Sure enough, as he came up and his head broke the surface, he saw four Chickasaw burst out of the brush. Three of them already had arrows nocked, and the fourth was reaching for a shaft in his quiver.
Breckinridge dragged in as deep a breath as he could and went under again.
He still had hold of his rifle—it was a fine gun and he was damned if he was going to let go of it—and its weight helped hold him down as he kicked strongly to propel himself along with the current. The creek was eight or ten feet deep at this point and twenty feet wide. Like most mountain streams, though, it was fairly clear, so the Indians could probably still see him.
Something hissed past Breckinridge in the water. He knew it was an arrow. They were still trying to kill him. He hadn’t expected any different.
When he was a boy, he had befriended and played with some of the Chickasaw youngsters in the area. The medicine man Snapping Turtle had sort of taken Breckinridge under his wing for a while, teaching him Indian lore and wisdom. Breck liked the Chickasaw and had nothing against them. He didn’t really understand why the army had come and made them all leave, but he’d been sorry to see them go.
Not all the Chickasaw had departed for Indian Territory, however. Some of them—stubborn holdouts, Breckinridge’s pa called them—had managed to elude the army and were still hidden in the rugged mountains, venturing out now and then for bloody raids on the white settlers. Breck figured he had run into just such a bunch, eager to kill any white man they came across.
He had known when he started into the hills that he was risking an encounter like this, but he had never let the possibility of danger keep him from doing something he wanted. If that made him reckless, like his pa said, then so be it.
Now it looked like that impulsiveness might be the death of him.
His lungs were good, strengthened by hours and hours of running for the sheer pleasure of it. He had filled them with air, so he knew he could stay under the water for a couple of minutes, anyway, probably longer. He had to put that time to good use. Because of the thick brush, the Indians couldn’t run along the bank as quickly as he could swim underwater. All he needed to do was avoid the arrows they fired at him, and he had to trust to luck for that since he couldn’t see them coming while he was submerged.
Breckinridge continued kicking his feet and stroking with his left arm. Fish darted past him in the stream, disturbed by this human interloper. It was beautiful down here. Breck might have enjoyed the experience if he hadn’t known that death might be waiting for him at the surface.
He didn’t know how long he stayed under, but finally he had to come up for air. He let his legs drop so he could push off the rocky bottom with his feet. As he broke the surface he threw his head from side to side to sling the long red hair out of his eyes. When his vision had cleared he looked around for the Indians.
He didn’t see them, but he heard shouting back upstream a short distance. He had gotten ahead of his pursuers, just as he’d hoped, and once he had grabbed a couple more deep breaths he intended to go under again and keep swimming downstream.
That plan was ruined when strong fingers suddenly clamped around his ankle and jerked him under the surface again.
Taken by surprise, Breckinridge was in the middle of taking a breath, so he got a mouthful of water that went down the wrong way and threatened to choke him. Not only that, but he had a dangerous opponent on his hands, too.
He could see well enough to know that the man struggling with him was one of the Chickasaw warriors. He must have jumped off the log bridge into the creek and taken off after Breckinridge as fast as he could swim. The warrior was long and lean, built like a swimmer. He slashed at Breck with the knife clutched in his right hand while keeping his left clenched around Breck’s ankle.
Breckinridge twisted away from the blade. It scraped across the side of his buckskin shirt but didn’t do any damage. His movements seemed maddeningly slow to him as he lifted his other leg and rammed his heel into the Indian’s chest. The kick was strong enough to knock the man’s grip loose.
The Chickasaw warrior shot backward in the water. Breckinridge knew he couldn’t outswim the man, so he went after him instead. If he could kill the Indian in a hurry, he might still be able to give the slip to the others.
Breckinridge had never killed a man before, although he had been in plenty of brawls with fellows his own age and some considerably older. This time he was fighting for his life, though, so he wasn’t going to have a problem doing whatever he had to in order to survive. Before the man he had kicked had a chance to recover, Breck got behind him and thrust the barrel of his rifle across the warrior’s neck. He grabbed the barrel with his other hand and pulled it back, pressing it as hard as he could into the man’s throat.
