“Cap’n Shaftel has guards posted every night,” Moss said.
“I know. But I don’t know how good those fellas are at stayin’ alert. You and me, though, we’ve got a lot of experience at watchin’ out for trouble.”
Moss grunted and said, “That’s for sure.” He paused, then asked, “What do you think about Miz Shaftel, Breck?”
“Nice lady. Good cook. Seems to be a good mama to them kids. Why you askin’, Charlie?”
“Oh hell, no reason,” Moss replied gruffly. “Can’t a fella just talk a mite without needin’ to have some special reason for it?”
“Sure he can,” Breckinridge said, trying not to grin. “You want to take first watch?”
“Yeah. I don’t feel much like sleepin’ right now, anyway.”
Breckinridge was still smiling to himself as he rolled up in his blankets and dozed off.
Chapter 27
A couple of days on the trail passed without incident. At this rate, the wagon train would arrive in Santa Fe in another five or six days, Shaftel told Breckinridge and Moss.
Much to the disappointment of some of the young women in the train, the two newcomers ate breakfast and supper every day at the Shaftel wagon. Breckinridge saw Moss and Georgina talking every chance they could find, and although he didn’t try to eavesdrop, he overheard enough of the conversations to know that they had reached the stage where they were calling each other Georgina and Charles already.
That was fine. If something came of this, Breckinridge would be happy for his friend. He had never intended to partner up with Charlie Moss from now on. Fate had sort of thrown them together and put them on the trail of Jud Carnahan, and Breck had always figured that once they were done with that quest, they would go their separate ways.
Anyway, he already had a trail partner—Morgan Baxter—and he planned to return to the Garwood trading post so he could tell Desdemona and Eugenia what had happened to Ophelia. That is, if he couldn’t bring Ophelia herself back to them.
From what he had heard about the misfortunes that had befallen her, she might not want to go back to her sisters. If that turned out to be the case, Breckinridge knew he couldn’t force her to return to her old life.
He wondered about Morgan, too. Would so much time have passed by the time Breckinridge got back up there to the Yellowstone country . . . would Morgan have gotten so comfortable there at the trading post . . . that he wouldn’t want to leave and resume his life as a fur trapper? Breck couldn’t blame him for that, and to tell the truth, it was much more what Morgan was suited for. Breck found himself actually hoping things turned out that way.
Of course, if it did, that meant he would be on his own again. But after the events of the past few years, Breckinridge had begun to wonder if such solitude was just his destiny . . .
After not seeing any more sign of the bandits for several days, Shaftel and the rest of the immigrants began to relax again. Not Breckinridge, though. He remained alert and tried to make sure Moss did, too, at least when Moss wasn’t busy daydreaming about the winsome Georgina. The two of them still took turns standing guard at night, sitting up under the wagon where they had pitched their bedrolls and listening intently for any warning of trouble.
When it was Breckinridge’s shift, he moved out from under the wagon and sat with his back propped against a wagon wheel and his rifle lying across his lap. He looked out at the landscape northwest of the trail. There was a half-moon, and of course millions of stars twinkled in the heavens. That was enough light for him to see a dark line bulking along the horizon. Those were mountains, he knew. The trail had been running along parallel with them for quite a few miles. He had looked at the map Otis Shaftel had brought along. The mountains would continue to encroach closer and closer to the trail on both sides until they got to Santa Fe, which was nestled in a high valley between the peaks. The mountains, according to Shaftel’s map, were called the Sangre de Cristos. Blood of Christ. Breckinridge hoped that no more blood would be spilled before the wagon train reached its destination.
His eyes narrowed suddenly. He thought he had glimpsed something moving out there in the darkened landscape. Probably nothing more than a shifting shadow, maybe a cloud over the moon, he thought as he sat up straighter and picked up the rifle, but he wanted to be sure.
Before he could do anything, a scream ripped through the night.
Breckinridge was on his feet in an instant. The cry had come from the other side of the camp, almost directly across the circle from the wagon where Breck and Moss were spending the night. Breck ran to the front of the vehicle and hurdled the wagon tongue. Flames leaped up across the way, blindingly bright against the surrounding darkness. One of the wagons was on fire.
