River of Blood

by William W. Johnstone

  Chapter Nine

  Breckinridge and Morgan followed the creek bank with Nicodemus Finch trailing along behind them. Breck glanced over his shoulder and saw that Finch had let the blunderbuss sag until its barrel was pointed at the ground. The old man was close enough that Breck figured he could whirl around, swat the gun aside, and then wrench it out of Finch’s hands before the old-timer could do anything to stop him.

  On the other hand, Finch wasn’t trying to shoot them. He just wanted more assurances that they weren’t part of Black Tom Mahone’s bunch—whoever Black Tom Mahone was.

  Also, Morgan wanted a chance to meet the other girls Finch had with him, and if Breckinridge was being honest, he was more than a tad curious about them himself.

  So it seemed like the sensible thing to do was play along. If it looked like the situation was about to take a turn for the worse, he and Morgan could make a move then.

  Morgan heaved a sigh as they passed the pool and the big rock. Breckinridge figured his friend was thinking about Annie Belle. Breck still had her image pretty clear in his mind, too. He suspected it would linger there for a while.

  They went around the next bend, and as they emerged from some trees that screened off the view, they saw the promontory formed by the creek’s S-curve, the place the old man had dubbed Finch’s Point.

  It was a big piece of land, half a mile wide at its base, tapering to a quarter of a mile at its end where the stream bent back on itself. There were several groves of trees, as well as some large, grassy open areas dotted with wildflowers. All in all, it was a very pleasant place, especially in a valley situated between two ranges of picturesque, snowcapped mountains.

  Four wagons were parked in one of the open areas. They were large, heavy vehicles with tall, arching canvas covers over their beds.

  Breckinridge had seen wagons like that back in St. Louis. Immigrants used them to travel west, loading all their worldly possessions under those covers. Breck had heard somebody refer to them as prairie schooners, and there was talk that one day soon, long trains of them would be setting out across the plains from Missouri, bound for the Oregon country and the Pacific Ocean.

  Nicodemus Finch and the members of his party weren’t what anybody would call immigrants, though. They weren’t interested in settling anywhere. Folks like these would always be on the move, thought Breckinridge, chasing vice and the money that went along with it.

  Not that he had any room to talk, he reminded himself. His reputation wasn’t exactly a good one. In his young life, he had been accused of two murders—one of those killings had been accidental, and both had occurred while Breckinridge was acting in defense of his own life—and as far as the law was concerned, he was also guilty of shooting Maureen Grantham.

  Maureen Aylesworth, she had been then, because she had already married Richard. Had, in fact, been carrying Aylesworth’s child. Breckinridge had never been much for praying, but after the incident he had sent plenty of pleas heavenward that both mother and child would be all right.

  Fact of the matter was, though, he didn’t know if either of them had survived that tragic night.

  Richard Aylesworth was really the man who had pulled the trigger, and one of these days, if Breckinridge lived long enough, he was going back to Knoxville and find out what had happened. If Aylesworth had killed Maureen and the baby . . .

  Well, Breckinridge would settle the score for them. He owed Maureen that much.

  Thinking about his own checkered past had distracted him momentarily from his surroundings. His attention was jerked back to the present by the six women who came out to meet them.

  All the women were young and pretty. Breckinridge figured the oldest, who had long, flowing chestnut hair, was in her early twenties. The others, including Annie Belle, were several years younger than that.

  They were quite an assortment. One was short and lushly built, with honey-gold tresses. The chestnut-haired gal was tall and lanky, like an eager colt. Another appeared to be an octoroon, with light brown skin and dark hair. The fourth girl was a brunette, as well, and the fifth had a wild mass of strawberry-blond hair.

  The sixth was Annie Belle, and she was the loveliest of the whole bunch, in Breckinridge’s opinion. But every one of them was pretty enough to make a man look twice and take his breath away, especially in the low-bodiced dresses they wore that clung to the curves of their bodies.

  Breckinridge didn’t figure any of them had been soiled doves for very long. From what he had seen of it, that was a mighty hard life that aged a gal in a hurry. He had no idea how any of them had wound up out here in the middle of the wilderness with a disreputable outfit such as Nicodemus Finch’s, but he supposed each had her own story. Most folks did.

