River of Blood

by William W. Johnstone

  When they were close, Breckinridge stopped and motioned for both of them to get down on the ground. They crawled forward until they could hear men talking. Even before he could make out the words, Breck recognized the sound of Akins’s and Fulbright’s voices.

  The two men were alive, at least, and neither of them sounded alarmed. It was beginning to seem like Breckinridge and Morgan had gotten spooked unnecessarily.

  When Breckinridge was close enough, he came up on a knee and parted some brush to peer through the gap. From where he was he could see both Akins and Fulbright. The two trappers were sitting next to the fire, drinking coffee, and talking in friendly fashion to four men Breck had never seen before.

  One of the strangers was dressed in buckskins, while the others wore wool trousers and rough, homespun shirts. They were all good-sized, competent-looking men with powder horns and shot pouches slung over their shoulders. Breckinridge spotted four rifles stacked not far from the fire pit, and the butts of flintlock pistols stuck up from the waistbands of a couple of the men.

  Four saddled horses were picketed on the far side of the camp, grazing and shifting around. That was what Breckinridge had heard as he and Morgan approached the camp.

  The strangers looked like trappers, and that made perfect sense. They had heard about the rendezvous and come to the valley to attend. They must have run into Akins and Fulbright, who had invited the men back here to share the fire.

  Breckinridge eased the branches together again and backed off. He whispered to Morgan, “Nothin’ to worry about. Just some fellas who’ve come for the rendezvous. Let’s backtrack, pick up those carcasses, and go on in like nothin’ happened.”

  He didn’t particularly want to admit that he’d been spooked by something so innocuous.

  A few minutes later, making plenty of noise as they approached, Breckinridge and Morgan tramped up the bluff to the camp. The six men who had been sitting around the fire were on their feet now. Out here in the wilderness, it made sense to be wary any time someone was moving around at night.

  Akins and Fulbright relaxed as Breckinridge sang out, “Hello, the camp!”

  “That’s one of our partners,” Fulbright explained to the strangers. A moment later, Breckinridge and Morgan stepped into the glow cast by the flames in the fire pit.

  “I see we’ve got company,” Breckinridge said. “Howdy, boys.”

  “Howdy,” the man in buckskins said in return. “You’ve got some good-lookin’ animals there.”

  Breckinridge nodded and said, “Thanks. We’ve had pretty good luck. You fellas trappers?”

  “They’re here for a rendezvous,” Akins said. “You know anything about that, Breck?”

  Breckinridge and Morgan glanced at each other. Breck said, “As a matter of fact, we heard somethin’ about it today. We ran into a bunch that’s bringin’ in wagonloads of whiskey . . . and some women.”

  “Women!” Fulbright exclaimed as his eyes widened. “All the way out here in the middle o’ nowhere?”

  “That’s right,” Morgan said. “Good-looking women, too.”

  “Lord have mercy!” A big grin split Fulbright’s whiskery face. “Now I’m lookin’ forward to that rendezvous even more!”

  “My name’s Sterling,” the buckskin-clad man said. “My pards are Hamilton, Wellman, and Price.”

  Akins gestured at Breckinridge and said, “That big redheaded galoot is Breck Wallace, and the other fella is Morgan Baxter.”

  Morgan said, “That’s all I’ll ever be as long as I’m hanging around you, Breck—the other fella.”

  “Well, at least you’re a smaller target any time there’s trouble,” Breckinridge said with a grin. He shook hands with the four visitors, as did Morgan.

  “There’s still some stew in the pot,” Akins said. “Why don’t you and Morgan help yourselves while Amos and me skin out them beaver?”

  “That sounds good to me,” Breckinridge agreed.

  “And while you’re at it,” Fulbright said, “tell us more about them women you saw!”

  For the next half hour, the men talked and laughed while Breckinridge and Morgan had supper and Akins and Fulbright worked on the pelts. Breck felt a little uncomfortable telling about his adventure with the runaway wagon, so Morgan took over and spun that yarn.

