Damnation Valley

by William W. Johnstone

  That grim announcement brought a moment of silence from the other men. Then Charlie Moss, from his post behind a tree where he was aiming his rifle at the trading post, said, “You mean the varmint we set out to find?”

  “That’s right,” Breckinridge said.

  “So Carnahan came to us,” Morgan said. “When Cabe ran into that bunch, why didn’t he recognize Carnahan? We told everybody what he looked like.”

  “Could be Carnahan stayed out of sight so the others could find out who Cabe was,” Breckinridge said. “He’s pretty smart, you remember. Then, when he found out we were here at the tradin’ post, he hatched the scheme with Joslyn to take us by surprise and wipe us out. It didn’t quite work the way he’d planned, though. Joslyn may be dead—”

  “He’s dead, all right,” Desdemona put in. “Now I’ve had a chance to think about it, he couldn’t be anything else. I shot him right in the face with my pistol.”

  “Well, we can sure hope he is,” Breckinridge said. “That’d be one less polecat we have to worry about.”

  “But there are still plenty of others,” Morgan said.

  Desdemona turned to him and asked in a voice taut with worry, “Did you see what happened to my father and sisters?”

  “I’m afraid I didn’t,” Morgan said. He sounded truly sorry. “There was so much confusion, so much powder smoke in the air . . . But I’m sure they all took cover when the shooting started. They should be fine.”

  “If you consider being the hostages of a madman fine,” she said.

  “Well, there’s that,” Morgan admitted. “But we’re not going to leave them in there, are we, Breck?”

  Breckinridge didn’t answer that question directly. Instead he said, “There were sixteen men in that bunch, countin’ Cabe after he threw in with ’em. But he’s dead now, and so is Joslyn, more’n likely.”

  “He’s dead,” Desdemona insisted.

  Breckinridge ignored her. “But Carnahan is with ’em now, so that leaves their number at eighteen. A little better than two-to-one odds against us, plus there’s that stockade and the walls of the tradin’ post itself between us and most of them. There’s no way we can attack ’em head-on and do anything other than get ourselves killed.”

  “So what are we going to do?” Desdemona demanded.

  “For now, try to wait ’em out and see if we can come up with some way to turn the tables on them.”

  After a few seconds of silence, Morgan said, “You mean we’re going to lay siege to the place?”

  “Reckon you could call it that.”

  “You do realize they have much greater supplies of food and ammunition than we do, don’t you?”

  Breckinridge glanced over his shoulder toward the Yellowstone River. “Miss Desdemona, how are they fixed in there for water?”

  “Water!” she exclaimed. “You’re right. There’s only one barrel, and it’s probably not full. One of the Mandans fetches water every morning. You remember, that’s what Edward was doing when the Blackfeet killed him.”

  “I ain’t likely to forget,” Breckinridge said. “So your pa don’t keep much of a supply inside the tradin’ post?”

  “With the river so handy, he never saw any real reason to do so.” Desdemona paused. “It probably would have been wise, wouldn’t it? This is another example of his inexperience at living on the frontier, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah,” Breckinridge said, “but this time it might come in handy for us. The water they have won’t last ’em more than a day or two, and then we’ll have the upper hand. Maybe by then we’ll have figured out how to take advantage of it.”

  * * *

  It was long after midnight, according to the stars, when shots suddenly rang out from the other side of the compound. Breckinridge left the others where they were and circled around to check on Rocklin and Richmond. As he approached the area where he had told them to position themselves, he called out softly.

  “I’m here,” Rocklin replied from a nearby clump of rocks. “Richmond’s over yonder behind that big stump.”

  “Both of you all right?” Breckinridge asked.

  “Yeah. A couple of fellas tried to come over the wall, just like you said they might. I’m pretty sure we hit one of them pretty solid, and the other dropped back down inside in a big hurry. Might have winged him, too, but I can’t say about that. The other one fell outside, though, and hasn’t moved since. I’ve got a hunch he’s done for.”

  “That dark place right by the base of the wall is him?”

  “Yeah.”