“Breck!” Moss shouted as he emerged from underneath the wagon. “What’s goin’ on?”
“Don’t know. There’s a wagon burnin’—”
People were yelling all around the camp. With that much racket going on, Breckinridge almost didn’t hear the gunshots at first. But he spotted a spurt of orange flame in the shadows outside the camp and recognized it as a muzzle flash, then a second later heard the reports of several rifles being fired. The wagon train was under attack again.
“Head for the cap’n’s wagon,” he told Moss, knowing that his friend would want to go protect Georgina and her children. “Tell everybody you see to hunt some cover and stay down!”
“You reckon it’s that same bunch of bandits?”
“I’d bet on it!” Breckinridge said as he took off at a run toward the burning wagon.
He had to dodge around livestock to get there. The horses were gathered inside a rope corral in the middle of the circle, but the oxen roamed free at night, with no desire to stray. As Breckinridge approached the wagon, he saw that men had gathered around it and were using buckets filled from water barrels to try to put out the flames.
One of the men hurrying toward the wagon suddenly dropped the bucket he was carrying, clapped both hands to his chest, and stumbled on for a few steps before pitching to the ground. Breckinridge had seen enough men shot to know that was what had just happened.
The plan was clear in his mind. One of the outlaws had crept up to the circle of wagons and set one of them on fire while the others remained hidden out in the shadows, ready to use the firelight to aim by as the blaze drew the settlers out into the open. While the immigrants were busy trying to put out the fire, the bandits would cut down as many as they could before sweeping in to overwhelm the others. Then they could loot the wagons and deal with any prisoners at their leisure.
Breckinridge didn’t intend to let that happen. One wagon was an acceptable price to pay to save the rest of the train.
“Let it burn!” he bellowed. “Everybody get down! Ambushers outside the circle!”
He saw another muzzle flash, whipped the flintlock to his shoulder, and fired where that flash had been. He couldn’t be sure in all the commotion, but he thought he heard a pained shout.
Another man fell, struck by a shot fired from outside, but the settlers were starting to realize what was going on. Some of the men herded women and children toward the center of the circle where they would be safer, while others grabbed rifles and bellied down behind wagon wheels to return the attackers’ fire.
Breckinridge figured he could do more good elsewhere. Instead of reloading his rifle, he hurried back across the circle, getting as far away from the garish light of the burning wagon as possible. He crawled under the wagon where his bedroll was spread, left the rifle and his pistols there, along with the powder horn and shot pouch, and crawled out on the other side, armed only with his knife and tomahawk.
He stayed as low as possible as he crawled over the rocks and through the scrubby brush. The bandits were clustered on the other side of the camp, so he circled in that direction. They expected the defenders to hunker down and try to fight them off, Breckinridge figured. They wouldn’t be looking for any of the pilgrims to bring the fight to them.
But Breckinridg
e Wallace was no pilgrim.
The muzzle flashes from the outlaws’ guns were as good as beacons as Breckinridge closed in on them. He had worked his way around so he was behind the attackers. The first man he came to was kneeling behind a slab of rock. Soundlessly, Breck rose from his crawl and poised himself behind the outlaw, who was reloading his rifle. When the man was finished, he started to bring the weapon to his shoulder.
Breckinridge struck first, looping his left arm around the man’s neck to jerk him backward as he drove the knife forward with his right hand. The razor-sharp blade went smoothly and easily into the man’s back. He spasmed as the tip penetrated his heart and killed him. Breck lowered the body to the ground.
The boom of a nearby rifle told him where he needed to go next. Again he dropped to the ground and approached at a crawl, coming up behind a man who crouched behind a clump of brush. Breckinridge heard the hammer on the man’s rifle fall, but instead of a shot, this time there was only the fizzle of a misfire. He lowered the weapon and said, “Lousy damn—”
He died with that curse on his lips and Breckinridge’s knife in his heart.
