Bristow wasn’t the only one who’d been injured during the fight with Breckinridge Wallace. Edgeworth had been spitting up blood and complaining that the kick Wallace had landed in his belly had busted something inside him.
That was certainly possible, Powell thought. Wallace had torn into them like a wildcat. Powell had hung back and let the other four men go first and run the most risks, and he was glad he had, otherwise Wallace might have injured him, too.
It was too bad Otto Ducharme wanted to take his revenge on Wallace personally. Wanted to look Wallace in the eye in the instant before the big man died. Otherwise it sure would have been easier to ambush Wallace and kill him that way.
Ducharme was paying well enough to make some risks acceptable, though.
Powell and the others saddled their horses in the dark and led the animals a good distance away from the camp before mounting and riding off. Their early, stealthy departure might puzzle some people, but that was better than letting Wallace lay eyes on the injured Bristow and Edgeworth and realize that Powell’s men were the ones who’d attacked him in that whore’s tent.
When they met up with Ducharme and the rest of the bunch and returned to the rendezvous, they would do so without the injured men. Bristow and Edgeworth would have to fend for themselves.
Edgeworth rode hunched over in the saddle as he muttered curses to himself. An ashen-faced Bristow swayed and had to clutch the saddle horn with his good hand from time to time to keep from falling off his horse. The shot from Wallace’s pistol had broken his shoulder, and Powell doubted if he would ever be good for much of anything again.
Might be kinder just to shoot him in the head and put him out of his misery. The same went for Edgeworth. If Wallace’s kick really had broken something inside him, his death would probably be a lingering, agonizing hell.
That was their lookout, though, Powell decided. Both men had pistols if they wanted to end their suffering.
Powell knew the route Ducharme and the others would be following. It wasn’t hard to backtrack along the trail. Around midmorning he sighted the wagon and the other riders coming toward him and his companions.
Powell reined in and told the others, “We might as well wait here and let them come to us.”
They sat there on horseback as Ducharme’s party approached. The wealthy German was handling the reins of the wagon team himself this morning, instead of having one of the other men do it. His beefy face wore a scowl as he brought the vehicle to a halt about ten feet from Powell.
“That man is wounded,” Ducharme snapped, pointing to the bandaged Bristow. He nodded in Edgeworth’s direction and went on, “And that one looks sick. What happened? Is that devil Breckinridge Wallace responsible for this?”
“That’s right,” Powell said as he sat with his hands crossed and resting on his saddle. “We tried to grab him last night and bring him to you, but he turned out to be too much for us to handle.”
“Too much for you to handle! Five against one?”
“Tackling Wallace is sort of like trying to corral a grizzly bear,” Powell drawled. He wasn’t going to let Ducharme intimidate him. “We’ll get him, though, don’t you worry about that, Mr. Ducharme. Even if it takes all of us.”
Ducharme’s glare didn’t go away as he ordered, “Tell me what happened. All the details.”
Powell did so, not glossing over anything or trying to paint himself in a better light. He had put this group of hardcases together and was their leader, so he’d had a right to order the other men to try to capture Wallace.
Ducharme seemed not to see things that way, however. When Powell was finished with the story, Ducharme let out a contemptuous snort and said, “So you remained out of harm’s way, eh, Powell, while your minions failed at their task?”
“I’m not sure I like what you’re hintin’ at there, boss,” Powell said with an icy hint of anger in his voice.
“And I’m certain I do not care what you like or don’t like,” Ducharme replied. “All that matters to me is that Breckinridge Wallace must pay with his life for the great evil he did to my son. I will settle that debt with my own hands, looking him in the eye so he knows why he is about to die. Nothing else means a thing to me.”
“You’ll have your revenge,” Powell promised. “We’ll head on to the rendezvous, and when we get there we’ll come up with another plan for separating Wallace from his friends so they can’t interfere with us.”
