Damnation Valley

by William W. Johnstone

  His head came above the roof level. A little more and he was able to swing a leg up and hook his foot on the roof. Seconds later, he rolled quietly onto the roof and lay there with his arms and legs spread out to keep him stable.

  After a moment, he started edging upward toward the peak. The chimney was at the end of the building to his left. He angled in that direction. His progress would have seemed maddeningly slow to anyone watching him, but speed wasn’t the most important thing now. Stealth was.

  Finally, he reached the roof peak next to the chimney. Grasping the rough stone on the outside of it, he pulled himself to his feet. His balance had always been excellent, so he had no trouble standing there as he slid the bundle of moss around in front of him and began pulling loose small bits of it. He dropped them down the chimney one by one, taking his time about it so that the men down below might not notice that the fire was growing bigger and brighter.

  When he judged that it was ready, he set the moss aside and pulled his buckskin shirt up and over his head. He held it ready in one hand while he reached down and picked up the moss with the other.

  Then he dropped what was left of it down the chimney onto the flames, half smothering them and causing a great deal of smoke to erupt. Even before the moss hit, Breckinridge had his shirt stuffed into the chimney’s flue, blocking it.

  Down below in the trading post, angry shouts rose. The door crashed open.

  Grinning, Breckinridge tipped his head back and yowled like a bobcat.

  Chapter 16

  Breckinridge left his shirt where it was and ran lightly to the front edge of the roof. Men stumbled around, coughing, but some of them were already starting to figure out what had happened. One man yelled, “Up there!” and twisted around to point to the roof. He had a rifle in his hands, which he tried to lift and bring to bear.

  Breckinridge didn’t give the man a chance. He had already pulled both pistols from behind his belt. They were loaded and primed, and he thrust out the one in his left hand as he drew back the hammer. The flintlock snapped and sparked as the hammer fell. The charge in the pan ignited and then the main charge in the barrel thundered out. Flame gouted from the muzzle. The man on the ground went over backward as the ball slammed into his chest.

  Breckinridge aimed the pistol in his right hand and fired it as well, downing another of Carnahan’s men. He hadn’t spotted Carnahan himself so far. The light was bad, and the smoke swirling out of the open door didn’t help his vision.

  But he had done all he could from the roof, and now it was time for close work. He jammed the pistols back behind his belt, yanked out the knife and tomahawk, and leaped off the building, aiming at one of the men on the ground.

  Breckinridge’s boots crashed into the man’s chest and drove him to the ground. Breck felt bones snap and splinter under the impact and knew this man was out of the fight, if not dead. His momentum carried him forward, off his feet. He rolled and came up ready to fight, just as a man swung a rifle barrel at his head.

  He ducked under the blow and drove in, backhanding his knife across the man’s midsection. The razor-sharp blade went in easily and ripped from one side to the other, opening a gaping wound through which the man’s guts spilled as he screamed. Breckinridge shouldered the dying man out of the way.

  Guns blasted around him. Men bellowed curses. More screams of pain ripped through the darkness, and screams that were subtly different, too, cries of fear.

  “Ophelia!” Breckinridge shouted. “Eugenia!” He hoped the young women would hear him and somehow make their way to him so he could protect them.

  “Breck, look out!” That was Morgan. Breckinridge twisted and ducked just as a pistol went off nearby. He felt as much as heard the wind-rip of the ball as it passed by his ear. A rifle blasted, and the man who had just come within a whisker of shooting Breck dropped his pistol, doubled over, and collapsed.

  Morgan hurried up and started reloading. “Breck, are you all right?”

  “Yeah,” Breckinridge replied. “Down!”

  Morgan dropped to the ground as Breckinridge’s arm flashed back and then forward. The knife he threw turned over once in midair, then buried itself hilt-deep in the chest of a man who was trying to draw a bead on Morgan. The man’s rifle slipped from his fingers as he staggered forward. He pawed at the knife for a second before he collapsed.

  “Where are the girls?” Breckinridge asked as he took hold of Morgan’s arm and hauled his friend to his feet again.

