River of Blood

by William W. Johnstone

  Right now, more than anything else, he wanted to get across the creek and find Dulcy. Over the pounding of Horse’s hoofbeats, he called, “If I don’t see you again, Preacher, I’m mighty obliged for your help!”

  The mountain man twisted his head and began, “What’re you—”

  He was too late. Breckinridge had already dived off the stallion.

  His leap carried him into one of the warriors. Breckinridge wrapped his arms around the Blackfoot and drove him to the ground. Momentum made both of them roll over and over.

  They came to a stop with Breck on top and the warrior on the bottom. Breck brought his right fist up and around in a looping, sledgehammer blow that landed in the center of the man’s face and collapsed it as bones shattered and crunched. The Indian spasmed and then lay still.

  Breckinridge scooped up the tomahawk the man had dropped, then leaped to his feet.

  He would have charged directly into the creek and waded across, but he spotted Nicodemus Finch in the middle of the log bridge, struggling with one of the Blackfeet. The warrior had a big hunting knife clutched in his fist and was doing his best to bury it in Finch’s scrawny chest. Finch had hold of his enemy’s wrist and was keeping the blade away for the moment, but Breckinridge could tell that Finch’s strength was about to give out. Breck had to help him.

  Before Breckinridge could get there, Tom Mahone limped out onto the log from the other direction, raised his walking stick, and brought it crashing down on the warrior’s head from behind with skull-crushing force. The Indian dropped the knife and pitched off the makeshift bridge.

  That left the two old enemies standing there facing each other, but only for a second. Then an arrow ripped into one of Mahone’s withered thighs and lodged there. Mahone yelled, flailed his arms in the air, and toppled into the creek.

  “Tom!” Finch yelled. “Hold on, you frazzle-livered gafftop!” He leaped into the stream, as well.

  Breckinridge didn’t take the time to help them. The creek was shallow enough that they shouldn’t drown. He bounded across the log instead, his feet barely touching it twice.

  Gripping the tomahawk tightly, he headed for Dulcy’s tent. There was no guarantee she would be there, but he figured it was the best place to start looking. Also, he didn’t see any Blackfeet around there at the moment, so maybe if she was hiding there no one had bothered her yet.

  He ran up to the tent, ripped the entrance flap aside, and plunged in. Instantly, something crashed against his back with enough force to make him stumble. He dropped to one knee but caught his balance in time to keep from falling all the way down.

  “Breckinridge! Oh my God! I’m sorry!”

  The startled cry came from Dulcy. Breckinridge was so relieved to hear her voice he didn’t care that she had walloped him with something. From where he knelt, he looked around and saw her as she dropped the piece of firewood she had used to hit him.

  She rushed into his arms as he turned and came to his feet. He held her tightly against his broad chest, encircling her with his arms. She sobbed a little, whether from pain or fear, he couldn’t tell.

  “Dulcy, are you all right?” he asked as he stroked a hand over her raven hair.

  “I . . . I’m fine,” she said without lifting her head. “When . . . when you rushed in, I didn’t know it was you. I thought it was . . . was one of those savages. When all the yelling and screaming started, I ran outside and grabbed that piece of firewood from one of the stacks, then came back in here to hide . . .”

  “You done the right thing,” he told her.

  “Who are all those Indians?”

  “Blackfeet,” he said grimly. “They hate whites more’n any other tribe in this part of the country.”

  He didn’t mention that his own actions had played a part in causing this attack. He didn’t feel like he had done anything wrong—he and his friends had only been defending themselves from that earlier war party—but it was doubtful that these warriors would have attacked the rendezvous if the previous clash hadn’t happened.

  “What’s going to happen to us?” Dulcy asked.

  “I don’t know. Depends on how the fight goes, I reckon.”

  He should have tried to reassure her and tell her that everything was going to be fine, he thought, but he generally tried to tell the truth. Anyway, Dulcy was smart enough to know just how bad the situation was without Breckinridge telling her.

  All of them would stand a better chance in the long run if he was out there in the middle of the fracas. He let go of her, bent, and picked up the piece of firewood. As he pressed it back into her hands, he said, “Hang on to this. You might need it again. Best aim for the head next time, though.”

