River of Blood

by William W. Johnstone

  “That’s a good idea,” Powell said. “Who came up with that?”

  “Reckon I did,” Breckinridge admitted with a note of pride in his voice.

  Powell got a thoughtful look on his rugged face and said, “You know, a fella who shows that sort of smart thinkin’ ought to meet the Colonel. He could use a man like you, Wallace.”

  “I’m not lookin’ for a job,” Breckinridge said with a shake of his head, “but I don’t mind meetin’ the Colonel.”

  He strode toward the wagon while Powell turned his horse and fell in alongside him. From behind Breckinridge, Sykes called, “Wallace, where are you goin’?”

  “I’ll be back in a minute, Harry,” Breckinridge said over his shoulder.

  When he reached the wagon, he extended his right hand to the ruddy-faced man on the seat. Powell said, “Colonel, this here is Breckinridge Wallace. You know, I told you about him?”

  The Colonel grunted and said, “Of course.” His piggish eyes didn’t look very friendly, but he briefly clasped Breckinridge’s hand with his pudgy one. He gave Breck a curt nod. “Mr. Wallace.”

  “I’m pleased to meet you, Colonel,” Breckinridge said. “Heard a lot about you from Powell here.”

  That wasn’t strictly true. Powell had said only that the Colonel intended to build a trading post somewhere out here in the mountains. Breckinridge didn’t even know the man’s real name, not that it mattered. He was trying to be polite, though, as he greeted the Colonel.

  “Wallace, come on,” Sykes urged. “You were going to show me some things about settin’ traps, remember?”

  “Sure, sure,” Breckinridge said easily. To Powell, he went on, “You boys gonna be around for the rest of the rendezvous?”

  “I reckon we will,” the white-haired man replied.

  “I’ll see you later, then.”

  Breckinridge turned and started to rejoin Sykes.

  He hadn’t gotten there when he heard his name being called urgently and looked around to see Morgan hurrying toward him.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Breckinridge’s first thought was that something was wrong, but then he realized that Morgan didn’t look upset, just excited.

  “What is it?” Breckinridge asked as his friend came up to him.

  “Some fellas are going to have a tug-of-war,” Morgan said. “We need to get in on this. There’s a prize for the winning team.”

  “What sort of prize?”

  “A five-dollar gold piece. Finch is putting it up.”

  Breckinridge frowned and asked, “How are a bunch of fellas gonna split up one gold piece?”

  “Well, they won’t, of course. They’ll buy as much whiskey as that amount will cover and then split that up.”

  Breckinridge supposed that might work. And Finch would wind up getting the prize money back, which came as no surprise. Breck said, “How are they gonna do this tug-o’-war?”

  Morgan waved a hand toward the creek and said, “They’ll stretch a rope from one bank to the other, line up on either side, and start pulling. First team where all the men either let go of the rope or fall in the water loses.”

  “Wallace . . .” Sykes said peevishly.

  “Sorry, but we’ll have to talk about trappin’ some more later, Harry,” Breckinridge said. “I got to help out my friends for a while.”

  Sykes scowled in evident disappointment, but he didn’t say anything else. Breckinridge turned back to the wagon, said, “Pleasure meetin’ you, Colonel,” then lifted a hand in farewell to Powell and started toward the creek with Morgan.

  “Roscoe’s getting in on this, too,” Morgan said. “And there’ll be some side bets going on, I’m thinking.”

  “Just be careful,” Breckinridge warned him. “You don’t want to go losin’ all that money you’ve worked for.”

  “I won’t lose,” Morgan said, “because I’ll bet on the side you’re on.”

  “I ain’t the only big fella here at this rendezvous, you know,” Breckinridge pointed out.

  “Maybe not, but you’re the only one who could pass for Hercules!”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “How about Samson, then?”

  “The fella from the Bible?” Breckinridge asked. “The one with the long hair?”

  “That’s right.” Morgan grinned. “The scriptures don’t say anything about him having red hair, as I recall, but other than that you’re a dead ringer for him!”