  “Actually, he looked a little like Hercules, standing there and holding that wagon up by himself,” Morgan said.

  “You’re leavin’ out the part about how it started rollin’ and jerked me flat on my face,” Breckinridge put in.

  “Yeah, but you kept things from being a lot worse. That woman Dulcy said as much while she was standing there feeling your big, manly arm.”

  “Sounds like you’ve already made a conquest, Wallace,” one of the visitors said. Breckinridge couldn’t remember which one was which.

  “All it takes to make a conquest with gals like that is a coin in your pocket,” one of the other men said, slapping his thigh in amusement at his own joke.

  Unaccountably, that gibe got under Breckinridge’s skin a little. He knew perfectly well what sort of woman Dulcy was, but at the same time, he had sensed something different about her. He wasn’t sure what that difference was yet, but he knew he wouldn’t mind having the chance to find out.

  Morgan saw his friend scowling and went on hurriedly with the story, concluding with, “So one of the women wound up with a broken arm, but it could have been a lot worse if Breck hadn’t slowed down that wagon.”

  “That makes you a hero,” Sterling said. Breckinridge could remember him because he was the one in buckskins.

  “I’m no hero,” Breckinridge insisted. “Just a fella who tried to help.”

  “Sounds pretty gallant to me. Of course, you were tryin’ to help out a bunch of pretty girls, and what man in his right mind wouldn’t do that?”

  They talked some more about the upcoming rendezvous. Breckinridge and Morgan didn’t say anything about meeting Nicodemus Finch and his group. With any luck, that wouldn’t even come up during the big gathering, at least not while Akins and Fulbright were around.

  Finally the four visitors stood up and Sterling said, “I reckon we’d better be gettin’ back to our own camp north of here. We’ve already got everything set up, and we don’t want to intrude on you fellas.”

  “Wouldn’t be any intrusion,” Akins said, “but I understand about wantin’ your own place. Just be careful on your way back. Haven’t seen any Indians prowlin’ around, but you never know.”

  “That’s for sure.” Sterling lifted a hand in farewell. “So long, boys.”

  They waved and said their good-byes, and the four men mounted up and rode off into the night. As the sound of hoofbeats faded, Akins said quietly, “We’d better keep a good lookout tonight.”

  “Why do you say that?” Breckinridge asked.

  “Because while those fellas seemed friendly enough, they might decide it’d be easier to slit our throats and take our pelts than to work at trappin’ their own.”

  “They didn’t strike me as the sort to do that,” Morgan objected.

  “Maybe not, but that could’ve been an act.”

  “Roscoe’s right,” Breckinridge said. “It never hurts to be careful. Maybe we’ll get to know ’em better at the rendezvous.”

  * * *

  Several miles north of the camp on the bluff, the four men rode into another, larger camp, this one with a good-sized fire sheltered under an overhang of rock. Close to a dozen men and horses were gathered there.

  The man who strode out to greet Sterling and the others was tall, broad-shouldered, and had a battered face and a thick black mustache. His voice displayed a trace of a British accent as he asked, “Well? Was that his bunch? Did you see him?”

  Sterling swung down from the saddle and grinned.

  “We did more than lay eyes on him, Sykes,” he said. “We talked to him. That’s the son of a bitch we’re supposed to kill, all right. That’s Breckinridge Wallace.”

  Ch
apter Fifteen

  When Breckinridge and Morgan set out from camp the next morning, Breck was tempted to head south again, toward the pass. He was curious whether Mahone and his men had been able to get the rest of their wagons down the slope.

  And if he was being honest, he had to admit that he wouldn’t mind seeing Dulcy again.

  But there were other traplines to check, and just because a rendezvous was coming up soon, that didn’t mean they could neglect their work. They went west today, across the valley, while Akins and Fulbright started off to the north to check the traps in that direction.

  Breckinridge’s dreams had been visited by both Dulcy and Annie Belle, and that made his conflicting emotions even stronger. He’d been smitten with any number of gals over the years, going all the way back to Charity McFee, the neighbor’s daughter who had taught him about the joys of the flesh in the hayloft of her pa’s barn.

