The Lonely Breed : A Western Fiction Classic (Yakima Henry Book 1)

by Peter Brandvold

  When she finished washing, she decided to gather firewood. That way, when she moved to the boulder for the rifle, she wouldn't arouse the men's suspicions.

  She'd gathered a sizable pile of driftwood and deadfall when all three men filed toward a tree under which was a barren patch of ground and a rock ring blackened from many fires.

  "Well, lookee here," said Dietrich, a brown-paper cigarette dangling from between his lips, sweat streaking the dirt and grit on his burned cheekbones and low cap of tight, curly black hair. He tossed his hat on the ground. "The bitch can do real work, after all."

  "I'll be damned," said Schultz, tossing a bundle of blankets and a burlap food sack on the ground near the fire ring. "How 'bout we see if you can light a fire, too, missy. It's get-tin' right chilly." He hugged himself, running his hands up and down his arms.

  "Then you can git to work on whippin' us up some grub," said Grayson, throwing down his own gear, dropping beside it, and resting his back against a small aspen. "My backbone and my stomach are gettin' way too friendly."

  "Sure," Faith said, trying to keep her voice from trembling. She wheeled and strode toward the boulder, turning her head to keep an eye on the men behind her. "Let me just fetch one more stick of wood ..."

  "And when you've done the dishes," Dietrich said, on his knees and rummaging around in a war bag, "you can strip yourself naked and climb into my hot roll." He chuffed and popped the cork on a bottle. "You an' me—we're gonna give a whole new meanin' to 'hot roll'!"

  The other two laughed.

  Faith stooped down behind the boulder, picked up the rifle, thumbed back the hammer, and holding it straight out before her, moved back toward the three men gathered on the far side of the fire ring.

  "Hey!" shouted Schultz. "She's got the goddamn Springfield!"

  The other two turned to her sharply, Dietrich lowering the bottle so quickly that whiskey washed over his lips and down his chest.

  "Yeah, I got a rifle," Faith said, squeezing the weathered forestock and planting the front sight on the pale strip of skin beneath Dietrich's black hairline.

  "Goddamn it, bitch!" the freighter shouted, his face going white. "Put that rifle down now!"

  At the same time, Schultz cried, "Miss, don't do this!"

  Faith smiled as she steadied the rifle and drew her index finger back on the trigger. The hammer dropped with a metallic click.

  Faith squinted, steeling herself for the explosion and kick.

  It didn't come. There was only the click.

  Before her, leaning back on his haunches, frozen with his arms up to shield his face, Dietrich blinked.

  Then he smiled. After another second, his lips stretched a smile. "That's the problem with that old rifle. It misfires every fourth or fifth shot!"

  Faith's heart turned a somersault.

  Fear and fury churning within, she fumbled with the Springfield's trigger-guard cocking lever. At the same time, Dietrich gained his feet and rushed toward her. She screamed, abandoned the idea of cocking the rifle, and clutching the forestock, swung it toward Dietrich.

  He laughed, grabbed the gun by the barrel, and jerked it out of her hands.

  The freighter tossed the Springfield out behind him. As he continued moving toward Faith, she screamed, "Pig!" and swung her clenched right fist against his cheekbone.

  The blow gave him momentary pause. He brushed his left hand across the two-inch cut, glanced at the blood smeared on his fingers, then turned his gaze, sparkling with fury and animal lust, on Faith.

  "Tried to kill me, huh?" He backhanded her. As she spun, he grabbed her hair and fumbled with his fly buttons. "I'm gonna show you what I do to whores that try to blow out my lamp!"

  Chapter Seventeen

  Faith dropped to her left knee, then catapulted back to her feet. Jerking her hair free of Dietrich's grasp, she ran toward the creek shimmering in the near-darkness at the base of the stone bluff.

  "Get back here, whore!" the freighter shouted.

  "Want me to plug her from here?" asked Grayson, his voice just audible above Faith's heavy breathing and footfalls. "I got a bead on her."

  "No," Dietrich said tightly, his breath labored. "She's mine."

  "That girl's nothin' but trouble," exclaimed Schultz. "I say we slit her damn throat when..."

