River of Blood

by William W. Johnstone

  He paused to reload his rifle, then began creeping up the hill, using every bit of cover he could find along the way. Morgan continued his covering fire, blasting regularly spaced shots at the hilltop.

  Breckinridge began to think there was only one man still shooting up there. The return fire was spaced out, too, as if one man had to reload between each shot. Some of the rifle balls whipped through the trees and brush on the hillside, others searched along the creek. Breck hoped that Morgan was keeping his head down.

  He had to suppress the impulse to stand up and rush the rifleman. That reckless charge had worked to get him to the bottom of the hill, but now he had to depend on stealth. That didn’t come naturally to him, but he had stalked enough game back in the Tennessee hills to be able to move quietly when he had to.

  The sound of the shots from the crest gave Breckinridge something to steer by. He didn’t head directly for them but angled to the left instead in an attempt to flank the ambusher. After what seemed like an hour but was really much less than that, he reached the top and lay there in some tall, thick grass for a few moments to get his bearings.

  Warily, Breckinridge raised his head and peered along the hill. He saw powder smoke rising from a deadfall where several trees had toppled sometime in the past and landed so that they lay atop each other, forming a bulwark of sorts. Over by the creek, a hundred yards away, more smoke rose as Morgan fired again. Breck heard the ball thud into one of the logs. The hidden rifleman had pretty good cover behind them.

  Breckinridge set his rifle aside and pulled both pistols from his belt. He checked to make sure they were loaded, then primed them and eased the hammers back down. Holding a pistol in each hand, he began crawling toward the deadfall.

  After several minutes, he was close enough to see the ambusher, or at least part of the man’s head and one shoulder as he crouched behind the fallen trees. Breckinridge studied the deadfall more closely and saw something else that caught his interest.

  A booted foot stuck out from behind one of the logs. It wasn’t moving, and Breckinridge could only figure that one of the shots he and Morgan had thrown up here had found its mark, by chance as much as anything.

  But a lucky shot could kill a man just as dead as a perfectly aimed one.

  The surviving attacker knelt and started reloading his rifle. Breckinridge couldn’t see the man anymore, but he knew what was going on because he could see the rifle barrel moving around, going in and out of sight. As the echoes of the last shot died away, Breck heard the man muttering to himself. The fella didn’t sound happy at all.

  That was understandable. This ambush hadn’t gone the way he and his companions had planned it.

  The man stood up again, and this time Breckinridge could see more of him. Something about him seemed familiar, as if Breck would recognize his face if he could see it. The man’s back was to him, though.

  There was one way to change that.

  Breckinridge stood up and yelled, “Hey!”

  The man jumped and whirled around and tried to bring his rifle to bear. Breckinridge was about fifteen feet away, so he got a good look at the man’s face. He couldn’t put a name with it, but he knew the man was one of the visitors he and his partners had entertained in their camp the night before.

  Then the pistols in Breckinridge’s out-thrust hands roared as smoke and flame gushed from their barrels. Both balls smashed into the rifleman’s chest and drove him back against the stack of logs behind him. The unfired rifle flew from his hands.

  He leaned against the deadfall for a moment as blood welled from the two holes in his chest. His eyes were wide with shock and pain. He opened his mouth, but no words came out. The only thing that did was a trickle of blood from the corner of his lips.

  Then his knees buckled and he pitched forward on his face.

  Probably should have fired only one of the guns, just in case the other fella wasn’t dead after all, thought Breckinridge as he advanced slowly.

  But that wasn’t the case, he saw when he reached a spot where he could look around the logs. The second man, who was also one of the bunch from the night before, was definitely dead. His eyes stared wide and unseeing at the blue sky. The front of his homespun shirt was dark and wet with blood.

  Faintly, Breckinridge heard hoofbeats drumming somewhere in the distance. By the sound of them, a rider was getting out of there in a hurry.

  “Breckinridge!” The shout came from below. “Breck, are you alive up there?”

  “I’m here!” he told Morgan. “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah. How about you?”

