He figured he might could risk stopping at some isolated farm, though. Maybe if whoever lived there had enough supplies on hand, he could trade some work for a few staples. He had never really liked chores, but he could do them. He was a regular wizard, in fact, at things like splitting firewood.
When he spotted a farmhouse and a small barn sitting by themselves in a valley, he sat for a long time on the ridge overlooking the scene. After a good while, he decided to ride down there and see how things went.
A heavyset old man limped out of the barn as Breckinridge rode in. The farmer wore overalls and had a floppy-brimmed hat pushed back on a mostly bald head. Tufts of white hair stuck out above each ear. When Breck came closer he saw that the old-timer had a face like a bulldog. The old man grinned and said, “How do. Lord have mercy, you’re a big ’un, ain’t you?”
Breckinridge returned the grin and said, “Yeah, and I’m not sure I’ve got my full growth yet.”
“I hope for the sake o’ that there hoss that you have, otherwise you’re liable to break the poor animal’s back. Light and stay a spell, if you’re of a mind to. Name’s Yancy Humboldt.”
“B-Bill,” Breckinridge said. He’d almost given the old man his real name out of habit. He had to break that habit, and the sooner the better.
“Well, Buh-Bill, are you gettin’ down or not? If you ain’t, I’ll get back to my work.”
“What are you doin’? Maybe I could lend a hand.”
“In return for some supper?” Yancy Humboldt asked shrewdly.
“And maybe a few supplies?”
Humboldt frowned in apparent thought for a second or two, then waved Breckinridge forward.
“Mule kicked some slats outta his stall. Sound like somethin’ you could fix?”
“Sure,” Breckinridge answered. He had done some carpentry work around the farm, although Edward was always better at that sort of thing.
“Do a good job and we’ll see. Might be able to spare a few things.” Humboldt pointed. “You can water your hoss at that trough over there. I can find some grain for him, too. Poor critter probably needs some rest if he’s been carryin’ you for very long.”
“He’s pretty strong,” Breckinridge said as he dismounted.
“He’d have to be.”
As they went into the barn, Breckinridge could tell that Humboldt limped because of a twisted right leg. He nodded toward it and asked, “What happened to your leg? If you don’t mind talkin’ about it, that is.”
“And if I do mind?”
“Well, it ain’t none of my business, so I wouldn’t ask again. I’m just curious, that’s all.”
“Bear got hold of it when I was a young man and durned near pulled it off. Ripped the hell out of it with his claws, too. Reckon I’d have been a goner if my friend Dan’l hadn’t shot the bear, patched me up as best he could, and then packed me outta the woods back to where I could get some real help.”
“Dan’l, eh?” Breckinridge chuckled. “Wouldn’t be talkin’ about Dan’l Boone, would you?”
“As a matter o’ fact, I am,” Humboldt replied. “This was up in Kentucky, not far from Boonesborough.”
Breckinridge stared at him and said, “You’re serious.”
“I should hope to smile I’m serious!”
“You really knew Daniel Boone?”
“Broke many a trail with him in the old days, at least until I tangled with that dang bear.” Humboldt pointed into a stall with several broken planks on one side. “There she be. I’ll leave you to it. You ought to be able to finish by suppertime. If you don’t, you won’t eat. Do a poor job, and you won’t eat, neither. Understand?”
Breckinridge barely heard the question. He said, “Can you tell me about Daniel Boone?”
“Best man I ever knowed at times, and a damned fool at others. Just like most men. I thought you was gonna fix that stall. Boards and a hammer and nails are out back.”
Breckinridge had a hunch that Humboldt could be talkative, but only when he wanted to be. It might be better to go ahead and repair the stall and save the conversation for later.
One thing he had to know first, though.
“Has anybody, uh, come around here lookin’ for somebody like me?” He added hastily, “I mean, there might be some friends of mine in these parts.”
“You mean has anybody been lookin’ for a galoot as tall as a tree, with bright red hair? Naw, I reckon I’d remember somethin’ like that . . . Buh-Bill.”