“Do not delay too long,” Ducharme warned. He swept a pudgy hand toward the other riders. “We have enough men. If it becomes necessary, we will deal with Wallace’s friends, as well, along with anyone else who stands in our way.”
“Are you saying—”
“I am saying,” Ducharme intoned flatly, “that we will kill everyone at that rendezvous if we have to in order for me to take my vengeance on Breckinridge Wallace.”
Chapter Thirty-two
The sun was already up when Breckinridge woke the next morning, which was mighty unusual. Right off hand, he couldn’t recall the last time he had slept that late. Out here on the frontier, a man had to be up before dawn if he was going to get the day’s work done.
He stretched, opened his eyes, and realized that he was alone in the tent. As he pushed himself into a sitting position and yawned, though, the entrance flap opened and Dulcy came in carrying a tin cup. Steam curled up from what was inside it, and a delicious aroma drifted to Breckinridge’s nose.
“I thought you might like some coffee,” she said. She handed him the cup and then sank to her knees on the blanket in front of him.
Breckinridge sipped the strong black brew from the cup. It was scalding hot, and it cleared away almost instantly the cobwebs that lingered in his brain from sleep.
“That’s mighty good,” he told Dulcy. “I’m obliged to you.”
“And I’m obliged to you,” she said. “That was the best night I’ve had in a while. Well, if you ignore that blond harpy trying to drown me and those men busting in here for whatever they were after, that is.”
Breckinridge took another sip of the coffee and frowned in thought. It was sort of early in the morning to try to figure things out, but he couldn’t help himself.
“From what I heard one of ’em say, I’m pretty sure they were after me. I don’t think they were tryin’ to kill me, though. From the way they were actin’, lambastin’ me with clubs and all, it seemed more like they wanted to knock me out so they could carry me off somewhere.”
“Who in the world would want to do that?” Dulcy asked with a frown of her own.
Breckinridge could only shake his head and say dolefully, “I don’t know.”
His thoughts went back, though, to the battles of the past few days. He and his friends had assumed that the men who’d jumped them had wanted to kill them and steal their furs. But all along, Breckinridge had had the nagging feeling that there was something more to it than that.
One thing was certain, however: the men with whom he and his friends had fought had been trying to kill them. Breckinridge had felt the hot breath of too many rifle balls coming too close to his face to doubt that.
So unless they had changed tactics, the survivors from that bunch weren’t the same men who had invaded Dulcy’s tent the night before.
Was it possible there were two separate groups after him, one that wanted him dead and the other that intended to capture him for some unknown reason?
That theory seemed crazy to Breckinridge, but it would go a long way toward explaining things. But even if it were true, two vital questions remained.
Who and why?
Breckinridge had no answers. Maybe when he had woken up a little more, he told himself.
“I reckon we’ll worry about it later,” he told Dulcy. “Any grub left out there to go with this coffee?”
“There is,” she said, “but I thought there was one other thing we should do before having breakfast.”
“What’s that?” Breckinridge asked.
&n
bsp; “This,” she said as she leaned forward. She put her arms around his neck and pressed the soft curves of her body against his bare chest as she kissed him.
Breckinridge set the coffee cup aside without spilling a drop of the liquid that remained in it, then put his arms around Dulcy and lay back on the blanket, pulling her on top of him.
* * *
When they emerged from the tent later, Breckinridge looked around and saw that the camps on both sides of the creek were already larger than they had been the day before. More trappers were arriving for the get-together. A low buzz of conversation and laughter hung in the air.
After Breckinridge and Dulcy had had a breakfast of biscuits and bacon cooked by the soiled dove called Emma, Breck said regretfully, “I reckon I’d better go hunt up my pards and see how they’re doin’ this mornin’.”
“I understand,” Dulcy said. “You’ll stop back by later, though, won’t you?”
Breckinridge grinned as he said, “Just let anybody try to stop me!”
He started to turn away when she stopped him by saying, “Breck . . . you know what I’ll be doing today, don’t you?”