  “Speakin’ of dead, that’s the way Samson wound up, if I recollect the Bible story right.”

  “Well, there’s no temple to fall on you out here, so I don’t think we have to worry about that. The worst that can happen is that you’ll get dunked in the creek.”

  Breckinridge supposed Morgan was right. And the contest sounded like it might be entertaining, too.

  “All right, we’ll give it a try,” he said. “I thought you’d be spendin’ most of the day with Annie, though.”

  Morgan laughed ruefully and shook his head.

  “I may be young,” he said, “but I’m not made of iron! A man’s got to have a little bit of a break, no matter how beautiful the woman is.”

  Breckinridge supposed that was true.

  As they approached the creek, he saw that crowds had gathered on both sides of the stream. Finch and Mahone were both there, and so were a number of the soiled doves, including Dulcy. She smiled across the creek at Breckinridge, which made his heart seem to swell up a mite in his chest.

  “Who’d you say was offerin’ that prize?” he asked Morgan quietly.

  “Finch put up the five dollars. Why?”

  “Just wait,” Breckinridge said.

  One of Finch’s men brought a long, coiled rope to the creek’s edge. He threw one end of it across the stream to where one of Mahone’s men waited. They played out the rope until there were roughly equal lengths of it on each side of the stream. The men who were going to participate moved in to take hold of the rope.

  “Remember, boys, you’re battlin’ here for five dollars, American!” Finch shouted.

  “I’ll make it ten!” Mahone yelled from the other bank.

  Finch glared at him and demanded, “Tryin’ to make me look bad, are you?”

  “I just matched what you’re puttin’ up,” Mahone replied. “But now that you mention it—”

  “No, no, five dollars apiece it is!” Finch snatched his coonskin cap off his balding head and with surprising agility scampered out onto the log bridge, which was about ten yards downstream from where the rope was stretched across the creek. He waved the cap with its long tail over his head and went on, “When I throw this cap in the air, that’ll be the signal to commence! You boys get ready!”

  Morgan said, “Breck, you need to be at the back. You’re our anchor.”

  “All right,” Breckinridge said. He had already seen that he was the largest man on this side of the rope. None of the men on the other side of the creek were as big as he was, either, he had noted, but quite a few of them were pretty burly, anyway. The teams appeared to be evenly matched.

  “Everybody ready?” Finch called.

  Excited shouts of agreement sounded from both sides of the creek.

  “Go!” yelled Finch, and the coonskin cap rose into the air.

  * * *

  Powell knew how much being civil to Wallace had cost Otto Ducharme. He had seen it in the way Ducharme’s face had flushed even more than usual as he was shaking hands and talking with Wallace. Tiny beads of sweat had broken out on the German’s forehead as he struggled not to give in to the fierce hatred that filled him.

  The shotgun lay on the floorboard of the driver’s box, right there at Ducharme’s feet. Wallace wasn’t expecting any trouble. Ducharme probably could have reached down, picked up the shotgun, and blown Wallace’s head off before anybody could stop him.

  Of course, if he’d done that he wouldn’t have gotten to gloat, and Powell and his men would have had to shoot their way out of this rendezvous in order
to protect Ducharme from Wallace’s friends. Powell was just as glad that the man hadn’t acted so recklessly.

  They could still afford to take their time and handle this discreetly.

  And something that might interfere with that was nagging at Powell now as the tug-of-war got underway. Cheers and shouts of encouragement from the crowds on both sides of the creek filled the air. Powell intended to the get to the bottom of whatever was bothering him, so as he sat on his horse next to the wagon he said quietly to Ducharme, “You handled that really well, boss.”

  Ducharme pulled a bandanna from his pocket and mopped his forehead with it.

  “I wanted to kill him,” he said in a low, strained voice. “I really wanted to kill him.”

  “I know you did. And you’ll get your chance. For now, though, I want to look into something else, so why don’t you find a good spot to park the wagon?”

  “You are giving me orders now, instead of the other way around?” Ducharme snapped.