Breckinridge could tell from the old farmer’s voice that Humboldt suspected he was running from something. The old-timer didn’t seem worried by that possibility, though. He repeated the warning about getting done with the task by suppertime and then left Breckinridge in the barn.
* * *
Breckinridge pried out the broken boards and nailed new ones in their place. It was a pretty simple job, really. The mule that had caused the damage stood inside the stall, stolidly ignoring him. Breck worked from outside the stall, not wanting to venture in there with a mule that was known to kick. That was a good way for a fella to get his head bashed in.
When he was finished, he took hold of the new boards and gave them a good shake. They seemed plenty solid, so he nodded in satisfaction and put the hammer and the rest of the nails back where he’d found them. He walked out of the barn and went toward the house.
Yancy Humboldt must have seen him coming. The old-timer stepped out onto the porch, and this time he had a shotgun tucked under his arm.
“Got done out there, did ya?” he called.
“That’s right,” Breckinridge said. “You want to come have a look at what I did?”
Humboldt shifted the shotgun’s twin barrels so they pointed more in Breckinridge’s direction and said, “Maybe later. Right now you can just stop right there where you are.”
Breckinridge stopped thirty or forty feet short of the house as the old-timer said, but he frowned in confusion.
“What’s wrong, Mr. Humboldt?” he asked. “I thought we were makin’ a trade. The work I done in exchange for supper and some supplies.”
“That’s right, but there weren’t nothin’ said about you comin’ in the house to eat that meal or pick up them supplies. You can do that just as good out here.”
Breckinridge was puzzled by the farmer’s attitude, but then he saw the crude homespun curtain over one of the windows twitch a little, and when he looked closer he caught a glimpse of a face peering out at him.
It was a girl’s face, and from what Breckinridge could see of it, a pretty one, too. But then the curtain dropped back and he couldn’t see her anymore.
Breckinridge understood now. Humboldt didn’t want him setting foot in the house because he had a daughter or a granddaughter or, shoot, maybe even a wife in there, and he didn’t trust Breck to be around her.
That was a mite insulting, Breckinridge thought. His ma had raised him to always be polite to females. He could be a little rough around the edges sometimes, that was true, but he liked to think he was a gentleman when he needed to be, too.
He supposed he could see how come Humboldt felt the way he did, though, living out here a good long ways from civilization. It was natural for him to be protective of the girl, whoever she was.
“That’s fine, Mr. Humboldt,” Breckinridge said. “Out here or in there, it don’t really matter to me. I appreciate your hospitality either way.”
Humboldt looked a little flustered by Breckinridge’s politeness. He let the shotgun’s barrels sag toward the ground.
“I reckon you can come up here and sit on the porch,” he said gruffly. “But that’s all.”
“Thank you kindly, sir.”
Breckinridge climbed the three steps to the porch while Humboldt went back inside. A few minutes later the old-timer brought him a bowl of stew with chunks of roast beef and wild onions and carrots floating in it. Humboldt handed him a piece of bread torn off a larger loaf, as well, and asked, “You got anything to carry those supplies in?”
<
br /> “There’s an empty burlap sack on my saddle.”
Humboldt fetched the sack and limped back inside. When he came back out the sack was bulging with provisions.
“You set right there and eat while I go take a look at that work you done,” Humboldt said. “You budge off this porch and you’ll be sorry.”
“I’ll be right here,” Breckinridge promised. Since all the trouble back home, he was more determined than ever not to get mixed up in any more ruckuses. Knowing himself as he did, he wasn’t sure that resolve would last, but he was going to try to stay out of hot water, anyway.
The stew was good. He figured the girl he’d seen at the window had made it, although he couldn’t be sure. He wondered idly if Humboldt was keeping her here against her will. He didn’t seem like the sort of fella who would do such an ungodly thing, but you couldn’t ever tell. Just because the farmer had been friends with Daniel Boone didn’t mean the old man could do no wrong.
Humboldt came back from the barn and said, “You done a fine job, young fella. I’d say we made a fair trade. Now you can finish up that stew and be movin’ along.”