  Faith didn't hear the rest. As she plunged straight into the stream, the splashing water drowned the men's angry exclamations. She swung her arms and lifted her knees as high as she could, the frigid water piercing her like sharp knives. She turned to look back.

  Dietrich ran behind her, pumping his arms and legs, his ugly face set with grim fury.

  Faith made for the opposite bank.

  She had no idea where she was headed. If she climbed to the top of the stone bluff—assuming she could make it—would Dietrich give up on her, decide she wasn't worth trifling with?

  Halfway across the narrow stream, she turned her head. She was gaining some distance from Dietrich, a bulky shadow behind her. He was slipping on the rocks at the creek's bottom, throwing his arms out for balance. Her chest welling hopefully, she lunged toward the far shore.

  She would run to that crevice in the bluff, climb up through the trough to the top.

  When she was nearly out of the stream, her left foot slipped off a rock, twisting her ankle. She groaned as the pain shot up her lower leg, and before she realized it, she was down on both knees at the edge of the creek, turning onto her butt and grabbing her calf.

  "No!" she cried, her voice edged with rage, the cold water biting her deep. She turned to Dietrich stepping high in the knee-deep water. "Goddamn you!"

  "Goddamn me?" Dietrich bellowed, grabbing her collar and hauling her onto the bank. "Goddamn you!"

  Faith kicked and screamed as he dragged her across the sand and rocks and high, brown grass and shrubs. She grunted and clawed at his hands, cursing him.

  He threw her into the tall grass and spindly willows at the base of the bluff, smacked her hard across her face. Kneeling down, he jerked one knee away from the other, then crawled up between her legs and leaned forward to unbutton her men's denim trousers.

  "Goddamn you to hell, Dietrich!" she cried, kicking at him futilely, her strength all but gone, a sharp pain spike grinding into her ankle. "I'll kill you!"

  Dietrich laughed and jerked her pants halfway down her thighs.

  She leaned back and closed her eyes. There was no point in resisting anymore. His slaps had addled her, and her head swam. She wanted only to fall back into a warm, dark place and sleep.

  A rifle cracked in the direction of the camp. As the report echoed, a man shouted.

  Faith opened her eyes as Dietrich snapped his head back and twisted around to look beyond the creek. With an incredulous grunt, he stood.

  Another rifle cracked, then two more shots echoed around the canyon. Dietrich stood and ran back through the brush, grunting and reaching for the big knife sheathed on his left hip.

  The shots had been like a cold slap of water. Faith gained her knees and pulled her jeans up to her waist, quickly buttoning the fly. She rose onto her right foot and hobbled after Dietrich.

  Just beyond the brush, she stopped. Dietrich stood at the edge of the water, facing away from Faith. The freighter crouched, his knife glinting in his right hand.

  Beyond him, a broad-shouldered man ran toward him, long hair bouncing on his shoulders, a rifle held across his chest. Water splashed up around Yakima's buckskinned thighs. He was across the creek in seconds.

  Stopping suddenly before Dietrich, he jerked his arms and shoulders forward, thrusting his hips and belly back, as the freighter slashed with the knife at Yakima's chest. Yakima lunged forward, slammed his rifle stock against Dietrich's left cheek.

  The man staggered.

  Yakima lunged at him again, drove the rifle's butt into Dietrich's stomach.

  As the freighter expelled air with a loud whoosh, knees buckling, Yakima set his rifle atop a flat rock. He grabbed a handful of D
ietrich's curly black hair and, teeth gritted and flashing in the failing light, half dragged the freighter into the creek.

  Holding the man's hair with one hand, Yakima rammed the toe of his right boot moccasin into his gut. Dietrich went down with a shrill cry, arms flailing, fighting to regain his feet.

  Stepping toward him with bailed fists, Yakima kicked the man onto his back, then pressed his left knee against the man's chest, up close to his neck, pushing his head under the water.

  Dietrich's arms flailed at Yakima's thigh, and he kicked frantically, splashing water and blowing bubbles. Faith watched in horror as Yakima held the man's head beneath the water until, gradually, Dietrich stopped thrashing and lay motionless beneath Yakima's knee.

  Yakima thumped his knee once more upon the man's chest, then stood and turned to where Faith knelt at the edge of the brush, tears dribbling down her cheeks.

  Yakima's broad chest rose and fell heavily, but his voice was calm. "You all right?"