  The group wasn’t composed only of Finch and the six whores. There were three men with the wagons, as well, all of them big and rugged-looking. As little and scrawny as Finch was, he would need help around to handle any trouble he encountered. He’d probably hired these fellas to provide that help.

  All the women looked at Breckinridge and Morgan with intense curiosity. More than likely it had been a while since they had seen anybody except Finch and his three helpers. The tall, slender chestnut-haired gal asked, “Who are these men, Nicodemus?”

  “They told me their names,” Finch answered, “but I done plumb forgot ’em.”

  “Morgan Baxter,” Morgan said smoothly, smiling as he took off his hat and ran his other hand over his sandy hair. According to the bragging he had done during the early days of the journey up the Missouri River, he had quite a reputation as a ladies’ man. He seemed eager to prove that now.

  “I’m Breckinridge Wallace from the Great Smoky Mountains,” Breck introduced himself. He didn’t have a hat to doff, but he smiled pleasantly and nodded to the women.

  Finch said, “I’m a-feared Black Tom might’ve sent ’em to spy on us. I caught ’em sneakin’ around up the creek where Annie Belle was takin’ her doggone bath.”

  “What!” the fair-haired girl exclaimed.

  “I told you it weren’t a good idea to wash so much,” Finch groused at her. “Plumb unnatural, that’s what it is.”

  “You were spying on me?” Annie Belle said angrily to Breckinridge and Morgan.

  “No, ma’am,” Morgan answered instantly. “It was an accident, pure and simple. We smelled your coffee brewing and came to see who was camped here. We just happened to get to that bend in the creek where the pool is when you, ah, when you climbed up on that big rock to dive off into the water.”

  “So you were looking at me,” she said, glaring.

  The short, chubby honey-blonde said, “Oh, don’t get your drawers in an uproar, Annie. It’s not like these fellas are the first ones to see you in the altogether, now, is it?”

  “You just shut up, Martha,” Annie snapped. “That’s different.”

  “That’s right,” the tall one said dryly. “You didn’t get paid for the privilege this time.”

  “You stay out of it, too, Francesca. It wasn’t you they were leering at.”

  “Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am,” Breckinridge said, “we weren’t really leerin’ at you. I’ll admit, it was a mite hard to look away—”

  “You didn’t look away, did you?” Annie asked sharply.

  “Well, no. But I give you my word, we didn’t mean any disrespect.”

  “No disrespect at all,” Morgan added. “But it was like . . . stumbling on a beautiful painting in the middle of the wilderness. It was just so unexpected—and so lovely—that we couldn’t tear our eyes away.”

  “There’s more to look at here,” Martha said with a coy smile.

  “That’s enough,” Finch said. “You gals go on back around t’other side o’ the wagons. I got to talk to these fellas, to make sure they ain’t lyin’ to me about not workin’ for Mahone, and I don’t need y’all standin’ around makin’ calf eyes at ’em and distractin’ ’em. Shoo! Gilbert, Moffit, Jackson, the three o’ you get these gals outta h
ere.”

  The three burly men, who probably worked as drivers for Finch, too, herded the young women around the wagons. Several of them complained, but the stoic trio ignored that and followed Finch’s orders.

  The old-timer surprised Breckinridge and Morgan by saying, “There might still be a little coffee in the pot, if you fellas want any.”

  “That sounds good,” Breckinridge responded.

  “Tin cups hangin’ on the tailgate o’ that wagon,” Finch said, pointing. “Help yourselves.”

  With the blunderbuss tucked under his arm, he followed them over to the campfire, where Breckinridge used a thick piece of leather to pick up the coffeepot and pour for himself and Morgan. The brew was thick and black and not very good, but it had a bracing effect.

  “Now, tell me again that you don’t work for Black Tom Mahone,” Finch said to them. “And if I don’t believe you, I’m liable to up and shoot you both.”

  “You can believe us,” Morgan said. “We just here trapping furs. We never even heard of this fellow Mahone.”

  “Who is he, anyway?” Breckinridge asked.