  “Fine! What about the other two?”

  “One of them is down here with a hole in his head! I think the other son of a bitch lit out!”

  Breckinridge agreed with that. He reloaded his pistols, recovered his rifle, and then started down the hill to join up with Morgan.

  He left the two dead men where they were. The varmints didn’t deserve to be put under the ground proper-like. Share a man’s fire and then try to kill him the next day . . . that was just about the lowest of the low, Breckinridge thought.

  “Looks like Roscoe was right,” he said as he walked up to Morgan, who had come out of the brush to reload his rifle. “Those fellas decided to pick us off, then kill Roscoe and Amos and take our pelts.”

  “Yeah, but one of them is still alive and got away,” Morgan pointed out.

  “I don’t reckon there’s much chance he’ll come back and try again on his own.” Breckinridge frowned. “You didn’t go back to camp like I told you to.”

  “And it’s a good thing,” Morgan said. “Two of them were sneaking up on you, and they were just about ready to start taking potshots at you. I downed one of them, and the other got spooked and took off.”

  Breckinridge nodded and said, “I’m obliged to you, all right. I just hope you don’t catch your death from bein’ soaked in that cold creek.”

  “My clothes are already drying in the sun. Don’t worry about me.” Morgan shouldered his rifle. “Come on. We’ve got more traps to check.”

  “You don’t want to bury those fellas?”

  “Not hardly. Do you?”

  “Not hardly,” Breckinridge agreed with a grin. “Their friend can come back and do it if he wants.”

  “I think we’ve seen the last of him,” Morgan said.

  * * *

  Sterling showed up leading three riderless horses. Fury boiled up inside Harry Sykes’s broad chest at the sight.

  “What the bloody hell happened?” Sykes demanded.

  “The others are dead,” Sterling reported.

  “I figured that much, you fool! What about Wallace? Is he dead, too?”

  Sterling grimaced and shook his head.

  “That big redheaded bastard must be the luckiest man alive,” he said. “I know damn well several of our shots came within inches of him. But somehow he and his friend didn’t get hit. They managed to kill Wellman, Hamilton, and Price, though.”

  Sykes blew out a disgusted breath and said, “I knew good an’ well I shouldn’t have trusted just the four of you to get the job done. You found Wallace, and you said you’d take care of him. More the fool I am for believin’ it.”

  “Harry, I tell you we should have had him,” Sterling insisted. “Give me another chance—”

  “You had your chance,” Sykes interrupted. “I want Wallace dead before that blasted rendezvous starts and complicates everything.” He nodded decisively. “Next time we’ll all go after him—and then Breckinridge Wallace will die.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Other than the four men trying to kill them, it was a good day for Breckinridge and Morgan. They collected five beaver from their traps, so they had an impressive load as they headed back to camp.

  Akins and Fulbright were already there. The bushy-bearded Amos Fulbright greeted them by saying, “We thought we heard some shots ’way off in the distance this mornin’. You fellas know anything about that?”


  “A little,” Morgan answered dryly. “We were fighting for our lives.”

  “What?” Akins exclaimed.

  “Those four fellas from last night jumped us,” Breckinridge said.

  Akins cursed and said, “I knew it! I knew somethin’ was off about that bunch. They acted mighty friendly, but I could tell they were up to something. They saw what a fine bunch of pelts we’ve got, and they wanted ’em for themselves.”

  “That’s the only explanation that makes any sense,” Breckinridge agreed with a nod.

  He wished he didn’t have a nagging feeling that there might be even more to the ambush than that. The hunch had grown stronger during the day while he and Morgan were checking the traps, although he had nothing to back it up.

  “What happened to the varmints?” Fulbright asked. “They get away?”

  “One of them did,” Morgan said. The grim look on his face made it clear that the other three hadn’t.

  After Breckinridge and Morgan had told their friends more about what had happened, Fulbright said, “You reckon there’s any chance that other fella will come back and cause any more trouble?”