The Chickasaw flailed and thrashed, but Breckinridge’s strength was incredible. He managed to plant his knee in the small of the Indian’s back, giving him the leverage he needed to exert even more force.
The warrior slashed backward with his knife. Breckinridge felt the blade bite into his thigh. The wound wasn’t deep because the Indian couldn’t get much strength behind the thrust at this awkward angle, but it hurt enough to make red rage explode inside Breck. The muscles of his arms, shoulders, and back bunched under the tight buckskin shirt as he heaved up and back with the rifle lodged under the warrior’s chin.
Even underwater, Breckinridge heard the sharp crack as the man’s neck snapped.
The Chickasaw’s body went limp. Breckinridge let go of it and kicked for the surface. As soon as his enemy was dead, Breck had realized that he was just about out of air. The stuff tasted mighty sweet as he shot up out of the water and gulped down a big breath.
An arrow slapped through that sweet air right beside his head.
Breckinridge twisted around to determine its direction. He saw right away that the other three Chickasaw had caught up while he was battling with the one in the creek. Two of them were on the bank even with him, while the third man had run on downstream, where he waited with a bow drawn back to put an arrow through him if he tried to swim past.
They thought they had him trapped, and that was probably true. But the realization just made Breckinridge angry. He had never been one to flee from trouble. He shouldn’t have tried to today, he thought. He should have stood his ground. He should have taken the fight to the enemy.
That was what he did now. He dived underwater as the two Indians closest to him fired, but he didn’t try to swim downstream. Instead he kicked toward the shore, found his footing on the creek bottom, and charged up out of the water bellowing like a maddened bull as the warriors reached for fresh arrows.
The rifle wouldn’t fire until it had been dried out, cleaned, and reloaded, but in the hands of Breckinridge Wallace it was still a dangerous weapon. Breck proved that by smashing the curved brass butt plate against the forehead of the closest Indian. With Breck’s already considerable strength fueled by anger, the blow had enough power behind it that the ends of the crescent-shaped butt shattered the warrior’s skull and caved in the front of his head. He went over backward to land in a limp heap.
The other Indian loosed his arrow, and at this range Breckinridge was too big a target to miss. Luck was with him, though, and the flint arrowhead struck his shot pouch. The point penetrated the leather but bounced off the lead balls within.
Breckinridge switched his grip on the rifle, grabbing the barrel with both hands instead, and swung it like a club. He was proud of the fancy engraving and patchbox on the stock and didn’t want to break it, but pride wasn’t worth his life.
The Chickasaw dropped his bow and ducked under the sweeping blow. He charged forward and rammed his head and right shoulder into Breckinridge’s midsection. Breck was considerably taller and heavier than the Indian was and normally would have shrugged off that attempted tackle, but his wet moccasins slipped on the muddy bank and he lost his balance. He went over backward.
The Chickasaw landed on top of him and grab
bed the tomahawk that hung at his waist. He raised the weapon and was about to bring it crashing down into Breckinridge’s face when Breck’s big right fist shot straight up and landed on the warrior’s jaw. The powerful blow lifted the Indian away from Breck and made him slump to the side, momentarily stunned.
Breckinridge rolled the other way to put a little distance between himself and the enemy. As he did an arrow buried its head in the ground where he had been a split second earlier. The fourth and final Chickasaw had fired that missile, and when he saw that it had missed, he screeched in fury and dropped his bow. He jerked out a knife and charged at Breck.
As he rolled to his feet, Breckinridge snatched up the tomahawk dropped by the Indian he had just walloped. He dodged the thrust of the fourth man’s knife and brought the tomahawk up and over and down in a blindingly swift strike that caught the warrior on the left cheekbone. Breck intended to plant the tomahawk in the middle of the man’s skull and cleave his head open, but the Indian had darted aside just enough to prevent that fatal blow.