  Breckinridge drew a bead with his rifle and fired. “He might’ve been tryin’ to fool you.”

  Rocklin grunted and said, “You’re a cold-blooded varmint, aren’t you, Wallace?”

  “I didn’t use to be,” Breckinridge replied honestly. “People keep tryin’ to kill me and folks I care about, though. After a while, a man gets so he don’t want to put up with that no more.”

  That forthright statement brought a chuckle from Richmond. “I don’t reckon anybody could argue with that,” he said.

  “Keep your eyes open,” Breckinridge told the men. He backed off into the night and then returned, the long way around, to the place along the river where the others were.

  “Are those men all right back there?” Desdemona asked.

  “They are. A couple of Carnahan’s men tried to sneak out, probably figurin’ they’d sneak up on us, but Rocklin and Richmond discouraged ’em. One of them got discouraged permanent-like.”

  Breckinridge didn’t add that he had made sure of that with his rifle shot.

  “Why is Carnahan doing all this? Does he hate you that much?”

  “He’s that scared of me,” Breckinridge said. “He knows I’ve got a mighty big score to settle with him, and the only thing that’ll do it is him dyin’. At my hands if I can manage it, but one way or another, I intend to see him dead.”

  Desdemona looked at him for a long moment, then shook her head. “I don’t think I’d want you for an enemy, Breckinridge Wallace.”

  “Aw, you don’t never have to worry about that. Pretty little thing like you, you could never do anything that’d make an enemy out of me.”

  She didn’t say anything at first, then after a second laughed quietly.

  “I might be offended by that,” she said, “if I didn’t know you meant well.”

  “Why, of course I did. I never would’ve—”

  “Never mind. What do we do now?”

  “Wait,” Breckinridge said grimly.

  * * *

  Nothing else happened that night. The trading post remained dark and quiet. As dawn approached, Breckinridge took George Donnelly with him, and they circled out of sight of the compound to come in from the back and relieve Rocklin and Richmond, who were sent back to the river for water and rest.

  “Desdemona’s gonna go across the river and do some huntin’, so we all ought to have some fresh meat fore the day’s over,” he told them.

  “How about some coffee?” Richmond asked.

  Breckinridge grinned wryly and shook his head. “Can’t help you there. We’ll just have to do without.”

  “One more good reason to kill all of ’em,” Richmond grumbled. He and Rocklin slipped away and cat-footed off into the lingering darkness before the approaching sun dispelled it.

  As the eastern sky lightened, Donnelly commented from behind the rocks where he had taken cover, “Even though I tangled with Cabe and he stomped off and abandoned us, I was sorry to hear they killed him.”

  “Yeah, me, too,” Breckinridge agreed. “He wasn’t a bad sort, overall. Chances are, he would’ve cooled off and come back sooner or later, if he hadn’t run into Carnahan’s bunch. Too bad he didn’t know that was the sort of snake pit he’d stepped into.”

  “I overheard some of the Injuns talkin’ among themselves. Some of it was that gibberish they spout in their own language, but some of it was English. And I could’ve sworn I heard ’em say something about this valley b
ein’ cursed. Something about it being called Damnation Valley. You know anything about that, Wallace?”

  “I heard the same thing from one of them.” Just moments before the Blackfeet killed him, Breckinridge added to himself. “And I’m startin’ to think that maybe there’s good reason for it.”

  Chapter 11

  Inside the trading post

  Absalom Garwood sat on the floor behind the bar with Ophelia beside him on the right and Eugenia on the left. One of Carnahan’s men leaned on the bar, ordered to keep an eye on them but using that as an excuse to leer blatantly at the two young women. Anger burned inside Garwood, but right now there was nothing he could do.

  Nothing except pray that Desdemona was unharmed, too, and that sooner or later all four of them would be together again.

  The nine Mandan Indians who worked for Garwood had been herded into the barn earlier and were prisoners there now, watched over by two guards.

  Also earlier, Carnahan had sent two men to climb the wall in the back of the compound so they could circle around and take Wallace and the others by surprise. That move had backfired, because one of them came in later, clutching a bloody arm, and informed Carnahan that the other man had been shot and apparently killed.