  “Nope. You’re still in charge. But there’s something I need to find out, and I want to be sure there’s not gonna be any trouble while I’m lookin’ into that.”

  “Very well,” Ducharme said with ill grace. “Go on and do whatever it is you need to do.”

  Powell nodded and turned his horse away from the wagon. He rode slowly after the man who had been with Wallace when they first came up, the one Wallace had called Harry.

  Instead of going over to the creek to watch the contest, Harry seemed to be drifting toward the trees. That was where he and Wallace had been headed, and Harry had been upset and even a little angry when first the arrival of Powell and the others and then the announcement of the tug-of-war had interfered with those plans. Powell had seen the anger in the man’s eyes.

  He wanted to know why Harry had reacted that way.

  With all the noise coming from the creek, Powell hoped that Harry wouldn’t hear him coming up from behind. Harry glanced over his shoulder, though, perhaps warned by some instinct, and then started walking faster. He turned away from the woods and went behind the big tent instead.

  Powell bit back a curse and quickly swung down from the saddle. He left the reins dangling and hurried after Harry on foot. He didn’t want to draw attention by galloping across the camp in pursuit.

  He rounded the tent’s rear corner, expecting to see Harry up ahead, but nobody was back here. Powell took several steps and frowned as he came to a stop. The only explanation was that Harry had ducked under the tent’s rear wall. He started to turn back in that direction when something hard and metallic pressed against his neck from behind.

  “You just stand right where you are, mate,” a menacing voice warned, “or I’ll blow a pistol ball right out through your throat.”

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  As Nicodemus Finch shouted, “Go!” and sailed his coonskin cap in the air, Breckinridge planted his booted feet solidly on the ground and threw his weight and strength against the rope. He felt the shock as the weight of the men on the other side of the creek hit his muscles, but he didn’t budge. In fact, he was able to take a short step back as the other team gave a little ground.

  Morgan was right in front of Breckinridge. He glanced back over his shoulder at Breck and grinned.

  “We’ve already got them losing!” he called.

  Breckinridge didn’t waste breath or energy replying. He put his effort into pulling on the rope instead.

  Huge, corded lengths of muscle in his back, shoulders, and arms stood out against the buckskin shirt. Those muscles bulged and shifted as he poured more and more strength into the competition. At first he heard the crowds shouting and cheering, but after a short time all he could hear was the pounding of his own pulse inside his head.

  He was able to move back another step, but then the resistance from the other side stiffened. The men over there were no lightweights. They were trappers, too, many of them hard, seasoned veterans of the frontier. They had fought for their lives in the past, and while they might only be vying for a couple of gold pieces now, they still fought to win. That was the only way they knew how.

  A sudden surge in the other direction took Breckinridge by surprise. Before he could stop himself, he had lost the two steps he had gained, plus another. Then he got his feet braced again and heaved, but he and the men with him couldn’t regain the ground they had lost.

  Panting, Morgan let out a couple of curses. Through clenched teeth, Breckinridge asked him, “Did you . . . bet on us?”

  “Of course . . . I did,” Morgan replied. “I bet . . . everything I’ve got!”

  Breckinridge wanted to admonish his friend. Morgan had done the very thing Breck had warned him against. But again, he didn’t want to waste his breath, so he remained grimly silent and tried to summon up some more strength.

  Finch danced around on the log as he watched the contest. Even though the terms of the competition hadn’t been framed as being between him and Tom Mahone, that was an instinctive reaction on the part of both men. Each wanted the men on his side of the creek to emerge triumphant. Finch yelled, “Pull, you dadgum flibbertigibbets, pull!”

  “Come on, boys!” Mahone exhorted the men on his side of the creek. “Special deals for all of you if you win!”

  Finch wasn’t going to let his old enemy top him. He waved his cap in the air and shouted, “Free drinks and half-price for the gals! All you gotta do is beat those Mahone varmints!”