Instead the tomahawk laid the warrior’s cheek open to the bone and traveled on down his neck to lodge in his shoulder. Blood spouted from the wounds as he stumbled and fell.
Breckinridge would have wrenched the tomahawk loose and finished off the injured Chickasaw, but at that moment the man he had punched rammed him again. This time the impact drove Breck off the bank and back into the creek. He floundered in the water for a moment, and by the time he was able to stand up again the two surviving warriors were disappearing into the woods. The one who had just knocked him in the stream was helping the wounded man escape.
Breckinridge felt confident that they didn’t have any fight left in them. He might not have admitted it to anyone but himself, but he was glad they felt that way. He knew how lucky he was to have lived through a fight with four-against-one odds . . . especially when the one was an eighteen-year-old youngster and the four were seasoned Chickasaw warriors.
There was no telling if other renegades might be in the vicinity, so he figured he’d better get out of the hills and head for home pretty quick-like.
He wasn’t going back without his quarry, though, so without delay he gathered up his rifle and started for the clearing where the buck had fallen. It would take time to put his rifle and pistol back in working order, and he didn’t think it would be smart to linger that long.
When he reached the clearing the buck was still lying there, undisturbed as yet by scavengers. Breckinridge stooped, took hold of the carcass, and heaved it onto his shoulders. Even his great strength was taxed by the animal’s weight as he began loping through the woods toward home.
He thought about the four warriors he had battled. Two of them were dead, he was sure of that, and the one he’d wounded with the tomahawk probably would die, too, as fast as he had been losing blood.
What would the fourth man do? Would he go back to the rest of the renegades—assuming there were any—and tell them that he and his companions had been nearly wiped out by a large force of well-armed white men?
Or would he admit that all the damage had been done by one young fella who hadn’t even had a working firearm?
Breckinridge grinned. Lucky or not, he had done some pretty good fighting back there. He knew now that in a battle for his life he would do whatever it took to survive. He wondered if he ought to tell anybody the truth about what had happened. Chances were, they wouldn’t believe him.
But he knew, and he would carry that knowledge with him from now on.
* * *
It was all Tall Tree could do not to cry out in pain as he leaned on Bear Tongue while they hurried through the forest. He was weak and dizzy and knew that was from losing all the blood that had poured out from the wounds in his face, neck, and shoulder.
“We must get you back to camp,” Bear Tongue babbled. His voice was thick because his jaw was swollen from the powerful blow Flamehair had delivered to him. “If you don’t get help, you will bleed to death.”
“No,” Tall Tree gasped, even though it caused fresh explosions of terrible agony in his face every time he moved his lips. The pain was nothing compared to the hatred that filled him. “I will not die. The spirits have told me . . . I cannot die . . . until I kill the white devil Flamehair!”
Chapter Three
Robert Wallace had come to Tennessee as a young man in 1810. His father Ebenezer had immigrated from Scotland to what was then the British Colony of North Carolina and had later fought in the revolution, taking part in the Battle of King’s Mountain. Awarded land for his service, Ebenezer had trekked over the Great Smoky Mountains into Tennessee, taking his family with him. That included his son Robert.
Growing into manhood on the family farm not far from the newly settled town of Knoxville, in due time Robert had taken himself a wife, the redheaded beauty Samantha Burke. He had claimed land of his own, built a fine cabin there with his own two hands near a spring that bubbled crisp and cold from the ground, and settled down to farm and raise a family.
Four sons had come along in reasonably short order: Edward, Thomas, Jeremiah, and Henry. Samantha made no secret of the fact that she wanted a daughter to go with all those strapping sons, and when she found herself with child again she hoped and prayed this would be the one.
Those prayers were answered, but only to a certain extent. The child was a girl, all right, but she was stillborn. Embittered, Samantha had declared that she would tempt fate no more by bringing additional children into the world.