He frowned as he answered her question this time, saying, “Well, sure. I’d have to be a fool not to know.”
“I hope it doesn’t bother you too much. It’s just a job, you know.”
“We all do what we’ve got to do,” he said. “I sort of wish you’d never been put in the position of havin’ to work for Mahone. I don’t know the story, and I ain’t askin’. But I’m sure things could’ve worked out a whole heap better for you.” He shrugged. “On the other hand, if you weren’t workin’ for Mahone, I’d never have met you, and that’d be a shame, too. So I don’t hardly know what to think.”
“That’s all right, Breckinridge.” She came up on her toes, and he bent down so she could brush a kiss across his cheek. “I think you’re a nice young man, and we’ll leave it at that.”
“Sounds good to me,” Breckinridge agreed. He smiled and lifted a hand in farewell as he headed for the creek.
He found the rocks Dulcy had mentioned using as stepping-stones, and with his long legs he had no trouble crossing the stream that way.
It might not be as easy for others, though, he realized, and he wondered if there was some better way to span the creek. There were quite a few logs around, and if he found one long enough, he and some of the other men might be able to lift it and place it across the creek so it would serve as a bridge.
Finch and Mahone probably wouldn’t be happy if it was easier for their customers to cross back and forth—doubtless they would prefer that the mountain men pick a side and stay there—but Breckinridge didn’t really care what the two feuding old-timers thought about it.
He put that plan out of his mind for the moment as he approached the spot where Morgan, Akins, and Fulbright had camped near the canoes. The lightweight craft loaded with pelts was still sitting on the bank, apparently undisturbed since the men had arrived the day before. Fulbright and Akins sat nearby on a log, smoking pipes. Breckinridge didn’t see Morgan Baxter.
“Mornin’, Breck,” Fulbright greeted him between puffs. “How are you this mornin’?”
Akins said, “What in hell happened over there last night? We heard all sorts of commotion.”
“I’m fine,” Breckinridge said, answering Fulbright’s question first. “As for that ruckus, some fellas tried to bust into the tent where Dulcy and me were sleepin’.”
Both of the other men exclaimed in surprise. Breckinridge told them about the fight, concluding, “I didn’t really get a good look at any of ’em, so I don’t know who they were or what they wanted, other than it seemed like they were tryin’ to grab me and carry me off.”
“No offense,” Akins said, “but why would anybody want to do that?”
“Ransom, maybe?” Fulbright suggested.
“That don’t seem likely,” Breckinridge said. “It ain’t like I’m worth anything. Morgan’s pa had money, so I guess that means Morgan does, too, once he goes back home and collects his inheritance, but my pa’s just a hardworkin’ farmer. Anybody who wanted to sell me back would wind up mighty disappointed.”
“Well, it beats me,” Akins said, “but I’m glad you’re all right. It’s a damned shame when you can’t even come to a rendezvous without runnin’ into a bunch of trouble.”
Breckinridge sighed and nodded.
“Hate to say it, but the blamed stuff seems to follow me around wherever I go.”
Chapter Thirty-three
Morgan sauntered up a short time later with a pleased expression on his face. Breckinridge took one look at him, grinned, and said, “I reckon you had a good night.”
“Annie is quite a woman,” Morgan said with a sigh.
“I thought you already bedded that skinny Francesca.”
“Well, hell, I’m young, aren’t I? Fellas our age bounce back quick.”
With a sour look on his face, Akins said, “I don’t remember that far back.”
Morgan’s expression grew more serious as he asked, “What happened over there last night, Breck?”
Breckinridge had to tell the story yet again. At least this was the last time, he thought. Anybody else asked him, he would tell them it was none of their damn business.
Morgan couldn’t come up with an explanation for the attack, either. He shook his head and said, “It almost sounds like somebody with a grudge against you followed you out here, but that’s kind of crazy.”
“Yeah, it is, isn’t it?” Breckinridge said.