  Garwood should have taken some satisfaction from that news, but as long as his daughters were in deadly danger—not to mention himself—he couldn’t really think about anything else.

  Carnahan had cursed bitterly while the wounded man was having his arm taken care of. The burly, bearded Carnahan came over to the bar, glared at Garwood and his daughters, and said, “You may think Wallace has outwitted me and it’s only a matter of time until he rescues you, but I promise you, that’s not the case. How much did he tell you about me?”

  “Enough to know that he has good reason to hate you,” Garwood had replied. “And even though I don’t know the young man well, I could tell he’s not the sort to give up.”

  “You’d better hope you’re wrong about that, mister, if you want to survive. If you want your girls to survive.”

  Garwood thought a shrewd look appeared on the man’s face then, although it was difficult to tell with that bushy beard.

  “I’ll make a deal with you,” Carnahan went on. “Convince Wallace to surrender, along with his friend Baxter, and I’ll let you and your daughters go. Hell, I’ll let all the others go. I just want those two.”

  “Let me think about it,” Garwood had hedged.

  “Fine. Just don’t think about it for too long. I’m already having a hard enough time keeping my men from having some sport with these two.” Carnahan nodded toward Ophelia and Eugenia. “They’ll have to content themselves with those redskin squaws out in the barn for the time being, but it won’t be long before they’re tired of waiting for a turn with your daughters. You just mull that over, Garwood.”

  The trading post owner had thought about Carnahan’s threat. He could barely think of anything else, in fact.

  But at the same time, Garwood knew how likely it was that Carnahan was lying. Carnahan would do or say anything to get what he most desired: Breckinridge Wallace’s death.

  And once Carnahan had that, he would have no reason to keep any of them alive. Ophelia, Eugenia, and some of the Mandan women might survive longer, so that the men could have their cruel sport with them, but in the end they would die, too. Garwood was sure of it.

  Because of that, he would never cooperate with Carnahan. He might pretend to, but all the while, he would be looking for a way out of this mess.

  Some of the men made pallets from blankets taken from Garwood’s trade stock, stretched out on the floor, and soon began snoring. They took turns sleeping, however, and as long as some of them were awake, Garwood, Ophelia, and Eugenia had no chance to try to sneak out.

  Besides, more guards were posted outside, at the loopholes along the wall, so getting out of the building wouldn’t have done the three of them a bit of good. They were trapped, and so far Garwood saw no way out.

  Fear could only fight off exhaustion for so long. Without even realizing when it happened, Absalom Garwood drifted off to sleep.

  He came awake sometime later to the sound of heavy footsteps on the floor near him. He was trying to shake off the grogginess when Ophelia cried out beside him. That made his eyes fly open. He started to surge up from the rough floorboards when someone kicked him in the chest and knocked him back down. Garwood gasped for breath and looked around.

  Carnahan stood in front of him, probably the one who had kicked him. One of the other men had dragged Ophelia to her feet and stood there holding her from behind, with one arm around her waist and the other nudging indecently against her bosom.

  “Take it easy,” Carnahan told Garwood. “Nobody’s dying . . . yet. But you’re coming with me.”

  “Eugenia—” Garwood began.

  “That the little mouse’s name? Don’t worry, my men will watch her and make sure nothing happens to her.” Carnahan followed that statement with a blatantly crude laugh. “Come on, Papa.”

  Garwood climbed awkwardly to his feet. He looked at Eugenia, who was peering up at him with big, terrified eyes in her pale face. She actually did look a little like a mouse, he realized.

  “It’ll be all right,” he told her. He thought they all knew that was probably a lie.

  The man holding Ophelia started toward the door with her. Carnahan gave Garwood a shove in that direction. As they all went outside, Garwood saw that the sun was up. The early-morning glare made him wince.

  Carnahan kept prodding Garwood toward the gates. Ophelia struggled against her captor’s grip, but she was no match for the man’s strength. When they reached the gates, Garwood saw that the bar had been removed from its brackets. A man stood by each gate.