  Morgan coughed a little before replying. The smoke was stinging his eyes and nose and throat, too. He said, “I don’t know. Desdemona was right with me, but then we got separated somehow, and now I don’t see her!”

  The pit of Breckinridge’s stomach suddenly felt cold. In the shadows and confusion, he didn’t see any of the Garwood sisters. Certainly, it was possible that they were here, very close by, in fact, but still, he couldn’t locate them.

  Two more shots boomed, and then an echoing silence fell over the area in front of the trading post, broken only by a groan from someone who sounded grievously injured, followed by a death rattle from elsewhere as another man breathed his last.

  Then a scream, but it wasn’t close. It came from somewhere in the distance, and Breckinridge could tell it originated in the throat of a woman.

  One of his enemies—maybe more than one—was getting away, and the man had a hostage.

  That cold ball in Breckinridge’s gut expanded with the sudden hunch that the man fleeing was Jud Carnahan. Every time in the past, when things had gotten desperate enough, Carnahan had cut and run.

  Breckinridge’s head jerked from side to side as he looked around. “Do you see any of the girls?” he asked Morgan.

  “No, I don’t,” Morgan replied with a rising note of desperation in his voice.

  “Charlie!” Breckinridge yelled.

  “Right here,” Charlie Moss replied as he came trotting up. He had a bloody scratch on his cheek, suffered in the fighting, but appeared to be unharmed otherwise.

  “Charlie, have you seen any of the Garwood girls?”

  “Not a one,” Moss replied.

  “You’re comin’ with me. I heard a scream from somewhere down the river a minute ago. We’re gonna trail whoever it was.”

  Morgan began, “Breck, I can—”

  “No, you can’t,” Breckinridge cut in. He spoke bluntly, knowing it might hurt his friend’s feelings, but there was no time for sentiment, not with at least one of the young women still in danger. “You can’t move fast enough. Stay here, light some torches, have a good look around. Those gals might be hidin’ somewhere, afraid to come out until they know for sure it’s safe.”

  Morgan still looked like he wanted to argue, but he nodded and said tightly, “All right, Breck. Good luck.”

  Breckinridge returned the nod, then he and Moss took off at a fast trot, heading for the river.

  When they reached the Yellowstone, Breckinridge said, “There’s a bunch of canoes here. Carnahan and whoever’s with him could’ve grabbed some of ’em to head downriver.”

  “We could try to count ’em,” Moss suggested.

  Breckinridge shook his head. “No time for that. Help me shove off with one of ’em. We’ll stay close to this side of the river, and maybe if they’re on foot, we can still spot ’em.” He glanced at the sky. “The moon’ll be up soon, and the light will be better.”

  The two men took hold of one of the canoes, pushed it into the water, then climbed in and took up the paddles. Breckinridge was still bare from the waist up and didn’t have his rifle, but he couldn’t worry about that now. All that mattered was finding Desdemona, Ophelia, and Eugenia.

  As his massive muscles dipped the paddle into the water, stroked, and sent the canoe gliding swiftly over the surface, he thought that maybe one or even two of the Garwood sisters were still back at the trading post, as he’d told Morgan. But Carnahan had dragged off at least one of them to use as a hostage—Breckinridge was sure of that. If
some of Carnahan’s men had gotten away with him, it was entirely possible all three of the girls were prisoners.

  That knowledge put a sour, bitter taste under Breckinridge’s tongue. All the fighting and destruction wouldn’t have accomplished a thing if Carnahan had gotten away and the sisters were still in mortal danger. The trading post had been liberated—by destroying half of the compound—and Absalom Garwood was still dead. Carnahan had the devil’s own luck, Breck thought.

  The moon rose as the two men paddled downstream, helped along by the river’s current. Breckinridge listened intently, hoping to hear voices or another outcry that would tell them they were on the right trail, but the only sound in the night was the splashing of paddles in the river.

  Silver light from the moon rippled over the water as the two men continued their search. Then, as the canoe rounded a bend and entered a long, straight stretch of the river, Breckinridge spotted something several hundred yards ahead of them. The distance was too great to make out any details, but two and maybe three shapes were moving on the water. Breck knew his hunch had been right: Jud Carnahan and some of the other men had escaped, taking one or more of the Garwood sisters with them.