A frown creased his forehead, though, as he thought about what Morgan had said. He had left some enemies back home, and he had made more on the way west. It seemed unlikely to think that any of them would come this far simply to seek revenge on him, but he supposed he couldn’t rule it out until he had more evidence to go on.
For the time being, he was going to try to enjoy the rendezvous. With the fur business shrinking, it was only a matter of time until these annual affairs wouldn’t take place anymore. He wanted to experience all this one had to offer.
The first order of business was to dispose of their pelts. Around midday, a couple of wagons rolled in. A short, bald man incongruously outfitted in a tweed suit and a coonskin cap was on the seat of the lead wagon, and many of the trappers greeted him with friendly shouts of “Hey, Stubby!”
“Who’s that?” Breckinridge asked Akins as they were drawn to the commotion like the others.
“One of the fur buyers,” Akins answered. “I never did business with him myself, but I’ve heard of him. Name’s Blaine, I think, but everybody calls him Stubby.”
The newcomer didn’t waste any time getting down to business. A couple of the men who’d come with him took a table from one of the wagons and set it on the ground. Blaine placed a chair behind it and declared himself ready to deal, adding in a gravelly voice at odds with his small stature, “I’m the first one here, gents, so you know what that means. I get the pick of the pelts, and I pay the best prices. So grab your furs and let’s get started.”
Morgan held their place in line while Breckinridge and Akins went to fetch the pelts. They brought Fulbright back with them. Once the furs were sold, he wouldn’t have to stand guard over them anymore. That would be the responsibility of Stubby Blaine and his men.
Quietly, Breckinridge asked Morgan, “Do you know what a good price is for a load of pelts like this?”
“No,” Morgan admitted, “but Roscoe does. We’ll let him handle the dickering.”
“I’ll do the best I can, boys,” Akins promised.
When their turn came, Breckinridge lifted the heavy bales onto the table. Stubby Blaine pawed through the furs, examining some of them closely, seemingly paying little attention to others. After several minutes, he nodded, looked up at Breck and the other three, and announced his offer.
Akins frowned and said, “No offense, but that seems a mite on the low side to me.”
One of the big, burly men w
ho had come to the rendezvous with Blaine made a low growling sound in his throat and started to step forward.
Blaine lifted a hand to rein in his assistant and gave Akins a friendly smile.
“None taken,” he said, “but you haven’t dealt with me before, have you, friend?”
“Nope,” Akins said. “I’ve always taken my pelts to a tradin’ post or down the river to St. Louis.”
“All right, because of that I’m not going to be insulted by your comment. I’ll just tell you that no one who comes to the rendezvous pays as well for furs as Hobart Blaine. If you don’t believe that, you’re free to go and ask around.” A touch of steel came into the little man’s voice as he went on, “But if you take these pelts off the table now and come back with them later, after you’re satisfied with my bona fides, I can promise you that the offer won’t be as high. These are good pelts, and I’ve offered you a good deal.”
Akins glanced nervously at his partners.
“What do you boys think?”
Before the others could answer, Blaine said, “Tell you what. I’ll sweeten the deal a little and add . . .” He appeared to think about it. “Ten more dollars to the price.”
Breckinridge caught Akins’s eye and nodded. He had seen a lot of horse trading going on back in Tennessee, and he figured Blaine had been prepared to pay that price all along. It was possible they could nudge him up a little more if they were stubborn about it. But Breck’s pa had taught him it was better to cultivate a good relationship with those a fella did business with, rather than trying to gouge every single nickel out of them. That way it was more likely there would be another deal to do next time.
“All right,” Akins said. “We’re obliged to you, Mr. Blaine.”
“Oh hell, call me Stubby,” Blaine said with a grin. He gestured to his men to take the pelts and load them in one of the wagons. While they were doing that, Blaine took a buckskin pouch from inside his coat and counted out coins from it until he had the agreed-upon amount lying on the table. He pushed them across to Akins. “Pleasure doin’ business with you.”
River of Blood Page 16
