely in the struggle to achieve something worthwhile from life, Breckinridge reminded himself. Could be that applied to courting the ladies as well. But not yet. He had more important things to take care of first.

  Like settling the score with Jud Carnahan.

  * * *

  A couple of days passed without any trouble, leading Breckinridge to believe that the surviving Blackfeet probably had left this part of the country, heading back north to their usual hunting and raiding grounds. He didn’t think they should let down their guard, however. Just because one danger had passed didn’t mean another couldn’t show up at any time
.

  Of course, some problems were homegrown. Ophelia couldn’t seem to stop herself from flirting with the men, which led to a number of arguments and a few shoving matches and fistfights, although these happened outdoors and didn’t involve the whole group, as the first brawl had. Ophelia clearly enjoyed the attention, although both of her sisters just shook their heads and looked on with disdain.

  Absalom Garwood seemed to have mixed emotions about the whole thing. Once Breckinridge, Morgan, and the other men moved on, things would settle down around the trading post, but for the time being, they were spending some of that money he had paid them for the furs, as well as their presence making it safer if any hostile Indians came along.

  Three days after the battle with the Blackfeet, Breckinridge and Morgan were sitting in the trading post with Garwood when George Donnelly hurried into the building and announced, “Canoes on the river.”

  Garwood sat up straight. “Indians?”

  Donnelly shook his head and said, “They’re still a ways off, but they look like white men.”

  Breckinridge, Morgan, and Garwood got to their feet and started toward the door. Eugenia, who was sitting at a nearby table entering figures in a ledger, and Ophelia, who was behind the bar, raised their heads and looked like they were about to join the men.

  Garwood lifted a hand and waved his daughters back, even though they hadn’t actually moved from their places yet.

  “You girls stay here,” he told them. “At least until we find out what’s going on.”

  “But George said they were white men,” Ophelia protested. “Surely they don’t mean any trouble.”

  Breckinridge said, “I’ve seen white men cause a whole heap more trouble than Indians, Miss Ophelia. There’s more of us than there is of them, I reckon, so it stands to reason there’d be more varmints amongst us, too.”

  The three of them went outside with Donnelly. Breckinridge went to one of the loopholes in the stockade wall and peered through it toward the river. He saw the canoes approaching the bank. It was a large party, six canoes that Breck could see, with at least two men in each one. Some of the canoes held three men.