The Frontiersman

by William W. Johnstone

  A footstep behind him made him look around. His mother stood there, and Breckinridge felt embarrassed somehow for her to see him with deer blood smeared up to his elbows.

  “Your father was stomping around here earlier, saying that you’d run off for good this time,” Samantha Wallace said. “I figured you’d just gone hunting and would be back sooner or later.”

  “I’m sorry about neglectin’ my chores, Ma. I know that when I do that, one of the other boys has to make up the work for me. I’ll pay them back, I swear.”

  “Don’t waste your breath making promises you won’t keep, Breckinridge,” she told him with a sigh. She folded her arms across her chest and cocked her head a little to the side as she regarded the carcass. “That’s a good buck you brought home. With your appetite, you’ll probably want a whole haunch for yourself tonight.”

  “The way you cook it up, I reckon I do,” he said, grinning at her.

  Much of Samantha’s beauty had faded with time, as had the red of her hair she had passed on to her youngest son. Every so often, echoes of the way she must have been were visible to Breckinridge, but he had never really seen that in his life. The tragedy that had altered her had occurred before he was born.

  She smiled now at the compliment to her cooking, but only for a second. Then she said, “The next time you run off from your chores, I’m taking a strap to you.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Whatever you think is best.”

  Breckinridge meant it, too. He would take a hiding from her without complaint. He had done so in the past and had no doubt that he would again.

  Samantha went back into the cabin, and Breckinridge hung up the meat he had carved out of the buck. He went to the spring, drew a bucket of water, washed his hands and arms in it, then drew another and dumped it over his head. As he shook the water from his hair, he thought about how he planned to spend the evening.

  He was going to call on Maureen Grantham, and even though he hadn’t told his father about the encounter with the Indians, he figured he would tell Maureen. He would tell her how bloodthirsty the renegades had been and how close they had come to skewering him with arrows or braining him with a tomahawk, and she would shudder and say how perfectly dreadful and terrifying that was, and then he would take her in his arms and comfort her and tell her not to worry about him, that no Chickasaw was ever going to get the best of him.

  He might even kiss her if she let him. She had allowed it on a couple of occasions in the past, and he’d spent many a night since with a fever burning in his blood as he remembered the warm, soft sweetness of her lips.

  Breckinridge was no innocent. The older girls on neighboring farms had started to notice him several years earlier when he grew larger than the boys their own age. One of them, Charity McFee by name, had lived up to that moniker and freely given him quite an education in the hayloft of her father’s barn. Since then Breck had engaged in a bit of slap and tickle with a few other girls in the area, none of whom were any better than they had to be.

  Ah, Maureen, though, Maureen was different. Breckinridge had no desire whatsoever to settle down just yet, but he had made up his mind what the future held for him.

  She didn’t know it yet, but one of these days, Maureen Grantham was going to be his wife.

  * * *

  Supper that evening was rather tense. Breckinridge’s brother Henry had taken over the plowing after Breck vanished, and he was angry and resentful about it. Breck put up with the scowls and the snide comments from his next-oldest brother as long as he could before saying sharply, “Just because I don’t want to be tied to a piece of ground for the rest of my life is no reason for you to lambaste me, Henry.”

  Robert said, “A piece o’ ground like the one that’s given ye a home all these years, lad, is that what ye mean?”

  Breckinridge flushed and looked down at the greasy bone with a few shreds of meat still clinging to it. He’d been gnawing the last bits off when he’d finally lost patience with Henry’s complaining.

  “I know you and Ma have been happy with this life here,” he said quietly, which was unusual since his voice usually boomed no matter what he was saying. “But that don’t mean that being a farmer is the right thing for me.”

  “What do you want to do, Breck?” his brother Edward asked. Edward was the most scholarly of the bunch, having attended the school in Knoxville for a good five years. “Run off to the woods and be a hunter and adventurer like Daniel Boone, Davy Crockett, and Natty Bumppo?”

  Breckinridge’s pulse sped up a little as he nodded and said, “That sounds good to me. Who’s Natty Bumppo?”