  Even in these perilous circumstances, she was able to summon a smile.

  “I was aiming for where a normal person’s head would be,” she said. “It’s not my fault you’re as big as Goliath.”

  Breckinridge had to laugh. He said, “Stay here, keep your head down, and don’t come out until somebody you know tells you it’s all right.”

  “You come back and get me, Breckinridge. You hear me? You.”

  “Do my best,” he promised her.

  Still carrying the tomahawk, he ducked out of the tent and looked around for somebody to fight.

  Several strident whoops erupted from his left. He wheeled in that direction to see three of the Blackfoot warriors charging at him. Two of them brandished knives while the third man carried a ’hawk like the one in Breckinridge’s hand.

  The one with the tomahawk hung back a little and let his knife-wielding companions lead the attack. Breckinridge ducked under one of the slashing blades, then lowered his shoulder and rammed the warrior into the man beside him.

  While both of the Indians stumbled, Breck whipped the tomahawk back and forth. The first strike shattered one man’s jaw, then the return buried the head in the second man’s temple.

  Breckinridge jerked the weapon free and leaped back just in time to avoid a vicious downstroke from the third Indian’s tomahawk that would have caved in his skull. The ’hawk’s stone head brushed the front of Breck’s shirt.

  With his free hand, he grabbed the front of the warrior’s buckskin shirt and heaved him off his feet. The Blackfoot crashed to the ground and rolled over, and as he did, Breck pounced, bringing his tomahawk down between the man’s eyes with such terrific force that it split the warrior’s head in two.

  Whirling away from the man who had met that grisly fate, Breckinridge almost caught an arrow in the throat. It missed by inches, and the shaft bounced off his shoulder instead. The warrior who had fired it was about fifteen feet away, about to nock another arrow. Breck let fly with the tomahawk.

  It cracked into the man’s forehead and dropped him either dead or out cold. Breckinridge bounded past him, pausing for a split second to retrieve the tomahawk, and then he plunged back into the melee.

  There was no way to keep track of time in the bloody swath of violence that followed. Breckinridge waded through his enemies, hacking right and left with the ’hawk. Somewhere he picked up a knife with his left hand and slashed and thrust with it, as well. The ground was sticky with blood under his feet, and gore splattered both arms up past the elbows. It was slaughter the likes of which he had never experienced. He didn’t even feel the minor wounds he suffered in return. He was moving so fast it seemed that none of the Blackfeet could get a decent shot at him.

  In reality the battle probably lasted less than half an hour, but to Breckinridge the killing seemed endless. Finally, though, there was no one left for him to fight. He stood rooted to the ground, chest heaving, shaking his head as if to clear away the bloodred haze that had descended over his eyes, and looked around to see the bodies heaped around him.

  “Breck! Breck!”

  The shout made his head jerk around. It wasn’t Dulcy calling his name this time, but rather Morgan Baxter. Morgan hurried toward him, face smeared with blood from a gash on his forehead. He grabbed Breckinridge�
�s arm.

  “Breck, are you all right?” Morgan asked. Aghast, he looked up and down his friend’s giant frame. “My God, you’re covered with blood!”

  “Most of it ain’t mine,” Breckinridge said. “I reckon I’m fine. How about you?”

  “A few scrapes. Nothing to worry about.”

  “What about Roscoe and Amos?”

  A bleak expression settled on Morgan’s face. He shook his head and said, “Roscoe got an arrow in the side, but I think he’ll be all right. Amos is dead. One of those red bastards shot him through the heart.”

  Breckinridge sighed. It was hard to believe Amos Fulbright was gone. The big, bearded man had been so full of mirth and vitality.

  “I’m sorry,” Breckinridge muttered. “He was a good man.”

  Morgan was starting to look anxious now. He said, “I’ve got to go find Annie. Come with me, Breck.”

  Breckinridge hesitated. He wanted to get back to Dulcy, but Morgan seemed really worried, and who could blame him? Anyway, it shouldn’t take them more than a few minutes to locate Annie, Breck reasoned. Finch’s Point wasn’t that big.

