He put his hands on the table and rumbled, “Reckon I’m gonna have ta . . . turn in. Don’t know how come . . . I got so sleepy . . . all of a sudden.”
“The evening’s young yet,” MacKenzie said. He reached for the bottle, which somehow never seemed to empty. “Have another drink.”
Breckinridge shook his head with what seemed to him like agonizing slowness.
“No, I don’t reckon . . . that’d be a good idea . . .”
He tried to push himself to his feet, but it suddenly seemed like he weighed as much as a mountain. He couldn’t budge his enormous bulk. He grunted and strained and finally rose from the chair, but he couldn’t take a step. He just stood there swaying.
His vision swam in and out. He looked at Sadie and she was just a blue and gold and pink blur. Then those shaky images came together for a moment and he saw her gazing up at him with a look of both worry and anticipation.
“Sadie,” he said thickly, “you really are pretty . . .”
“Oh, Bill,” she said.
Then everything went blurry again and the room started to spin faster and faster. Alarm bells clamored in the small part of Breckinridge’s brain that was still working. Jack MacKenzie’s face whipped past him, and the sight of it caused rage to well up inside Breck.
“You . . . you son of a bitch!” he gasped. “You—”
Whatever accusation he was going to make went unsaid. The world fell out from under him. He caught a glimpse of the dirt floor rushing up to meet him.
He didn’t feel it hit him. He was out cold by then.
BOOK THREE
Chapter Eleven
Breckinridge was sick when he woke up . . . sick both physically and spiritually. At first he had only a vague memory of what had occurred in the tavern, but as comprehension returned to him more and more, he realized the truth. It had been written on Sadie’s face.
She had been waiting for him to pass out. Whatever Jack MacKenzie had done to him, she had known it was going to happen.
That understanding was like a knife in his heart.
After everything he had done for her—after he had treated her like a gentleman when he had every reason not to—she had thrown him over for MacKenzie. Betrayed him. Sat there with a sweet smile on her face while the gambler plotted against Breckinridge.
His stomach lurched violently. Everything he had eaten and drank earlier began to come up, and there was nothing he could do about it except lie there and let the spasms wrack him. Before it was over, he wished he could just go ahead and die. Anything would be better than this.
After what seemed like an eternity, he was empty. He shuddered a couple of times and then lay there in the reeking darkness that surrounded him.
“I’m glad I dragged you outside,” a man’s voice said somewhere nearby. “Figured if I didn’t I might have a big mess to clean up inside.”
Breckinridge struggled to raise his head and look around. He still couldn’t see anything, and for a terrible second he believed that he had been struck blind.
Then somebody struck a lucifer with a rasping sound. Even though the flame didn’t provide much light, it was enough to make Breckinridge wince. He turned his head and saw Rollins sitting on a log step at the rear of a building, probably the tavern. The white-haired man held the match to the bowl of the pipe he had clenched between his teeth. He puffed until the tobacco was burning. That created an orange glow that rose over his face and made him look like one of the demons Breck’s ma had read about in the Bible, when she read aloud from the Good Book sometimes after supper by the light of the fireplace.
“Where . . . how . . . ?” Breckinridge gasped.
“The where’s easy,” Rollins said. “You’re out back of my place. Like I told you, I dragged you out here because I had a hunch you’d be sick when you woke up. Let me tell you, it wasn’t easy, either. You must weigh damn near a ton, young fella.”
Breckinridge couldn’t hold his head up any longer. He let it sag back to the ground, being careful to keep his face away from what he had thrown up, and let out a groan that came from deep inside him. He had a headache the likes of which he had never experienced before. Maybe his skull wasn’t as thick as he’d thought it was.
When he could speak again, he asked miserably, “What’d that bastard do to me?”
“You’re talkin’ about MacKenzie? I expect he slipped somethin’ into those drinks he kept feedin’ you. You poured your undoin’ right down your own gullet, Walters.”
“You mean he . . . poisoned me? I’m dyin’?”
Breckinridge could easily believe that. He certainly felt like he was at death’s door.
Rollins snorted and said, “Hell, no. He just gave you somethin’ to knock you out. I’ve seen it done before. I thought at first he was just tryin’ to get you so drunk you’d pass out, but then I realized there probably ain’t enough liquor in this whole corner of Tennessee to do that, as big as you are. So he had to give you somethin’ more powerful. Even then it took a while for the stuff to catch up to you. I think he expected to have you out cold sooner than he did.”
“Sadie . . . she . . . she knew . . .”
“Wouldn’t surprise me a bit if she did. She didn’t seem shocked when you hit the floor.”
Breckinridge groaned again. He wasn’t sure which was worse, being so sick from the stuff MacKenzie had given him or knowing that Sadie had turned on him and cooperated with the gambler.
“Is she still here?” he asked, fearing that he already knew the answer to that question.
Rollins puffed on his pipe for a moment, then said, “No, she rode out with him when he left. On your horse, I might add.”
That upset Breckinridge so much he pushed himself halfway upright again.