  “The hero of some books by Fenimore Cooper. I just read the latest one, The Pathfinder, if you’d like to borrow it.”

  “I’m, uh, not much of one for readin’,” Breckinridge said. “But if he’s like Boone and Crockett, this Bumppo sounds like my sort of fella.”

  “Crockett went off adventuring to Texas and died there, slaughtered by Santa Anna’s army at the Alamo. And Boone died an old man, sitting in a rocking chair on the porch of his son’s house.”

  “Only after he had plenty of excitement in his life,” Breckinridge countered. “And as for Crockett . . . well, dyin’ while you’re fightin’ for what’s right don’t sound like such a bad way to go.”

  Samantha said, “Hush up all this bloodthirsty talk at the dinner table. Land’s sake, the way you men go on, you’d think you were in a tavern or something!”

  “Yes, ma’am,” all five of the Wallace sons murmured automatically.

  After supper, Breckinridge went up into the loft where he slept with his brothers and put on a clean homespun shirt. His brother Thomas caught him at it, reaching the top of the ladder leading to the loft just as Breck was pulling the shirt over his head, and said, “You’re going courting, aren’t you?”

  “That’s none of your business,” Breckinridge said.

  “Going to see Maureen Grantham?”

  “What if I am?”

  “Better not let Richard Aylesworth catch you there if you do.”

  Anger boiled up inside Breckinridge. He clenched both hands into big, ham-like fists and declared, “I’m not afraid of Richard Aylesworth.”

  “You should be, Breck. You should at least be worried about him. He has his eye on the Grantham girl, too.”

  What Thomas said was true, although Breckinridge didn’t like to think about it. Richard Aylesworth was interested in Maureen, all right, and as the son of a well-to-do merchant in Knoxville, he had advantages that Breck didn’t, such as money and schooling. He was also several years older, in his early twenties, which might make him more impressive to a girl. His father had sent him to an academy all the way up in Philadelphia for a year, and it was rumored that he had fought a duel while he was there, giving him an air of mystery and danger.

  Breckinridge was willing to wager, though, that Aylesworth had never battled four bloody-handed Chickasaw renegades to the death.

  Thomas followed his brother outside and said, “Just be careful, Breck. I’ve known Dick Aylesworth all my life. I don’t like him, and I don’t trust him. Whenever he sets his sights on something, he feels like it ought to be his by natural right, and he gets mad when anybody interferes with that. I once saw him hand a beating to a man who’d bought a horse that he wanted.”

  “All I’m going to do is sit with Maureen on the porch of her father’s house,” Breckinridge said. “I don’t see how anybody could get angry about that, even Richard Aylesworth.”

  His declaration wasn’t strictly true. He planned to regale Maureen with his blood-and-thunder tale of battling the Chickasaw, then steal a kiss . . . but Thomas didn’t need to know about that. None of his family did.

  “All right,” Thomas replied gloomily. “Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  Breckinridge went to the barn and saddled Hector, the only one of the plow horses that was a halfway decent mount to ride. A faint fan of reddish-gold from the sunset lingered in the western s
ky as he headed for Knoxville, five miles away.

  What did the sunset look like from the vast plains and the towering mountains he had heard about, the ones that lay hundreds of miles farther west across the continent? Such distances were almost beyond Breckinridge’s imagining. He had never been more than ten miles from the cabin in which he’d been born.

  He felt a stirring inside whenever he thought about such things. Just like that buck had seemed to call to him from the hills earlier today, something was pulling on him from the other direction, from the sprawling wilderness that now made up so much of the American nation.

  He remembered Edward talking about another story he’d read, a tale about one of those ancient Greeks or some such who had gone off to fight in a war and then taken the long way home, having all sorts of adventures along the way. One of those adventures involved a bunch of beautiful women on an island who sang songs so pretty that they were irresistible to any sailors who happened to pass by. That was sort of the way Breckinridge felt about the frontier, like it was calling to him so powerfully that sooner or later he would have to answer.

  Of course, those sailors who listened to the song the women were singing usually came to a bad end, Breckinridge recollected. But anything in life that was worth doing had some risks that came along with it, he supposed.