  “My cousin, damn his soul,” Finch replied with a scowl on his grizzled face, “and the man who’s swore an oath to see me dead!”

  Chapter Ten

  “Black Tom and me grew up together back in Ohio,” Finch began the story. “O’ course, he was just Tom then, not Black Tom, ’cause in those days nobody knowed what a disreputable scalawag he really was. His ma was my pa’s sister, and the farms were next to each other. Me an’ Tom, though, we never cared for all the chores that go with livin’ on a farm. Once we growed up some an’ got some size on us, we went to work on the keelboats that travel up and down the Ohio River.”

  “Looks to me like you still don’t have much size on you,” Morgan put in with a grin.

  “You just hush your mouth, boy, less’n you’re willin’ to ’fess up to bein’ one o’ Mahone’s henchmen!”

  “We’re not anybody’s henchmen,” Breckinridge said, “as we’ve been tryin’ to tell you ever since you marched us in here at gunpoint. Speakin’ of that . . . you said you’d have somebody fetch in our rifles . . . ?”

  “Oh yeah.” Finch turned his head and bellowed, “Moffit!” For a scrawny little fella, he could summon up considerable lung power when he wanted to.

  One of the helpers came over, and Finch told the man, “Go back up the creek a ways and find the rifles these varmints left up there. Bring ’em back when you do.”

  Moffit grunted and indicated Breckinridge and Morgan with a nod of his square, rock-like jaw.

  “Want me to give the guns back to these two?” he asked.

  “Not until I tell you,” Finch snapped. “Now get on with it.”

  After Moffit had walked off, Morgan said, “You’re just naturally sharp-tongued with everybody, aren’t you, old-timer?”

  “I don’t believe in wastin’ words.”

  “Sounded to me like you were winding up to get pretty long-winded in that story of yours.”

  Finch glared and demanded, “You want to hear about Mahone and me, or not?”

  “Go ahead,” Breckinridge said. “We’re listenin’.”

  “Well . . . anyway, Mahone and me worked on the boats when we was young. We decided to save up our money, and after a while we had enough to buy a boat of our own.”

  “So you went into business for yourselves,” Morgan said.

  “That’s what I just said, ain’t it? Good Lord, you two are thick in the head! I ain’t sure even Mahone’d be desperate enough to hire such a pair o’ numble-brained musharoos.”

  Breckinridge frowned and said, “Now you’ve gone to makin’ up words, I think.”

  “No such thing! Them’s perfectly good words. Now quit interruptin’ me, dadblast it!”

  Breckinridge held up his hands in surrender and waited for Finch to go on.

  After a moment, the old man said, “Things went along all right for a while, but then you can guess what happened.” He jabbed a grimy finger at them. “And no, I ain’t askin’ you to guess! I’m just sayin’, it was the sort o’ thing that’s happened too many times to fellas who are goin’ along thinkin’ ever’thing’s just fine.”

  Morgan couldn’t resist. He said, “A woman came between you.”

  “Son of a—” Finch snatched his coonskin cap off his head and slammed it to the ground. “You frazzle-tongued peckerwood! Won’t shut up and let a man tell a story!”

  “You met a woman,” Breckinridge said, trying to prod Finch into continuing.

  Finch drew in such a deep breath that his nostrils flared. He said, “Not just any woman. Eula Mae Culligan. Prettiest li’l gal up and down hunnerds o’ miles o’ river. You never saw the like. First time I ever laid eyes on her, I knowed I was gonna marry her. Trouble is, that damned ol’ cousin o’ mine thought the same thing. He went to courtin’ her right off, and so did I. It got to where ever’ time our boat pulled up to the wharf at that little riverfront town where she lived, it was a dadgum race to see which of us’d get off the boat first an’ make it to Eula Mae’s house.” Finch smirked. “I was faster a-foot than Mahone, so most o’ the time it was me.”

  “Probably because you’re so little,” Morgan said. “That’s why you could move faster.”

  Breckinridge thought Finch was going to explode again, but somehow the old-timer kept his rage under control this time. He said, “Eula Mae and me was fixin’ to get married, but then one week before the weddin’ . . . one gol-dang, fripperty-footed week! . . . I come across the two of ’em in her pa’s barn. They was . . . Well, I don’t have to draw you a picture, do I?”