  Another surge from the men on Mahone’s side pulled Breckinridge and his teammates forward. The man at the front was perilously close to the creek, and suddenly he lost his balance and toppled forward with a yell as he lost his grip on the rope. He went into the water with a splash that was swallowed up by the noise welling up from the other side.

  Now Breckinridge and the men on this side were outnumbered by one, and before they could recover, another man went into the creek. This was fixing to be a rout, Breck thought, unless they could stem the tide. His lips drew back from his teeth in a grimace as he hauled on the rope.

  Outnumbered or not, the massive strength of Breckinridge Wallace as their anchor made a difference. Breck took one stomping step back, then another. An inarticulate cry escaped from his throat. He dug in, leaned back, heaved. His boot heels sunk into the ground. He leaned more and more, the angle becoming extreme. Another step, another . . .

  The lead man on the Mahone side went into the creek, followed almost instantly by the second in line. That tipped the balance where it had failed to do so the other way. Breckinridge kept backing up, aided by the other men on his side but in truth doing most of the work himself. As the resistance lessened, he was able to turn, put the rope over his shoulder, and bull forward now, away from the creek.

  Suddenly the rope was slack as the rest of the other team floundered and splashed into the creek. Breckinridge lost his balance and staggered for several yards before he was able to catch himself. He turned, grinning, and saw Morgan and the other men on this side jumping up in the air and shouting in excitement.

  Out on the log bridge, Nicodemus Finch capered so enthusiastically that he slipped and fell into the creek. He came up sputtering and shouting incoherently, which to be honest didn’t really sound that much different from what usually came out of his mouth. A couple of his men waded into the stream to fish him out.

  Morgan, Akins, and the other men crowded around Breckinridge, whooping and pounding him on the back in congratulations.

  “You did it, Breck!” Morgan said. “We never could have won without you! You did it practically single-handed!”

  “We were all workin’ at it,” Breckinridge said, trying to be fair. “We all won.”

  With creek water pouring off of him, Finch came up and slapped a coin into Breckinridge’s hand.

  “Looks like I was wrong about you, son!” he said. “You sure took care of those black-hearted musharoos! Drinks are on me!” He started toward the tent, then stopped short and added, “One drink! One drink on me!”

/>   Breckinridge handed the gold piece to Morgan and said, “You take care o’ this.”

  “Don’t you want your share of the bet, Breck?”

  “I didn’t bet anything,” he said. “That was all your doin’, remember?”

  “Well, maybe, but you deserve something . . .”

  Breckinridge looked across the creek to where Dulcy was standing by herself now as the disappointed crowd began to break up. He told Morgan, “Don’t worry, I intend to collect some winnin’s . . .”

  * * *

  The mule team from Ducharme’s wagon had been unhitched and picketed by the time Powell walked up with Harry Sykes beside him. Sykes had put away his pistol, but anger still smoldered inside Powell. He didn’t like to have anybody pull a gun on him, and any time that happened, normally he made sure the son of a bitch who did it soon regretted his action.

  So he wasn’t going to forget that he had a score to settle with Sykes over that, but for now it made more sense to swallow his pride and let the Englishman talk to Otto Ducharme.

  At the moment Ducharme was sitting on a stool that had been taken out of the wagon. He still looked angry, but it was hard to tell for sure since that was his regular expression most of the time.

  Ducharme glared at Sykes and demanded, “Who is this?”

  “His name’s Harry Sykes, boss,” Powell said, “and he’s got something in common with us.”

  “And what is that?” Ducharme asked with a sneer.

  Powell glanced around to make sure no one except the rest of Ducharme’s men was in hearing distance, then said, “He wants Breckinridge Wallace dead, too.”

  Ducharme’s eyes widened. He sat up straighter and said, “Was ist los?”

  “I don’t speak your language, mister,” Sykes said, “but I reckon I understand. You heard right. I’m after that redheaded bastard Wallace, too.”

  Powell and Sykes had been cautious about revealing their true goals, but after a few tense minutes of feeling each other out it had become obvious they were after the same thing.