  With those thoughts occupying his mind, the ride to Knoxville passed quickly. Almost before he knew it, he was entering the outskirts of the settlement, and he soon came to the house of Alonzo Grantham, who owned a successful livery stable and wagon yard. Breckinridge reined in sharply when he spotted the lantern hanging from a hook and lighting up the porch of the Grantham house.

  Maureen was already out there, but she wasn’t waiting for him to come calling. She was sitting there with someone else, and Breckinridge knew instantly who it was.

  Richard Aylesworth!

  Chapter Four

  Breckinridge sat there stiffly on Hector for a long moment, just outside the reach of the light, and pondered what he should do next. He wasn’t the sort who was given to a lot of heavy thinking, but he sensed that his next actions might turn out to be important.

  Unfortunately, the decision was taken out of his hands. Maureen leaned forward on the bench where she was sitting with Aylesworth and called, “Is someone there? Who is it, please?”

  Blast it, the girl had good eyes, Breckinridge thought. He would have sworn it was too dark where he sat for her to spot him, but obviously that wasn’t true. He nudged his heels against Hector’s side, and the big, docile horse plodded forward into the light.

  “Breckinridge Wallace!” Maureen exclaimed. “When I saw how big the visitor was, I thought it might be you. What errand are you about tonight?”

  Breckinridge muttered a curse under his breath. After the kisses they’d shared, she knew good and well why he was here. She ought to, anyway.

  Aylesworth stood up and swaggered over to the porch railing. He rested one hand on the rail and struck a pose that was anything but casual, showing off his expensive clothes and the fine figure he cut. He was big and well built, although not as large and powerful as Breckinridge, and undeniably handsome with a shock of dark hair and clean-cut features. He smiled and asked, “Yes, Wallace, why were you lurking out there in the shadows like a red-skinned savage?”

  Breckinridge could have told Aylesworth something about that, but he didn’t want to share his story with the man. Instead he said, “I wasn’t lurkin’. Just on my way past and thought I’d stop and pay my respects to Miss Maureen.”

  “On your way past to where?” Aylesworth prodded.

  “I, uh, thought I’d pick up a few things at Porter’s store. I need some black powder, and my ma needs some salt.”

  The lie was the first thing Breckinridge could think of. Aylesworth looked even more smug as he responded, “I hope the poor woman doesn’t mix up the two. That would make for an interesting dish, wouldn’t it?”

  Maureen laughed, normally a sound that Breckinridge loved to hear. The fact that she was laughing at something Richard Aylesworth had said, though, grated at his nerves like a rasp.

  Breckinridge felt himself flushing. He said, “My ma would never do that. She’s the best cook in these parts.”

  “Of course she wouldn’t,” Maureen said. “Richard was just joking, Breckinridge.”

  “Yes, merely a jest,” Aylesworth said. Breckinridge longed to smash that self-assured grin right down his throat.

  Instead he lifted Hector’s reins and got ready to turn the horse around as he said, “Reckon I’ll be goin’ now—”

  “Oh, no,” Maureen said. “You just got here. Come up and sit on the porch with us for a bit.”

  Now it was Aylesworth’s turn to look less than happy. He said, “I’m sure Wallace has other things to do—”

  “He can’t go to Mr. Porter’s store,” Maureen broke in. “It’s too late. The store will be closed for the night already. I don’t want Breckinridge to have ridden all the way into town for nothing. We can all visit for a spell.”

  “Of course,” Aylesworth said, although the glance he shot toward Breckinridge was a surly one. Maureen couldn’t see that, however, from where she was sitting.

  Breckinridge thought about telling Maureen he couldn’t stay, but he knew it would annoy Aylesworth if he accepted Maureen’s invitation. That was enough to make up his mind for him. He said, “I’m obliged for the hospitality,” and swung down from the saddle.

  “I’m going to fetch a pitcher of buttermilk from the cellar,” Maureen announced as she stood up. She was a little bit of a thing, short but well-rounded in the right places, with glossy, dark brown hair and a lovely heart-shaped face. “The two of you sit there on the bench and talk.”