  He had never found himself attracted to two women at the same time, though. He’d always been a one-woman man. But there was no denying that was the way he felt now.

  “Looks like Roscoe was wrong about those other fellas,” Morgan commented as they walked along one of the streams. “They didn’t come back and try to murder and rob us.”

  “Roscoe didn’t say he thought they were goin’ to,” Breckinridge pointed out. “He just said there was a chance of it.”

  Indeed, the rest of the night had passed quietly and peacefully as the four trappers took turns standing guard. Breckinridge hadn’t seen or heard anything unusual during his stint on duty.

  Today the first two traps were empty. Breckinridge and Morgan were approaching the third one, which was near a hill topped by a thick stand of pines, when Breck spotted something unusual among the trees. A ray of morning sunlight had reflected off something shiny up there. It was nothing more than a split-second wink, but he was sure he hadn’t imagined it.

  Another split second later, he realized the implications of what he had just seen, and his hand shot out to snag Morgan’s collar.

  “Get down!” Breckinridge exclaimed as he dived toward the ground and hauled his friend along with him.

  He heard a distant boom and at the same time a low, menacing hum. The boom was a rifle shot, Breckinridge knew, and the hum was the sound of a heavy lead ball passing through the air not far above their heads.

  He was pretty sure that ball would have smashed right through him if he’d still been walking along the creek bank.

  A puff of powder smoke drifted out of the trees. When Breckinridge saw it, his first instinct was to aim his rifle at it and return the fire.

  There might be more than one man up there, though, so he couldn’t count on a momentary lull while the would-be killer reloaded. He and Morgan could still be in danger, so he called to his friend, “Roll to your right!”

  While Morgan did that, Breckinridge rolled left. It was a good thing he did, because an instant after he moved, another rifle ball smacked into the ground where he’d just been. The shot kicked up dirt and grass.

  “Hunt cover!” Breckinridge yelled as he surged to his feet. He knew he had to keep moving so it would be harder to draw a bead on him. From what he had seen so far, it seemed like the men in the trees wanted him dead and didn’t care as much about Morgan. Both shots had been directed at Breck.

  There were no trees nearby, but he spotted a little grassy hummock. It wouldn’t offer much protection, but it was better than nothing. A couple of lunging strides and a leap landed Breckinridge behind it. As he sprawled there, he heard another shot hum through the air nearby.

  He twisted his head and saw Morgan crawling rapidly toward the creek where they had been checking traps. As Breckinridge watched, Morgan rolled off the edge of the bank and disappeared with a splash.

  Breckinridge knew that water was mighty cold, even in the summer like this. The creek bank gave Morgan some good cover, though, so Breck was glad his friend had reached the stream. He called, “Morgan! Are you all right?”

  “Yeah, just wet!” Morgan sounded angry, and he had every right to be. “Who the hell is shooting at us?”

  “I don’t know, but I think they’re shootin’ at me, not you. All the shots have come closer to me.”

  “Well, you s-said you were a b-bigger target!”

  Breckinridge could tell by his friend’s voice that Morgan’s teeth were starting to chatter from the chill of being immersed in the frigid water. He said, “If you can, crawl along under the bank until you get to a spot where you can get out of the creek and still have some good cover. You don’t want to freeze to death in the middle of summer!”

  “What about you?”

  “I’m sort of stuck here,” Breckinridge admitted. “However many varmints are up there on that hill, they’ve probably all got their rifles lined up on this little hump. If I stand up or try to crawl one way or the other, they’ll see me.”

  “You say they’re up in the trees on that hill?”

  “Yeah. I saw the sun reflectin’ off a rifle barrel. That’s why I hit the dirt in the first place. And I’ve seen powder smoke coming from up there, too.”

  “Maybe I can w-work my way around and c-come up behind them,” Morgan suggested.

  “Too dangerous,” Breckinridge said. “You’d be outnumbered. There are at least two of ’em up there. Good chance there’s even more.”