  “Up there,” he told Charlie Moss. “They’re ahead of us.”

  “I see ’em, Breck. They’ve got a big lead on us, though. I don’t know if we can catch up to them.”

  “We sure won’t if we don’t try.” Breckinridge dug his paddle harder into the water.

  “Never said we wouldn’t try,” Moss replied as he redoubled his efforts as well.

  A chase like this all came down to stamina. Whoever could keep up the pace the longest and steadiest would win. Breckinridge had plenty of confidence in his own abilities, and Charlie Moss was a tough, seasoned veteran of the frontier. Both men would give it their all.

  But hours passed as they pursued their quarry down the river without making a significant dent in the gap that separated them. Carnahan’s men were strong and determined, too. Even Breckinridge’s powerful muscles began to burn with fatigue as the sky lightened in the east. They had been paddling most of the night.

  From time to time, they had to stop briefly to stretch and ease the stiffness and pain settling into their arms and shoulders. Those delays, brief though they were, ate at Breckinridge’s nerves. The only thing that made them acceptable was that Carnahan and his men had to rest now and then, too, so their lead stayed generally the same.

  “Once the sun comes up, I could try takin’ some shots at them,” Moss suggested. “My rifle will reach that far.”

  Breckinridge shook his head. “Too big a chance of hittin’ one of the girls.”

  “We don’t even know for sure they’ve got those girls with them.”

  “I heard one of ’em scream while Carnahan was gettin’ away.”

  “Maybe she screamed because he was about to cut her throat. He could’ve killed her and left her layin’ in the brush.”

  Breckinridge turned his head to frown over his shoulder at Moss, but deep down, he knew the man was right. This desperate pursuit might not save any of the Garwood sisters. It might be too late already for all three of them.

  But he wasn’t going to allow himself to think that just yet. The sun would be up soon, and maybe then he’d be able to tell who Carnahan was holding hostage and which canoe—or canoes—they were in.

  * * *

  A feeling as bitter as wormwood filled Desdemona Garwood. More than anything else, she hated being helpless. All her life, whenever trouble arose, she wanted to tackle it head-on, even when she was a little girl.

  But when her mother fell ill and died, Desdemona hadn’t been able to do a thing about it. When her father had been brutally murdered right before her eyes, she had to just stand there and watch in horror. Being able to fight alongside Breckinridge Wallace, Morgan Baxter, and the others had helped dull that pain a little.

  Then had come the moment when she’d rushed up to the trading post along with Morgan and the two Mandans, ready to deal pain and death to her enemies, and almost before she knew what was happening, a burly, bearlike form had emerged from the cloud of stinging smoke and wrapped a powerful arm around her waist to jerk her off her feet. She had tried to strike at her captor with the rifle she held, but before she could do any good, a fist had smashed against her head, stunning her and leaving her helpless for long moments.

  Even when her senses came back to her, it still took her a while to figure out that she was draped over a brawny shoulder, being carried like a big bag of potatoes. Her hands and feet were tied, so she couldn’t move other than to squirm a little.

  She lifted her head, though, and screamed in a mixture of rage, frustration, and fear. The man carrying her jerked to a halt, slid her down from his shoulder, and slapped her face, forehand and then backhand, hard enough to send her spiraling back down into oblivion.

  When she came to the next time, she was lying in the bottom of a canoe. A little water had gotten into the craft, so her buckskins were damp. At least her face wasn’t lying in it, otherwise she might have drowned even though she was in the canoe.

  She was trying to figure out whether she should pretend to still be unconscious, when some of the filthy water ran into her mouth and made her gag. It was an uncontrollable reflex, as was the way she pushed herself up as much as she could with the bonds still around her wrists and ankles.

  “The little spitfire’s awake,” said the man in the back of the canoe. He was paddling hard as he gave her an ugly, gap-toothed grin. He looked vaguely familiar. Desdemona knew he was one of the men who had come to the trading post and pretended to be working for Henry Joslyn, when his real boss was Jud Carnahan.