  They set out searching, and as they did Breckinridge looked around them. The big tents had burned to the ground, the infernos fueled by the whiskey that had been inside them. For the most part, the fires were out now. Only a few small flames danced here and there.

  The Blackfeet had wreaked a considerable amount of bloody havoc, but the trappers were better armed and they were good shots, to boot. The abundance of rifles and pistols had taken a deadly toll. Breck didn’t know if any of the attackers had escaped with their lives. Considering the number of Blackfoot corpses littering the ground, not many could have.

  “Hey, youngster!”

  Breckinridge looked over and saw Preacher approaching them. Dog padded along at the mountain man’s side, his muzzle stained with the blood of his enemies. Preacher seemed to be unharmed, which came as no surprise to Breck. From what he had heard of the man, Preacher was the deadliest Indian fighter west of the Mississippi.

  “Glad to see you made it,” Preacher said as he joined them.

  “You, too,” Breckinridge said. He introduced Preacher and Morgan, then went on, “We’re lookin’ for a gal that Morgan’s right fond of.”

  “One of the doves?” Preacher asked. He nodded to their right. “I just saw some of ’em over yonder outside a tent.”

  Morgan broke into a trot in that direction.

  Breckinridge and Preacher followed and caught up in time to see Morgan hugging Annie for all he was worth. The blonde clutched him with equal intensity. Breck saw several of the other young women nearby, then frowned as he spotted Francesca and Bonnie lying motionless on the ground behind them. Both had arrows protruding from their bodies, and there was no doubt they were dead. The other soiled doves, including Annie, didn’t appear to be hurt, so there was that to be thankful for, anyway, while mourning the two who were lost.

  Since Morgan and Annie had been reunited, at least for now, and since there was nothing he could do here, Breckinridge told Preacher, “I’m headin’ back across the creek. I left somebody over there.”

  “That gal you told me about?”

  “Yeah. I saw her earlier and she was all right then. I told her to keep out of sight until I came to get her.”

  “I’ll come with you,” Preacher said with a shrug.

  They walked to the log bridge. On the far bank sat Nicodemus Finch and Tom Mahone. Both of the old-timers were soaked from being dunked in the creek. Finch must have taken the arrow out of Mahone’s leg, because he was tying a torn piece of cloth from his shirt around the wound.

  Breckinridge didn’t figure the two of them would ever give up their feud, but maybe they didn’t hate each other quite as much as they let on, he thought.

  Then he and Preacher were on the far side of the creek heading toward Dulcy’s tent. They were still about twenty feet from it and Breckinridge was about to call her name when the entrance flap was thrust back and she stepped out.

  She wasn’t alone, though. Right behind her with his left arm looped around her neck and his right hand holding a pistol to her head was the white-haired killer called Powell.

  Chapter Forty-four

  Breckinridge started to lunge forward, but Powell stopped him by grinding the gun’s muzzle against Dulcy’s head hard enough to make her gasp in pain.

  “Don’t do anything crazy, Wallace,” Powell warned. “I got nothin’ against this woman, but I’ll sure kill her if I have to.”

  “You let her go,” Breckinridge raged. “Your fight’s with me, not her.”

  “I don’t have a fight with you. Ducharme does. You’re nothin’ to me but the promise of some gold, Wallace.”

  “You son of a bitch. You hurt her, you’ll be dead two seconds later.”

  “Maybe. But that won’t bring her back to life, will it?”

  Preacher said, “Mister, you better make sure I’m dead when you leave here, otherwise you’re gonna be lookin’ over your shoulder for me from now on.”

  “Who the hell are you?” Powell asked with a frown.

  “Friend of the boy’s.” Preacher inclined his head toward Breckinridge.

  “You’re the one who pulled him out of that ravine!”

  “Yep. And killed a goodly number of your bunch in the process, I’m thinkin’.”

  “There’s enough of us left,” Powell said ominously.

  As if to prove his point, half a dozen men came out of the trees nearby, including Otto Ducharme. The German was disheveled and more red-faced than usual, but his beefy face was still etched with lines of hate as he glared at Breckinridge.

  “Kill the woman,” he snapped at Powell. “If Wallace cares for her, let him know the pain of loss as I have.”