  “So what are you going to do? Lay there the rest of the day and try to sneak off when it gets dark?”

  Breckinridge didn’t like the idea of sneaking off any time. He wasn’t the sort to skulk away from danger. He was more likely to bull straight forward and tackle any trouble head-on.

  In this case, though, doing that probably wouldn’t get him anything except a .50-caliber ball in the face or guts.

  “You let me worry about my own hide,” he told Morgan. “If you can get away from here without them seein’ you, head back to camp. Roscoe and Amos might’ve heard those shots and be comin’ to see what’s goin’ on. Maybe the three of you can come back and give me a hand then.”

  “Damn it, Breck! If I do that, it’ll feel like I’m running on you.”

  “No such thing,” Breckinridge insisted. “That’s what I’m tellin’ you to do. It’s the best way you can help me.”

  “I don’t like it . . .”

  “Do it anyway. I’ll see you later, Morgan.”

  “Damn right you will.”

  He heard some splashing as Morgan moved along the creek to the east. When the sounds faded, a sense of relief came over Breckinridge. No matter what happened to him, he was glad that his friend might be out of harm’s way.

  He slid the barrel of his rifle up over the hummock’s crest, moving slowly so as not to cause the grass to wave around too much and draw attention. He’d never been one to wear a hat, but he sort of wished he had one now. If he did, he could stick it up a little and try to draw the fire of the men on the hill. That might give him a chance to peg a shot back at them.

  But he didn’t have a hat, so all he could do was wait. He lifted his head just enough to peer through the grass.

  The dirt exploded about eight inches from his left ear. Yelling curses, Breckinridge ducked lower. One of them had spotted that red hair of his. If he couldn’t risk looking over the top of the little hump, he really and truly was as good as blind.

  All he could do was lie there and wait for them to kill him.

  Then another thought entered his mind. Morgan had suggested circling around to jump the men on the hill from behind.

  There was nothing stopping them from doing the same thing to him. Some of them might have flanked him already. They could be out there in the grass somewhere, unseen, getting ready to blow his brains out . . .

  The hell with it, Breckinridge thought.

  If he was going to die, it would be while he was on his feet.

  With an angry roar, he sprang up and charged toward the hill.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Breckinridge’s sudden action must h
ave surprised the men who wanted to kill him. A pair of shots blasted from the hilltop, but the shots went wide, whipping through the grass on either side of Breck.

  At the same time, a rifle roared somewhere off to his right, followed instantly by yet another shot from the same general area. A man howled in pain.

  Breckinridge didn’t know what was going on over there, but he didn’t allow himself to be distracted. He spotted movement in the trees atop the hill and paused long enough to fling his rifle to his shoulder and cock it. Aiming by instinct more than anything else, he pressed the trigger. The long-barreled flintlock kicked hard against his shoulder as it boomed.

  A cloud of smoke from the exploding black powder wreathed Breckinridge’s head for a second, blinding him. He charged through the stinging stuff. Knowing that he couldn’t stop to reload in the open, he ran for the bottom of the hill as fast as his long legs would carry him.

  Another shot sounded somewhere behind him. He didn’t know whether the rifleman was aiming at him, but he didn’t hear the ball come anywhere close.

  Morgan! he thought suddenly.

  His friend hadn’t headed back for camp after all. Instead he had lingered and was now taking part in this fight.

  Another shot roared from the top of the hill. Breckinridge felt the hot breath of the ball as it passed close beside his cheek. That spurred him to run even faster. He saw some brush up ahead, growing along the base of the slope, and dived into it.

  He lay still, hidden now from the riflemen. One of them fired anyway. The ball clipped branches several feet away from Breckinridge. He forced himself to remain motionless for a minute or two, then began crawling to his left. He moved slowly and carefully in order to disturb the vegetation as little as possible.

  A shot came from over by the creek. Morgan had found some cover and was harassing the ambushers, Breckinridge thought. If Morgan could make them keep their heads down part of the time, Breck would have a better chance of reaching them.