Breckinridge pulled the blade free and dropped the corpse. He tried to remember if eleven or twelve outlaws had escaped from the failed ambush a few days earlier. He couldn’t recall and decided it probably wouldn’t matter. He had taken care of two and intended to send more of them across the divide tonight.
As he moved along the line of bandits, he realized there were two men kneeling side by side ahead of him. One was always loading while the other was drawing a bead and firing toward the wagons, so they were keeping up a nearly constant barrage of lead. Breckinridge thought about skirting around them, but his natural stubbornness cropped up. Two-to-one odds were nothing he hadn’t faced many times before.
He was going to need his tomahawk this time, though. He pulled it from behind his belt and sheathed the knife.
As silent as death, he had just loomed up behind the men when the one who was loading his rifle fumbled the ball and dropped it. He cursed and reached down to pick it up, and as he did, he turned his body just enough to see the huge shape behind them from the corner of his eye. He let out a yell and tried to twist more, but the tomahawk swooped down and smashed his skull with a grisly crunch of bone that sounded like an egg breaking.
Breckinridge swept the ’hawk to his right in a backhanded blow aimed at the other man’s head. The shout had given the man enough of a warning that he had time to fall backward on his butt. The tomahawk missed him by inches. With a desperate yell of his own, he yanked a pistol from behind his belt, thrust it at the shape blotting out the stars, and pulled the trigger.
Breckinridge felt the heat of the pistol ball against his cheek, but it missed him. The next instant, the tomahawk in his hand cleaved deep into the top of the outlaw’s head, splitting it for several inches and splattering blood and brains. Breck wrenched the ’hawk free.
The shouts and the pistol shot had warned the others that an unexpected threat was among them. Someone charged at Breckinridge and fired another pistol. The flash lit up a bearded, demonic face for a fraction of a second. Breck heard the ball whistle past his ear. He pulled the knife again, this time with his left hand, and stepped up to meet the man’s charge. The blade sank into the surprised bandit’s belly. Breck ripped it to the side and felt the hot spill of blood and guts over his hand.
With the other hand, the one holding the tomahawk, he grabbed the front of the dying man’s shirt and hauled him around, obeying an instinctive warning. Another gun went off. Breckinridge felt the man’s body jerk under the ball’s impact. He dropped the human shield and threw the tomahawk. It wasn’t quite a blind throw, but almost. Despite that, the ’hawk found its target. Breck heard a man gurgle and gasp and collapse.
He had lost count of how many he had killed, and he didn’t know how many were left. But from the corner of his eye, silhouetted against the still-burning wagon, he saw several men charging toward the camp. Rather than fleeing from the bloodthirsty devil that had descended upon them out of the night, they were making a last-ditch bid for victory. If they could get into the camp and grab a few hostages, they might still come out of this with their hides intact and some ill-gotten gains.
Breckinridge set off after them.
As he came nearer the wagons, he saw a knot of men locked in a desperate hand-to-hand struggle. He charged up to them, grabbed two men he didn’t recognize from the wagon train by the backs of their necks, and slammed their heads together with terrific force. Both dropped like rocks.
Another man broke away and ran toward a wagon. Breckinridge realized it was the vehicle belonging to Otis Shaftel, and as he did, he saw eight-year-old Walter scramble out from under the wagon and try to run. The outlaw darted toward him, reaching for him.
“No!”
That cry came from Georgina. She emerged from under the wagon, too, and got in the outlaw’s way. He leered and reached for her, evidently thinking that a woman would be an even better hostage than a kid.
He didn’t get the chance to capture her. Charlie Moss, left arm hanging limp and blood staining that shoulder of his shirt, lunged into the open and fired the pistol in his hand. It was a risky shot. Georgina was almost in the line of fire, but not quite. And Moss’s aim was true. The bandit’s head jerked back, and as he twisted to the ground, Breckinridge saw the line of blood running down from the hole in his forehead.
Georgina grabbed hold of Walter and tugged him back to the wagon, where Moss met them and put his right arm—with the smoking pistol still in his hand—around them and drew them to him. Georgina said, “Charles!” and clung to him, sobbing.