  “Better keep an eye on her,” the man in the front of the canoe responded as he plied his paddle in the water. “Make sure she don’t try anything.”

  “How can she try anything? She’s trussed up like a pig on its way to market!”

  That made both men laugh, despite what appeared to be a desperate situation, judging by how hard they were paddling. They acted like they were trying to get away from something—or somebody—and that thought made hope suddenly leap to life inside Desdemona.

  Maybe Breckinridge Wallace was coming after them.

  She raised herself high enough to look around them. Dawn light was breaking over the river. Two other canoes were on the water. Jud Carnahan was in the front of the one slightly in the lead. Ophelia was in that one as well, and she appeared to be tied up as tightly and uncomfortably as Desdemona was. Another man was in the back, helping Carnahan paddle.

  Not surprisingly, Eugenia was in the middle of the third canoe, also with four of Carnahan’s men. The fight back at the trading post must not have lasted long, Desdemona thought. Most of Carnahan’s bunch had fled as quickly as they could, grabbing Desdemona and her sisters along the way.

  She was pretty sure it was Jud Carnahan himself who had captured her and knocked her out. Maybe the scream she’d been able to let loose when she regained her senses briefly had been enough to set Breckinridge Wallace on their trail. She craned her neck and tried to look back along the river.

  Her spirits lifted as she spotted a canoe in the distance behind them. The man in front was bare-chested, with long, fiery red hair. There was no mistaking who he was.

  Breckinridge Wallace.

  “Yeah, there’s a couple of’em back there, gal,” the gap-toothed man said, “but they ain’t gonna help you. We still got ’em outnumbered three to one, and we got three hostages.”

  “You’re wrong,” Desdemona told him coldly. “Wallace will catch up to you, and then you’ll be sorry you were ever born.”

  “I’d be even sorrier if Jud Carnahan was after me. I reckon he’s the most dangerous fella I ever run across.”

  Desdemona hoped he was wrong about that.

  The three canoes went around a sharp bend in the river. Desdemona couldn’t see the pursuers anymore. She saw a large, rocky promontory on the right-hand side of the st
ream, though. Carnahan waved for the others to follow him and angled his canoe toward it.

  “I’m tired of Wallace dogging my trail,” Carnahan said as they grounded the canoes on the bank just above the promontory. He climbed out, lifted Ophelia, and slung her over his shoulder like a bag of grain, just like he had carried Desdemona after grabbing her the night before. Despite the fact that Ophelia was bigger and heavier than either of her sisters, Carnahan handled her with equal ease.

  He went on, “Jenkins, come with me.” A man from one of the other canoes stepped out onto the bank. “The rest of you keep on paddling downstream. Wallace will see you and think he’s still after all of us. But Jenkins and I will be up in those rocks, ready to ambush him when he goes past.” Carnahan let out an ugly laugh. “He won’t stand a chance, and finally, I’ll be done with Breckinridge Wallace!”

  Chapter 17

  Carnahan and the man called Jenkins hurried off to climb onto the boulder-littered knob that stuck out into the river. Carnahan was still carrying Ophelia. Desdemona wasn’t sure why he took her sister with him, unless he wanted to keep one of the hostages close at hand in case his plan didn’t work.

  The other men pushed off into the river again and resumed paddling. Two of the canoes just had one man in them now, so their progress was slower. That would allow Breckinridge and whoever was with him to catch up faster, Desdemona thought, but it wouldn’t do them any good. That just meant they would be in Carnahan’s and Jenkins’s gunsights that much sooner.

  She writhed around in the canoe until she could look back and see the promontory. From where she was, she couldn’t see Carnahan and Jenkins, or Ophelia, but she thought she spotted what looked like a pair of rifle barrels sticking up from the rocks. The two men were in position to carry out their ambush.

  And there, around the river’s bend, came the pursuing canoe. The sun was up now, splashing garish light over the scene, and Desdemona had no trouble seeing Breckinridge’s red hair, which was brighter than her own.