  “Open ’em up,” Carnahan said.

  The men swung the gates back, not all the way but made enough of an opening that one person could step through it. Carnahan nodded to the man holding Ophelia. He forced her into the gap between the doors but didn’t go any farther. None of the men in the trees along the river could shoot at him without hitting her.

  Carnahan pulled a pistol and pointed it at Garwood’s head. “Don’t even think about trying anything funny,” he warned. “The two best hostages I’ve got are those two girls. I don’t have to keep you alive.”

  Garwood knew that. He swallowed hard and nodded. Carnahan still held the upper hand. He shoved the pistol back behind his belt, cupped his hands around his mouth, and shouted, “Wallace! Baxter! You hear me?”

  A moment went by with no response.

  “I know you can see that girl!” Carnahan went on. “You’d better talk to me if you don’t want something bad to happen to her!”

  Ophelia began to cry. The men in the trees probably couldn’t hear her from where they were, but they might be able to see the sobs that shuddered through her.

  “We hear you, Carnahan! What do you want?”

  That was Morgan Baxter, Garwood thought. He would have expected Breckinridge Wallace to respond. What did that mean? Maybe Wallace had been killed in the fighting the night before?

  “You know good and well what I want!” Carnahan bellowed. “You and Wallace give yourselves up, Baxter! You do that and I’ll let the girl and her sister go! I’ll let all the hostages go!”

  “We don’t believe you! Let Ophelia go now, and maybe we’ll talk some more! But you’re going to have to release Eugenia, too, before you get what you want!”

  Carnahan let out a bray of laughter. “What kind of idiot do you take me for? Those two girls are staying right here until I have you and Wallace where I want you. Where is Wallace? Why isn’t he answering?”

  So the same thought had occurred to Carnahan. If Wallace was dead, would that make any difference? From everything Garwood had heard, Carnahan ought to be carrying a bigger grudge against Breckinridge Wallace than Morgan Baxter. Baxter hadn’t even been around when Wallace had destroyed Carnahan’s previous gang of murderers and fur thieves.<
br />
  “Breck’s right here with me,” Morgan called after a moment. “He just doesn’t have any time to waste on you!”

  That sounded blatantly false even to Garwood’s ears. Carnahan didn’t believe it, either, because he shouted, “You’re not fooling me, Baxter! Is Wallace dead? Show me his body if he is!”

  No response came from the trees. Carnahan waited a moment longer, then cursed and told the man holding Ophelia, “All right, get her back in here.”

  The man backed up, dragging the crying Ophelia with him. The man at the gates started to shove them closed, but Carnahan stopped them with a curt shake of his head.

  “Leave them open like that and stay out of the way,” he ordered.

  As soon as Ophelia and the man holding her were clear, Carnahan moved behind Garwood and prodded him forward with the pistol muzzle at the back of his head. Garwood, his heart hammering, had no choice but to obey.

  “Stand there,” Carnahan snapped as Garwood moved into the gap between the gates. “That’s far enough. Raise your hands.”

  Garwood swallowed and lifted his hands to shoulder height.

  “You see him?” Carnahan shouted. “This is the fella who owns the place. You ought to know him pretty well by now, Baxter!”

  “We know him,” Morgan replied. “I’m sorry, Mr. Garwood.”

  “Your apologies don’t mean a thing to him right now,” Carnahan said. “The only thing you can do to save his life is surrender, you and Wallace both, if he’s still alive! If he’s not, I’m gonna have to see his body before I spare any of these people!”

  “You’re not going to spare anybody! You’re a killer and we all know it, Carnahan! But justice is coming for you!”

  “Justice!” Carnahan jeered. “There’s no such thing! Only two things truly exist in this world! Power and fear! I’ve got the power, Baxter, and you’d damned well better fear it! You’d damned well better know that I mean what I say! And there’s only one way to make you believe it!”

  Those words turned Absalom Garwood’s insides to ice. He suddenly knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that his time had run out. All that was left for him to do was pray that some miracle would save the lives of his daughters—