  Barely able to hold her head up, Faith nodded. "Where ... where did you come from?"

  Yakima turned back to Dietrich. The freighter's arms and legs bobbed in the current, his lifeless body skidding slowly along the rocks, turning downstream.

  Yakima stepped onto the shore, stooped down beside Faith, snaked his arms beneath her, and drew her up to his chest. His arms felt strong beneath her legs and back, and she relaxed as he retrieved his rifle, holding it in his left hand under Faith's knees as he backstepped into the stream, heading for the other side.

  "Can't let you outta my sight for a minute."

  Faith let her head loll against his chest and sighed. "You came back for me?" "I reckon." "I'm glad."

  Faith drowsed against Yakima's chest as he carried her to the other side of the creek. As he walked across the freighters' encampment, she opened her eyes and looked around.

  Schultz lay on his belly near the fire ring, cheek to the ground, arms resting straight down at his sides. Blood seeped into the dirt and pine needles around him. Grayson lay on his back at the edge of the camp, one ankle on a log, his eyes staring glassily up at the pine bough over his head as he clutched his rifle, breech open, across his bloody chest.

  As Yakima continued across the camp, heading toward the trail nearly hidden by the fading light, Faith closed her eyes and fell into a warm, dark pit of slumber.

  She was only vaguely aware of hearing Yakima's sharp breaths, as if he were carrying her uphill. Just as vaguely, she felt the warmth of a fire, smelled the pine smoke and tea, heard the pops and cracks of the flames.

  Then deep sleep again overtook her.

  She had no idea how much time had passed before she again heard resin sizzling in flames. There was a slight crunching sound and several snorts. Smelling charred meat along with the pine smoke and tea, she opened her eyes.

  Yakima squatted on the other side of a low fire, watching a haunch of venison roast on an iron spit as he held a smoking tin cup in both of his gloved hands, one of which also held a cigarette. Over Faith's right shoulder a paint horse and a dark-brown mule cropped the tough blond grass growing along the base of a gray boulder.

  They seemed to be on the shoulder of a hill stippled with sparse pines and sheltered with large scarps and boulders. Beyond the horse and the mule, the hill dropped off to a deep valley, beyond which were distant, toothy mountains, their peaks hidden by clouds.

  "Think you've slept long enough, or you wanna keep sawing wood till noon?"

  She turned to see Yakima regarding her over the fire. "Where are we?"

  He sipped his tea, then set his cup down and reached for a leather pad.

  "About five miles from where I found you. North of the trail. Three men behind us—I spied 'em with a glass I found in the freighters' wagons. Decided to take a shortcut."

  "Men? Who?"

  Yakima shook his head. "They were a ways off, but I think two were Thornton's hostlers. Couldn't place the third man."

  Faith blinked to clear the sleep fog and rose up on her elbows. A half dozen blankets and fur robes covered her, pressing her down. The blankets must also be from the freighters' wagons.

  Yakima walked over and extended a steaming cup to her. "It's been on the fire a while, so it's a mite charred."

  Rising to a sitting position, Faith took the cup. The wind blew the steam from its rim. She shivered as the chill found her—a deeper cold, more penetrating than before.

  "We must've climbed a good ways," she said. "Cold up here."

  "It's gonna get colder. I was fixin' to make for that pass yonder"—Yakima jerked his head toward a gap between two mountains in the west, the peaks of which were lost in the clouds—"but we got a storm comin' from the north. We'll have to hole up till it's over."

  Faith glanced over the steaming cup at him. He'd hunkered back down on his haunches, absorbing the fire's warmth and drawing on his cigarette.

  She looked around. Aside from the sparse trees and the granite knobs, they were dangerously exposed up here. "Hole up where?"

  "Found a little hollow with a small cave, a little ways down the other side of this mountain. Plenty of protection in there—as long as the bobcat who calls it home don't come back—and shelter for the mare and my new mule."

  Faith glanced at the mule again, cropping grass nearby. It was outfitted with a makeshift pack of swelling burlap bags and rope and had a rope halter fitted across its ears and snout. The bags appeared full.

  "What about the other mules?" Faith asked.

  "Turned 'em loose. Some other freighter will be glad to get 'em. Glad to get Dietrich's goods, too. What I didn't take, that is."