“It’ll be night soon,” Breckinridge pointed out. “I’ll be lookin’ for a place to stay.”
“It won’t be here.” Humboldt’s voice was flat, brooking no argument.
“Sure,” Breckinridge said with a shrug of his broad shoulders. “Whatever you say, Mr. Humboldt.”
“Dang right.”
Breckinridge used the bread to sop up the last of the juices from the stew, then handed the empty bowl to the farmer. Breck picked up the sack of supplies and said, “I’m much obliged to you. I’d say that I’ll stop by and say howdy if I’m ever in this part of the country again, but I don’t expect to be.”
“No, I reckon you better keep on to wherever it is you’re headed, Buh-Bill. But tell you what . . . if those so-called friends you mentioned come around lookin’ for you, I’ll tell ’em I ain’t seen you.”
“That’d be best,” Breckinridge agreed solemnly. He tied the supplies to the saddle, then mounted up and rode out without looking back.
He had ridden about half a mile before he said out loud, “Dang it, I never did get him to tell me about bein’ on the scout with Daniel Boone!”
* * *
Breckinridge traveled another couple of miles before he found a place to camp for the night in a thicket of trees. Since he’d already had his supper, he didn’t even have to build a fire. At this time of year the weather was pleasant enough that he didn’t need one for warmth, either, although it could still be a mite chilly early in the mornings.
Instead he picketed Hector where the horse had some graze, spread his blankets in a reasonably comfortable spot, and rolled up in them to go to sleep.
His rifle, pistol, and knife were close beside him, and when something roused him from slumber an unknown amount of time later, his hand reached out unerringly in the darkness and closed around the pistol butt. He lifted the weapon from the ground in complete silence and curled his thumb over the hammer, ready to cock and fire.
Renegade Indians could be anywhere, and so could thieves. If somebody wanted to rob him, either of his hair or his belongings, they were in for an unpleasant surprise.
Instead he was the one who got the surprise as a female voice called softly, “Hey! Hey, mister, are you in there? Don’t shoot, I’m comin’ in.”
Chapter Eight
Breckinridge had never heard the girl at Humboldt’s place speak, so he couldn’t recognize her voice. Despite that, every instinct in his body told him she was his late-night visitor.
He didn’t trust that this wasn’t some sort of trick or trap, but there was only one way to find out. He raised the pistol and eared back the hammer, just in case, and said, “Here I am, gal. I’m warnin’ you, though . . . You best not try anything funny.”
The undergrowth crackled a little as the girl made her way toward him. She stepped out of the brush and into the little clearing where he had camped. Even though there was almost no light from the moon and stars under the trees, his keen eyes spotted her. She was only an indistinct shape in the gloom.
“That’s far enough,” Breckinridge told her. “Who are you, and what are you doin’ here?”
“My name’s Sadie Humboldt,” she answered without hesitation. “I followed you from my grandpap’s farm, mister. I saw which direction you went and hoped I could find you.”
“Why?”
“Because wherever you’re headed, I want you to take me with you. Otherwise I’m gonna be stuck there takin’ care of Grandpap until he dies, and then I’ll just have to marry some ol’ farmer who’ll be more of the same. I want to get out and have me some fun before that happens.”
To a certain extent, Breckinridge could sympathize with her. Back home, he had spent many pleasant hours daydreaming about running away from his family’s farm and having adventures instead of spending all his time either working like a dog or sleeping an exhausted sleep.
Now he had left home, but it wasn’t anything like what he had envisioned. Parts of his current existence weren’t really that bad—he liked being out in nature and seeing new places and things—but he could never forget that he was a wanted fugitive, on the run from the law forevermore.
Breckinridge climbed to his feet and asked, “How old are you, anyway, girl?”
“I’m sixteen,” Sadie said. “But don’t let that worry you, mister. I don’t care how much older than me you are.”
She had mistaken him for being older than he really was, which was a pretty common occurrence. Rather than correct her, he said, “You ain’t old enough to be runnin’ away from home, especially with a strange man. Your grandpap would be comin’ after me with a posse. I don’t need the extra trouble.”