Moss was wounded but not fatally, Breckinridge decided. He didn’t know what had happened or why Walter had jumped out from under the wagon like that, but it didn’t matter right now. Breck looked around for more outlaws to kill.
There didn’t seem to be any. Moss’s shot was the last one. Its echoes died away over the New Mexico plains.
Otis Shaftel hurried up to Breckinridge, carrying a rifle. “Is it over?” he asked in a strained voice.
“Seems to be,” Breckinridge replied.
“My family—”
“Appear to be all right, thanks to Charlie.” Breckinridge changed the subject by asking, “Do you know if any of those murderin’ varmints are still alive?”
“I don’t know,” Shaftel said. He was clearly anxious to get to his daughter-in-law and grandchildren, but he paused long enough to ask, “Why?”
“Because I’ve got some questions,” Breckinridge said, “and, by God, I intend to get some answers.”
Chapter 28
Shaftel had to hug Georgina and the children, too. While the wagon train captain was doing that, Breckinridge spoke to Charlie Moss, who had sat down on the lowered tailgate of the Shaftel wagon.
“How bad are you hurt, Charlie?”
“I reckon I’ll live,” Moss said. “I got shot through the shoulder. Lost quite a bit of blood, and although it pains me to admit it, I reckon I passed out for a while. When I came to, I looked out from under the wagon and saw that varmint about to grab Georgina. I couldn’t let that happen.” He had placed the empty pistol on the tailgate beside him. As he paused in his answer, he reached up and rubbed a shaky hand over his face. “It makes me kinda sick now to think about what a big risk I took. If I’d missed, I might’ve hit Georgina.”
“You didn’t miss,” Breckinridge said. “That’s all that matters. Well, that and gettin’ that shoulder patched up.”
“I don’t know if this arm will ever work right again. But if it don’t, I reckon that’s a small price to pay for Georgina and the kids comin’ through this all right.”
Walter came over to them then and looked up at Moss with a solemn expression on his young face.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Moss,” he said. “I shouldn’t have run out from under the wagon like I did. I thought you were dead and couldn’t save my mom and sister, so I figure
d I’d try to lead those bad men away from them. But I should have known you wouldn’t let anything happen to them.”
“I sure wouldn’t,” Moss agreed, “but I was layin’ there all bloody and passed out, so you didn’t have any way of knowin’ I wasn’t dead. I’m not holdin’ any grudges against you, Walt, that’s for sure.”
A smile lit up the youngster’s face. Georgina followed him over to the wagon, along with little Sadie. Georgina said, “Walter, don’t pester Mr. Moss. He’s been hurt.”
“Aw, Walt could never pester me,” Moss protested. “And I’m just fine. A little light-headed, maybe, from so much of my blood spillin’ out, but nothin’ to worry about.”
He started to slide off the tailgate and stand up, but as soon as his feet hit the ground, he reeled and would have fallen if Breckinridge hadn’t been right there to grab him. Georgina got hold of Moss’s other arm, and with Breck’s help, she got him back on the tailgate.
“You sit right there and don’t try to get up again,” she told him sternly. “I’m going to clean and bandage that wound.”
“I wouldn’t argue with her,” Breckinridge advised. “She looks like she means business.”
“I ain’t arguin’,” Moss said. “No, sirree.”
Breckinridge looked around for Shaftel, nodded to the captain, and said, “We’d best check around and see if we can find one of the varmints still drawin’ breath.”
“And I need to see what our casualties are,” Shaftel said.
They set out on those errands. A number of people from the wagon train were wounded, they discovered, but surprisingly—and thankfully—only one man had been killed.
The two men Breckinridge had grabbed by the necks and slammed their heads together were dead, their skulls shattered. Another man who had been shot in the leg and body was still alive, although he appeared to be in bad shape. Some of the immigrants had pulled him over next to a wagon wheel, propped him up, and tied his arms to the wheel. His head drooped forward. Breck put a hand under his chin and tipped it up. The man blinked at him but couldn’t focus.
Damnation Valley Page 21