  Sipping her tea, Faith looked at the blanket coat, red-and-white-striped muffler, rabbit hat, and heavy deerskin mittens piled beside her. There was also a pair of fur-lined boots.

  "For me?"

  "You're gonna need 'em soon." Yakima used his knife to hack off a chunk of the charred, sizzling meat. He plopped the meat on a tin pan, then brought the pan over to Faith. "Fresh venison. You're gonna need this, too, when the real cold hits. Eat up. There's a whole deer."

  When Faith had taken a few bites, washing it down with the strong, hot tea, she looked at Yakima doing the same on the other side of the fire.

  "So, you shot a deer this morning, cooked breakfast, and found a place for us to wait out the storm." It wasn't a question.

  Yakima stretched a grin and lifted a chunk of bloody tenderloin, the juices dripping to his plate. "What else was I supposed to do while you sawed logs."

  Chewing, Faith gave him a sidelong glance. "You'd make a right fine husband, Yakima Henry."

  "I wouldn't go that far."

  By the time they'd finished eating, a fine, granular snow was whipping down at a slant. Yakima removed the meat from the spit, wrapped what was left of the quarter in burlap, and tied the bundle to the mule.

  He kicked out the fire, then helped Faith onto the mule. She'd put on the blanket coat, rabbit hat, and mittens, and was knotting the muffler under her chin.

  "You think the storm's going to be bad?" she called to Yakima, who was mounting his saddled paint.

  "Hard to say," he yelled back, "but the fall storms can howl pretty loud up here."

  "What about Thornton's men?"

  Yakima glanced at the sky. "Maybe the storm will give 'em second thoughts."

  He turned the paint westward, pulling the mule along by a lead rope. They moved between scarps, then over the lip of the mountain and down a steep grade through pines and cedars.

  They followed the shoulder of the mountain into a steep-walled box canyon. Yakima led the mule between towering granite knobs and into an alcove of sorts, with a stone overhang. Beneath the overhang, the limestone had been eroded away from the mountain wall, creating a low-ceilinged, shallow cave.

  The wind was picking up, howling over the peaks and roaring in the pine tops. The slashing snow felt like steel pellets against their faces.

  Yakima helped Faith down from the mule and gave her a
food sack.

  "Go on inside. I've put in a good store of firewood." He tossed her a box of matches. "Start a fire and put some tea on. We're gonna need all the heat we can get—inside and out."

  Yakima unleathered and hobbled the horse and the mule in the alcove just outside the cave, throwing blankets over their backs. When he'd finished hauling the sacks of food and supplies into the cave, the snow was beginning to stick on the ground and glue itself to the windward sides of the granite knobs. The lead-colored clouds hung low, and soon it was nearly a whiteout.

  The fire warmed the cave, and the snow that leaked into the notch melted within a few minutes of falling.

  Yakima and Faith hunkered down by the fire, Faith buried in blankets and robes and warming her hands on a hot cup of tea. Yakima sat cross-legged beside her, sharpening his knife on a whetstone. A tin cup steamed near his moccasins.

  "What about Wolf?" Faith said, turning toward him after staring thoughtfully into the fire for a long time.

  Yakima lifted the knife from the stone and stared at the wet, glistening blade. "Those bastards'll sell him in Gold Cache. I'll find him."

  Faith's eyes shone with tears. "I'm sorry, Yakima."

  "Wasn't your fault they stole my horse."

  "I'm sorry for everything. How many men have you killed now because of me—a worthless whore?"

  Yakima turned to her. "Hey, now ..."

  "I mean it. I am worthless. I cause trouble everywhere I go. If I make it to Gold Cache, I'll just cause more trouble there." Tears dribbled down her cheeks. "I wouldn't blame you if you just left me here."

  "Can't do that. Wolves would get ya," Yakima said, trying to make a joke.

  She sniffed and wiped a tear from her cheek with the back of her hand. She kept her eyes on him. "Why did you come back?"

  Yakima's face warmed. He looked at the whetstone, then the knife. He raised his eyes to hers. "I was worried about you."

  More tears welled out from her blue eyes, shining in the firelight. In a small, pinched voice, she said, "No one's ever worried about me before."