“Yeah, Grandpap said you were likely on the run from the law. He liked you anyway. I don’t think he’d be too upset if he knew I was with you. That’s why I left him a note tellin’ him I’d gone after you and planned to travel with you. I can’t write that good, but I was able to manage that much.”
Breckinridge bit back a groan of dismay. All his good intentions of staying out of trouble, and Sadie had gone and landed him right in the middle of it anyway. He bet that if the law showed up on the Humboldt farm now, the old man wouldn’t be so generous about not mentioning that he’d seen Breck.
“All right, you’ve got to turn around and head home right now,” Breckinridge said. “When you get there, you be sure and tell your grandfather that I never laid a finger on you, you hear?”
His eyes had adjusted to the darkness well enough that he saw her give a defiant toss of her head as she said, “Oh, shoot, is that all you’re worried about? I ain’t what anybody would call a good girl, mister, and I ain’t been for a long time. Most of six months. Plenty of gals in these parts, by the time they’re my age they’re married and swole up with child. Not always in that order, neither.”
Breckinridge still held the pistol, although he had lowered the hammer and pointed the weapon at the ground beside him. He used his free hand to scrub at his face in frustration for a moment, then he said, “I don’t care about any of that other stuff, but you can’t go with me. Where I’m goin’, I can’t be saddled with no girl-child.”
“I just told you, I ain’t no child. Where are you goin’?”
“The Rocky Mountains,” Breckinridge answered without thinking about it. “I’m gonna be a fur trapper.”
He knew when he heard those words how right they sounded. When he’d left home he hadn’t had any clear idea of his goals except not to get hanged, but now he knew what he wanted to do.
“That sounds mighty excitin’,” Sadie declared. “I’ll come with you. I’ll be a fur trapper, too.”
“Ain’t you listenin’? I just told you you can’t!” Breckinridge paused. “Anyway, there ain’t no gal fur trappers. None I’ve ever heard of, leastways.”
“Then I’ll be the first.”
Breckinridge felt
like a man who couldn’t swim, being drawn into deeper and deeper water by an irresistible current. If Sadie wasn’t going to cooperate, he didn’t see how he could make her go back to her grandfather’s farm short of picking her up and carrying her there. And if he did that she’d probably fight him every step of the way. He couldn’t afford to lose that much time, either, when the law might be on his trail.
Somehow, he had to talk her into going back on her own, and he could tell he wasn’t going to be able to do that tonight. She was just too blasted determined to get her own way. Maybe he could risk letting her travel with him for a day or two. Once she had seen how hard it was to live on the trail like he’d been doing, she would turn around and head home on her own.
With that hope in his head, Breckinridge said, “All right, since you’re so damn stubborn I reckon you can come along. You got to promise, though, that if your grandpap comes after us or sets the law on us, you’ll tell them the truth of the matter, that this was all your idea and that I never took advantage of you.”
She came closer to him and said, “It ain’t takin’ advantage if it’s what I want, too, is it, mister?”
“Blast it, girl, stop that! Did you bring anything with you?”
“A blanket and a little food.”
Breckinridge pointed and said, “You take your blanket and curl up on the other side of the clearin’. I got my side of camp, and you got your side.”
“All right,” she said with a saucy lilt to her voice. “Just remember it don’t have to be that way.”
Breckinridge went back to his bedroll and listened to Sadie getting settled on the other side of the clearing. He said, “You don’t even know my name, do you?”
“You told my grandpap it was Bill, but he said he could tell that was a lie.”
“Your grandpap’s too damned smart,” Breckinridge muttered. “For now we’ll just say it’s Bill, all right?”
“Sure.” A moment later, Sadie added brightly, “Good night, Bill.”
Breckinridge’s sleep was restless that night.
* * *
When he woke in the morning it was to the smell of coffee brewing, a pleasant sensation he hadn’t experienced since leaving home. And he shouldn’t be experiencing it now, he thought as he sat up sharply and looked around.
The Frontiersman Page 6