“She stole Hector?” he demanded.
“Yep. While you were still out, I walked down to the livery and asked around. Seems the girl told him you’d sent her to fetch the horse. Ernie didn’t have any reason to doubt it. Everybody in Cooter’s Landin’ knows that you and the girl rode in together.”
Breckinridge managed to struggle to a sitting position. He put his head in his hands and held it for a few seconds, but that didn’t help any. It hurt just as bad, and things still looked just as bleak.
Finally he raised his head to glare at Rollins and said, “You knew what was goin’ on and didn’t do a blessed thing to stop it.”
Rollins took the pipe out of his mouth and spat.
“I suspected, but I didn’t know,” he said sharply. “Don’t go blamin’ me. A fella as big as you ought to know to look out for himself. Anyway, I don’t owe you any favors. Hell, considerin’ all that ruckus you caused earlier, you’re lucky I didn’t just cut your throat while you were passed out.”
As angry as Breckinridge was, he also knew that Rollins was right. This disaster was his own damned fault. Obviously, something had been going on between Sadie and MacKenzie almost from the start. Breck was willing to bet that when MacKenzie brought the dress back to the tavern and gave it to Sadie, they had struck their bargain then and there. Breck could only hope that it had been MacKenzie’s idea, that Sadie hadn’t been the one to suggest that they double-cross him. Somehow that would have been even worse.
“Did they leave me anything? My rifle? My pistol?”
Slowly, Rollins shook his head.
“Reckon they cleaned you out, son. You got the clothes on your back, and that’s it.”
“Which way did they go?”
“South toward Chattanooga.”
That answer didn’t surprise Breckinridge, either. Sadie would have been eager to see what life was like in a bigger town. If MacKenzie had promised to show her, she would have gone along with whatever he wanted.
“If you’re thinkin’ about goin’ after them,” Rollins went on, “it’d be a waste of time. They’ve been gone for hours. You’d never catch up to ’em on foot.”
“There are other horses in this place.”
Rollins’s voice h
ardened as he said, “If you go near any of them, you’ll get yourself shot. We don’t cotton to horse thieves around here.”
“But you sat by and let me get robbed of everything I own in the world!”
“Like I said, that’s your lookout,” Rollins replied with a shrug.
Breckinridge could see that talking about the problem wasn’t going to do any good. He had to figure out what he was going to do next, and he always thought better on his feet. Slowly, shakily, he climbed upright and spread his legs, planting his moccasins solidly on the ground to brace himself as everything whirled around him.
He stood there and waited for a couple of minutes while his iron constitution asserted itself and steadied him. When he thought he could walk without staggering—or worse, falling down—he started around the tavern.
“Where are you goin’?” Rollins called after him.
Breckinridge didn’t reply.
He couldn’t, because he didn’t know the answer to that question.
* * *
The eastern sky held a faint grayish tinge. That told him it was probably an hour or so until dawn. He’d been unconscious most of the night. If Sadie and MacKenzie had kept moving all night—and there was no reason they shouldn’t have, since the road was well marked and MacKenzie was familiar with the area—they would be in Chattanooga by now. MacKenzie probably knew plenty of places they could hole up. Breckinridge realized bitterly that he stood almost no chance of finding them.
Not only that, he wanted to avoid the larger settlements. That was why he had chosen the trail that brought them to Cooter’s Landing, after all. The law in Chattanooga might have received word to be watching for somebody who matched his description. There was too great a risk in going there, not to mention the time he would waste by doing so.
No, like it or not, he had to accept the fact that Hector was gone, and so was Sadie. Under the circumstances he thought good riddance where the girl was concerned, but he keenly regretted the loss of his horse and the rest of his gear.
He walked down the street to the livery stable and blacksmith shop. Even at this early hour, a light burned in the shed-like living quarters in back. Breckinridge pounded on the door.
“Ja, ja, wie gehts?” came from inside. “Who is out there? What do you want?”
Ernie Muller opened the door. His bushy blond brows rose in surprise as candlelight spilled out onto Breckinridge.
“Herr Walters,” Muller said. “I thought you left with the young lady last night.”
Breckinridge guessed Rollins hadn’t told the liveryman what had happened. He said harshly, “We’re not travelin’ together anymore. Do you have a horse I might have the loan of, Mr. Muller?”
A stern look came over Muller’s beefy features. He said, “I don’t loan horses, Herr Walters. I don’t even rent them. I sell them. But if you need a mount, I have a few good ones.”
“That won’t do me any good. I don’t have any money.”
“A shame, that.” Muller started to close the door. “I cannot help you.”
“Wait a minute,” Breckinridge said as he rested the palm of his hand against the door to stop it from closing. “Maybe I could work for you and earn a horse that way. I’m strong, and I’ve done a little blacksmith work in the past.”
“Oh, ja?” The man’s interest perked up. “We might be able to come to an arrangement.”
“How long do you reckon it’d take me to work off the price of a decent mount?”