  “Rather you didn’t,” Breckinridge said.

  Finch sighed and went on, “It was a sight like to seared my eyeballs plumb outta their sockets. After that, I couldn’t marry her, o’ course, and I couldn’t keep workin’ on the river with that damn traitor Mahone, so I left.” Finch flung both hands in the air. “Took off for the tall and uncut, just like that.” A sly smile appeared on his face. “But not before I went back to the boat and set it on fire.”

  “Your own boat?” Breckinridge exclaimed.

  “Not mine anymore. I took the money me and Mahone had made on that trip—we was on our way back home after settlin’ up for our cargo—and figured we was even. He had the boat, and I had the gold.” Finch cackled. “And then he didn’t have the boat no more, ’cause I burned it down to the water, boys! Damn woman-stealin’ son of a gun had it comin’!”

  “But you stole his part of the money,” Breckinridge said.

  “No, I just explained that, you muddy-eared galoot. I took the money, and Mahone got the boat. And then I burned the boat! It makes perfect sense!”

  Breckinridge and Morgan looked at each other, and then Breck said, “So that’s how come Mahone swore to be your mortal enemy from then on?”

  “Yep!” Finch punched his right fist into his left palm for emphasis.

  “So how did you wind up out here?” Morgan asked.

  “Oh hell, lots o’ things happened after that. I ain’t got time to talk about ’em all. None of it really matters, anyhow. I’m here, you’re here, them gals are here, those fellas workin’ for me are here, and a dozen barrels o’ the finest moonshine to ever come outta the Kentucky hills are here. I got ever’thing I need! Question is, do I shoot you for Mahone men, or do I let you go?”

  Breckinridge said, “Don’t you think if we were workin’ for Mahone, he would’ve told us that same story before now?”

  “Prob’ly. He likes to complain about how I done him wrong, when the truth o’ the matter is, it was him and Eula Mae who wounded me so deep I still ain’t got over it.”

  Finch put his right fist against his heart and draped his left hand over it. He sighed again.

  “Did we look like we’d ever heard that story before?” Breckinridge asked.

  “For a fact, you did not. Maybe you was tellin’ the truth after all.”

  “Finally!” M
organ said.

  Finch glared at them and asked, “You really ain’t workin’ for Mahone?”

  “You’ve got our word on it,” Breckinridge assured him.

  “All right, then. I won’t shoot you.” The old man cocked his head to the side. “You boys lookin’ for jobs? I might could use you. ’Specially you, the big ugly one.” He frowned at Morgan. “Not you. You’d be pesterin’ my gals the whole damn time, wantin’ to take a tumble with ’em and not pay for it. I can tell just by lookin’ at you.”

  “We don’t need jobs,” Breckinridge said. “We’re fur trappers, remember?”

  “Oh yeah. Got any pelts?”

  “Some,” Breckinridge allowed. He wasn’t going to tell Finch how many pelts they had taken.

  “You can use ’em for trade at the rendezvous, you know. Spend ’em just like money for whiskey and a turn with whichever o’ the gals suits your fancy.”

  “We’ll think on it,” Breckinridge promised. It seemed to him, though, that Finch might be getting the best of the deal. It might be better to sell the furs to one of the company men who were supposed to attend the rendezvous, then use actual coins for any transactions with the old-timer.

  “Suit your own selves,” Finch said. “Here comes Moffit with your rifles.”

  When the man came up carrying the two long-barreled flintlocks, Finch motioned for him to hand the weapons to Breckinridge and Morgan. It felt good to hold the rifle again, Breck thought. He and it were old friends.

  “We’ll be on our way now,” he told Finch. “We’re obliged to you for the coffee.”

  “No charge,” Finch said. “But that’s the only thing you’ll get for free ’round here! You best remember that!”

  “I don’t think we’re likely to forget,” Breckinridge said.

  “And watch out for Black Tom Mahone!” Finch called after the two of them as they started to walk away. “He’ll cut your heart out soon as look at you!”

  Breckinridge turned and frowned.

  “Are you saying Mahone is somewhere out here now?” he asked.