  “Not a good idea, boss,” Powell said. “This gal’s our way outta here. She and Wallace are comin’ with us, and once we’re good and away from here, you can do whatever you want to the big bastard.”

  “I’ll come with you,” Breckinridge said without hesitation, “but you got to let Dulcy go.”

  “Not until we know we’re safe,” Powell insisted. “Then sure, she can go. Nobody’ll hurt her.”

  Breckinridge knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was lying. As soon as they had no further use for Dulcy, they would kill her.

  Well, maybe not right away, he amended. First they would have their sport with her, like the craven animals they were.

  Dulcy must have known that, too, and more than that, she had to realize that Breckinridge had just volunteered to give up his life in an attempt to save hers. Her lips formed a word, and Breck realized she had just whispered, “No.”

  He cried, “Dulcy, wait—”

  It was too late. She twisted in Powell’s grip and grabbed at the pistol he held. Somehow, she was fast enough to get her hands around the barrel and jerk it away from her head before he could pull the trigger.

  But pull the trigger he did, and as the pistol boomed Dulcy cried out and doubled over. A howl of rage tore itself from Breckinridge’s throat as he leaped at Powell.

  The white-haired man slashed at Breckinridge’s head with the empty pistol. The blow glanced off Breck’s head but didn’t slow him down. His momentum carried him into Powell with an impact that drove Powell off his feet. Breck’s hands found Powell’s throat as the two of them crashed to the ground next to Dulcy’s sprawled body. He was vaguely aware of guns going off, an ear-numbing roar of black powder fury, but the rest of his attention was focused on the man who had just shot Dulcy.

  He clamped down harder with both huge hands around Powell’s throat, planted a knee in the middle of the man’s chest, and heaved. The crack of Powell’s neck snapping was as loud and sharp as if a tree branch had broken. The man’s eyes glazed over as he went limp.

  Breckinridge knelt there, breathing heavily, for a couple of seconds before an inarticulate cry was wrenched from deep inside him. He turned his head and saw Dulcy’s bloody, mo
tionless form.

  Then his head swung the other way, and his eyes fixed on Otto Ducharme, who stood there quivering as if in rage.

  It wasn’t anger that made Ducharme shake now, though. It was fear. The men with him were all down, a couple wounded, the others dead. Smoke still curled from the barrel of Preacher’s rifle, as it did from the pistols held by Morgan Baxter, who had come up in time to join in the brief gun battle. Nicodemus Finch was there, too, with his old-fashioned blunderbuss clutched in his gnarled hands. The wide-barreled weapon might be old, as was its owner, but it had done some damage.

  Breckinridge pushed himself to his feet. Slowly, deliberately, he started toward Ducharme. The man’s blubbery lips spilled what had to be frightened curses in his native tongue as Breck approached him. The young man’s face was set in lines as hard as stone.

  “You . . . you got what you deserved!” Ducharme stammered in English.

  Preacher drawled, “I reckon you’re the one who’s about to get what’s comin’ to him, mister.”

  Ducharme’s eyes suddenly got wider. They bulged until they seemed like they were about to pop from their sockets. He lifted a trembling hand and pressed it to his chest as he took a couple of reeling steps to the side and then pitched forward, landing with his face in the dirt.

  Breckinridge stopped. He shook his head a little, as if he were puzzled by what he had just witnessed.

  Finch said, “Looks like the sumbitch’s ticker give out.”

  Morgan looked over at him and said, “You didn’t call him some crazy names.”

  Finch snorted.

  “Fella like that ain’t worth makin’ up fancy words over,” he said.

  Morgan hurried forward and dropped to a knee beside Ducharme. He rolled the German onto his back and then said, “Looks mighty dead to me.”

  “Me, too,” Preacher agreed.

  That was all Breckinridge needed to hear. It was over.

  All but the grieving, he thought as he turned toward Dulcy.

  * * *

  The black maid called Ophelia answered the heavy knock on the door of Richard Aylesworth’s house in Knoxville. When she saw who stood there, her eyes got big and her mouth formed an O of surprise. She took an involuntary step backward.