Such things being beyond frail mortal control in most cases, Samantha conceived again several years later and brought forth another healthy son. Robert named him Breckinridge.
The boy was more than healthy. Robert sometimes said that Breckinridge entered the world squalling and never stopped. He grew like the proverbial weed and was just as hardy. Childhood illnesses barely touched him. As the years passed he shot up and his shoulders broadened. He was tireless and could do more work on the farm than any of his older brothers. Not only that, he was also handsome and usually had a devil-may-care grin on his face. He was known to burst into song out of sheer exuberance. Any parent would have adored him.
Any parent except for his mother, Samantha, who looked at him and saw the daughter Fate had cheated her out of. She loved her youngest son, no doubt about that, but she always harbored an unjustified resentment toward Breckinridge that led her to be sharp and critical with him.
Robert came to feel much the same way, although for different reasons. Breckinridge’s great size, boundless enthusiasm, and reckless nature led him into trouble on a regular basis. Also, Breck’s numerous appetites did not include a hunger for work. Although he could accomplish more around the farm than anyone else when he put his mind to it, getting him to buckle down and do chores instead of skylarking off on some “adventure” was an endless battle, one that Robert usually lost.
In Breckinridge’s uncomplicated mind, he knew these things. He was aware that he was a vexation and a disappointment to his parents and his older brothers, who he regarded as dour and humorless. He would have done something about it if he could, but to his way of thinking, the Good Lord had made him the way he was for a good reason, although he might not know what it was just yet, and it would be blasphemous for him to interfere with the Lord’s handiwork.
Because of that knowledge, when Breckinridge got back to the farm he wasn’t surprised to find his father waiting for him with an angry scowl on his weather-beaten face.
Robert’s frown eased a little as he looked at the carcass draped over his youngest son’s shoulders.
“Where’d ye get that?” he asked.
“Up in the hills,” Breckinridge replied.
“While ye were supposed to be plowin’.”
It was an accusation, not a question.
Breckinridge lowered the buck to the ground in front of the cabin and said, “I swear, Pa, it was like I heard him callin’ to me. I knew he was there, and I knew I could get him.”
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“Ye nearly always hear something callin’ to you when there’s work to be done, don’t ye?” Robert waved a hand. “Never mind. I grow weary of scoldin’ ye.” He frowned again and pointed. “There’s blood on yer ear.”
Breckinridge touched the lobe where the arrow had clipped it and said, “I caught it on a sharp branch. Wasn’t watchin’ where I was goin’ close enough, I reckon.”
Robert grunted and said, “I would’na be surprised.”
He didn’t seem to have noticed the rip in Breckinridge’s buckskin leggings where the Chickasaw’s knife had struck during the battle in the creek. The wound was just a shallow scratch, and the water had washed it out. Breck barely felt its sting anymore.
Robert nodded toward the buck and went on, “Ye brought it in, ye can dress it out. Best get to work before the meat spoils.”
“Yes, sir,” Breckinridge replied. He picked up the carcass again and carried it to the area near the smokehouse where the men did their butchering.
While he set about the bloody task, he wondered why he hadn’t told his father about the encounter with the Chickasaw. Somehow, he knew instinctively that that wouldn’t be a good idea. It would give his pa one more good reason to insist that Breckinridge stay close to home—and staying close to home was boring.
Did he have a duty to let folks know that there were renegade Chickasaw in the hills? Well, they already knew that, didn’t they? Half a dozen farms had been raided in the past year. Several cabins had been burned. A number of settlers had been killed. Men went about their daily chores with a rifle or a musket or a fowling piece close at hand.
The government had promised help in rounding up the renegades and forcing them to go to Indian Territory with the rest of their tribe, but Breckinridge knew better than that. He might be young, but he wasn’t naïve enough to believe the government’s promise about anything. Government wasn’t good for much except a bunch of hot air and empty words.
The Frontiersman Page 2