  She waited expectantly until Breckinridge and Aylesworth had taken their seats as far from each other as they possibly could, then she went into the house. An awkward, unfriendly silence descended on the porch.

  Finally, Aylesworth broke that silence by saying, “I know why you’re really here, Wallace, and I can tell you that you’re wasting your time. More important, you’re wasting Miss Grantham’s time—and mine.”

  Stiffly, Breckinridge replied, “I reckon Miss Grantham can make up her own mind how she wants to spend her time—and I don’t rightly care about yours.”

  Both young men leaned forward as they eyed each other. Breckinridge’s hands rested on the thighs of his buckskin trousers. His impulse was to go ahead and clench them into fists, but he resisted the urge. He didn’t want Maureen to come back out onto the porch and find him getting ready to fight . . . unless Aylesworth made it come to that.

  Instead Aylesworth tried a different tack. He said, “Surely you can see that it’s entirely inappropriate for you to be courting Maureen. She’s a sweet, gentle girl. She lives in town. She’s been pampered and protected her entire life. She’s not the sort of earthy backwoods lass you’re accustomed to, Wallace.”

  “I always act like a gentleman,” Breckinridge insisted.

  Aylesworth laughed, and the sound made Breckinridge’s hands tighten. He couldn’t help it.

  “You have no concept of what it is to be a gentleman, Wallace. You’re an uncouth, unlearned barbarian.” Aylesworth straightened his jacket. “I, on the other hand, attended the Schofield Academy in Philadelphia and received a classical education.”

  “I heard they kicked you out after a year for causin’ trouble. Somethin’ about a duel fought over a gamblin’ debt? Or was it because of some other fella’s wife? Maybe I’ll ask Maureen if she’s ever heard the truth about what happened up there.”

  Aylesworth shot to his feet as his face flushed darkly with rage. Breckinridge was up, too, turning to meet any charge or block any punch Aylesworth threw at him.

  “Keep your tongue off my affairs, you damned ridge runner,” Aylesworth grated. “And if you say anything to Maureen, I’ll—”

  He stopped short as the door opened. Maureen came out carrying a tray that held
a pitcher of buttermilk and three cups.

  “What was that, Richard?” she asked with an interested smile. “What are you and Breckinridge discussing?”

  “Nothing,” Aylesworth replied. His voice was tight with anger. Breckinridge could hear it, even if Maureen seemed unable to. “I was just telling Wallace that I have to be going.”

  “Really? But you haven’t had your buttermilk yet.”

  Aylesworth put a forced smile on his face and told her, “Another time, perhaps?”

  “Of course. You’re always welcome here, Richard, you know that.”

  Aylesworth nodded and reached for his beaver hat, which was perched on the railing. He put it on, set it at a jaunty angle, and said, “Good night, Maureen.” He gave Breckinridge a curt nod and added, “Wallace.”

  As Aylesworth went down the steps and strode away from the house into the darkness, Maureen set the tray on a small table next to the bench and said, “My, that was odd. I never expected Richard to leave so abruptly. Did the two of you have harsh words, Breckinridge?”

  “Not so’s you’d notice,” Breckinridge said. “He was tellin’ me about the time he spent at that fancy academy in Philadelphia.”

  “Oh, I see. What did he tell you?”

  Breckinridge hesitated. It would serve Aylesworth right if Breck told her about some of the rumors he’d heard . . . but that would make him a gossip, and Breck didn’t want anybody ever accusing him of that. So instead he said, “He was just talkin’ about, uh, learnin’ Latin and philosophy and readin’ books and things like that.”

  “I’d love to do that, wouldn’t you?” Before Breckinridge could reply, Maureen went on, “But proper young ladies aren’t encouraged to study such things, of course.” She smiled. “Sit down, and I’ll pour the buttermilk.”

  Breckinridge’s anger disappeared and he forgot about Richard Aylesworth as he sat there on the bench with Maureen, talking and drinking buttermilk. He kept his head turned so she could see his wounded ear, and sure enough after a while she said, “Oh, you’ve been hurt! What happened there?”