  “You can’t ever rule anything out,” Akins said, “but the chances of it seem mighty slim to me. He’s on his own now. More than likely he’ll want to get out of this part of the country while his hide’s still in one piece.”

  “He might come to the rendezvous,” Breckinridge suggested.

  Akins snorted and said, “If he does, we’ll recognize him. Out here, justice is pretty swift and final-like for anybody who tries to steal another man’s pelts.”

  Breckinridge didn’t doubt that. He already knew that these mountain men, of whom he was now one, lived by a rough code of honor that suited him just fine.

  Akins and Fulbright had had good luck, too, bringing in four beaver. That made nine pelts to add to their catch for the season. They worked until late skinning out the animals, scraping the pelts, and staking them out to dry. Morgan and Fulbright hauled off the skinned carcasses to keep scavengers away from the camp.

  As usual, the men took turns standing guard during the rest of the night. Nothing happened, and they were up before dawn the next morning, also as usual.

  Fulbright, who’d had the last shift on guard duty, was at the fire pit, about to get the coffee on to boil, when a rifle shot sounded somewhere on the other side of the creek. With a wicked whine, the ball bounced off one of the flat rocks that formed the pit. The shot came so close to Fulbright that he yelled and jumped, and the coffeepot in his hands went flying.

  Akins was close by. He yelled, “Get down, you fool!” and dived behind the fire pit. Fulbright followed his example.

  Breckinridge and Morgan had wandered off to different areas in the trees to take care of their morning necessities. Breck had just pulled up his buckskin trousers when he heard the shots and Akins’s shout. Heedless of danger, he plunged out of the pines and into the camp at the edge of the bluff.

  More rifles blasted on the other side of the creek. Breckinridge heard one of the balls whip past his head. He grabbed his rifle from the stack and dived to the ground, rolling over a couple of times before he came to a stop behind their stack of dried pelts, which was tall enough and thick enough to provide some cover.

  Morgan came running out of the woods, too, but yelped in pain as soon as he emerged. He stumbled and put a hand to his suddenly bloody cheek.

  “Morgan, get back!” Breckinridge bellowed at him.

  Morgan reversed course and threw himself back into the pines. He pressed against one of the thick trunks.

  “How bad are you hit?” Breckinridge called to him. Breck was worried about his friend because he’d seen the splash of blood on Morgan’s face, but the spryness with which Morgan had sought cover was encouraging.

  “I’m all right,” Morgan said. “A ball just nicked me. It hurts like blazes, though—and the scar’s going to ruin my good looks!”

  Despite the danger in which they found themselves, Breckinridge had to chuckle at Morgan’s response. He said, “Naw, it’ll just make you more dashin’ lookin’!”

  From where he sprawled behind the fire pit with Fulbright, Akins asked, “Who the hell is that over there shootin’ at us? Sounds like half a dozen or more men. I thought you said only one of those bastards got away yesterday!”

  “Only one of them did,” Morgan said. “I’m sure of it.”

  “Then the varmint had some other friends,” Fulbright said, “because there sure as hell is more than one man shootin’ at us!”

  Breckinridge agreed with that. He’d been taking some quick glances at the stretch of woods across the creek and located three different places where powder smoke was visible. He focused his attention on one of them and after a moment caught a glimpse of a man leaning out slightly from behind a tree with a rifle. Breck even saw the muzzle flash as the man fired, then ducked back.

  Breckinridge slid the barrel of his rifle over the pile of beaver pelts and drew a bead just to the side of that tree. He eared back the hammer and waited. Fifteen or twenty seconds went by, just about long enough for a man to reload if he wasn’t hurrying too much.

  Another flash of movement.

  Breckinridge stroked his flintlock’s trigger.

  The long rifle boomed and kicked, and as the smoke cleared the sight of a man flopping around on the ground over there rewarded Breckinridge’s gaze.

  Then he had to duck as several rounds from across the creek slammed into the stack of beaver pelts. Breckinridge hoped the balls weren’t doing too much damage to the furs. Trying to kill him and his friends was bad enough, but ruining the pelts they’d worked so hard for would really get his dander up!

  “I’m pretty sure I got one of ’em,” he called to the others, “but there’s no tellin’ how many more are over there.”

  “With all this lead flyin’ around, I don’t see how Amos and me can get to our rifles, either,” Akins complained.

  From behind the tree where he had taken cover, Morgan said, “I might be able to get to them and toss them over to you fellas.”

  “You’re liable to get your head shot off if you try that,” Breckinridge said sharply as he reloaded his rifle.

  “I don’t see any other way we’re gonna be able to put up a fight. You have your pistols, Breck?”

  “Sure I do.”

  “Roscoe, how about you and Amos?”

  “We’ve got pistols,” Akins said, “but those bastards across the creek are out of range of them.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Morgan insisted. “When I tell you to, all three of you let off as many rounds as you can. Just the sound of a volley like that ought to make those men duck their heads, and that’ll give me time to reach our rifles.”

  Breckinridge wasn’t sure about that, but it seemed like the plan stood at least a slight chance of working. And a slight chance was better than any others he could see at the moment.

  “All right,” he said. “I reckon we can give it a try. Wait a minute and let me get my pistols ready.”

  The barrage from across the creek continued as Breckinridge, Akins, and Fulbright prepared their weapons. When they were all ready, Breck turned his head, looked at Morgan, and gave him a tense nod.

  “All right, boys!” Morgan called as he crouched, poised to leap out from behind the tree. “Give ’em hell!”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Breckinridge had two pistols, Akins and Fulbright one each. Breck had his rifle, as well, which he fired first as his two friends leaned out from behind the fire pit and triggered their weapons. Instantly, Breck dropped the rifle, snatched up the pistols he had laid out so they would be handy, and they boomed and bucked against his palms.

  The five rounds coming so close together made a thunderous barrage. A cloud of powder smoke rolled from the top of the bluff. As the blasts filled the air, Morgan darted out from behind the tree and raced toward the three rifles. When he was close enough, he dived for them.

  Breckin
ridge turned his head to look, saw Morgan go down abruptly, and for a second thought his friend had been hit.

  But then Morgan grabbed one of the rifles and tossed it toward the fire pit. He followed it with a second rifle, then grabbed the third one and hugged the ground as closely as possible.

  He summoned up a weak grin and called to Breckinridge, “They don’t have a good angle on me from over here. As long as I keep my head down, they can’t hit me. Sounds like a swarm of bugs flying right over my head, though.”

  “We’ll see if we can’t give ’em something else to worry about,” Breckinridge promised as he finished reloading his rifle.

  Over behind the fire pit, Akins reached for one of the rifles, only to jerk his hand back as a shot kicked up dirt near it. He uttered a curse, then said, “Should’ve got these flintlocks a little closer, Morgan.”

  “I didn’t have much time to see where I was tossing them,” Morgan pointed out. “Just be glad they’re as close as they are.”

  “Yeah, I reckon,” Akins groused. He lunged again for the rifle and this time closed his fingers around its barrel. He rolled back behind the fire pit and drew the rifle with him.

  Fulbright repeated the maneuver. One of the rifle balls from the ambushers came so close it clipped a little hair from his bushy beard.

  “Dadgum it!” he yelped as he grabbed the rifle and scrambled back to safety. “If I’d’a wanted to shave, I’d’a done it myself!”

  Now Breckinridge, Akins, and Fulbright were all armed with weapons that could reach their enemies on the other side of the creek. All three men were crack shots, too.

  That meant they could put up a fight, anyway, and men such as them never asked for a guarantee, only a fighting chance.

  As the sun rose higher, the battle settled down to a duel of rifles. Shots zipped back and forth across the creek. Breckinridge thought he scored again on one of the ambushers, but he wasn’t sure.

  After a while, Morgan called, “I’m gonna see if I can crawl backward and get in the trees again. I want to get in on this fracas.”