Muller frowned in thought for a couple of seconds, then said, “Three months, perhaps. No more than four.”
Breckinridge’s spirits plummeted yet again. He couldn’t spend three or four months in Cooter’s Landing. The law would catch up to him for sure in that amount of time and take him back to hang for Jasper Carlson’s death.
For one wild second, he thought about walloping Muller and just taking a horse. The liveryman was good sized and muscular from the blacksmith work, but Breckinridge was confident he could knock out the older man with one good punch.
He was already a fugitive, after all. With a murder charge already hanging over his head, what would it matter if he became a horse thief?
But it would matter to him, Breckinridge realized. No matter how he stood in the eyes of the law, he knew in his heart that he wasn’t a murderer. But if he attacked Ernie Muller and took a horse, then he really would be a thief.
He heaved a sigh and said, “Sorry, Mr. Muller, I can’t wait that long. Reckon I’ll have to find some other way of getting out of here.”
“Good luck to you then, young man. I’m not sure what happened, but I get the sense that life has not treated you fairly.”
“You could sure say that again,” Breckinridge agreed.
In the dim light, he trudged on down the street toward the ferry landing. As he walked, he started to frown at his feet. If it came right down to brass tacks, he could continue his flight to the west by walking. That would slow him down, but he might not have any other choice. And at least he would still be moving in the direction he wanted to go. Something else might turn up along the way.
Cooter’s shack was dark. Breckinridge sat down on a stool outside the door and waited. The sky gradually grew lighter.
Finally, not long after the sun came up, the door of the shack opened and Cooter stepped out, yawning and hooking his thumbs in his suspenders. He jumped a little when he saw Breckinridge sitting there.
“What in tarnation, boy?” he demanded. “How come you to be lurkin’ around outside my place like this?”
“I need to get across the river,” Breckinridge said as he got to his feet. He couldn’t explain it, but he felt somehow that he would be safer if he could just put the Tennessee River behind him.
“I told you, the capstan’s seized up. I’m gonna try to get it workin’ today, but there ain’t no tellin’ if I will or not.”
“Ain’t there any other way?”
A dry bark of laughter came from the ferryman. He said, “I reckon you could try to swim it. I wouldn’t suggest it, though. That river’s more treacherous than it looks. Got currents in it you wouldn’t expect. Less’n you swim like a fish, chances are you’d drown.”
Breckinridge was a good swimmer, but the river was too wide and daunting. Cooter was right: if he gave out part of the way across, that would be the end of him.
But another thought came to him as he looked at the ferry. The thick rope attached to it ran all the way across the river and was anchored on the other side. It sagged a little in the middle but still hung several feet above the water.
“How about if I use that rope to get across?” he asked.
Cooter stared at him.
“You mean go hand over hand across it?” the ferryman asked. “That’s plumb crazy! You couldn’t do that.”
“I’m thinkin’ maybe I could.”
“You’ll fall in the river, for sure.”
“Maybe not. Anyway, I told you, I got to get across.”
That might just be sheer stubbornness on his part, but the challenge had grown to acquire large proportions. Logical or not, Breckinridge felt as if a lot were depending on him crossing the river.
“I can’t pay you . . .” he went on.
Cooter snorted and waved a hand at the rope.
“If you want to try such a damn fool stunt and get yourself kilt, you go right on ahead. I ain’t gonna stop you.”
Breckinridge was nervous but determined. He nodded and said, “All right. One more thing first, if that’s all right. You have a knife I can borrow?”
“Sure.” Cooter stepped into the shack and came back out with a hunting knife. “What do you want it for?”
“Reckon I don’t need anything extra weighin’ me down,” Breckinridge said as he took the knife in one hand and gathered up his long red hair in the other.
He sawed off as much of the hair as he could, making a crude but effective job of it and letting the shorn tresses fall around his feet. He couldn’t do anything
about his size or the color of his hair, but at least he could change how long it was. He didn’t really think that would throw off any pursuers if they followed him to Cooter’s Landing, but it was something to try, anyway.
He handed the knife back to Cooter and said, “Much obliged.” Then he rubbed his hands on his buckskin trousers and stepped over to the posts where the rope was anchored on this side. He leaned out as far as he could, got a firm grip on the rope, and then swung under it, raising his legs to wrap them around the rope, too. By doing it that way, he didn’t put as much weight on his hands, arms, and shoulders.
“You done lost your mind, son,” Cooter called to him. “Folks got to see this.”
The ferryman turned and broke into a loose-jointed trot toward the buildings.
Breckinridge pulled himself along one hand at a time, his legs sliding on the rope. His muscles began to ache almost immediately from supporting his weight. He didn’t care if they hurt, as long as they didn’t cramp up and cause him to lose his grip.
He was above the river now. He didn’t try to turn his head and look down at the water. Instead he concentrated on the rope. He made sure his grip was secure before he let go with one hand and reached behind him. Now was not the time to get in a hurry, he told himself... but the longer he was out here the more likely it was his strength would give out.
He was vaguely aware that a crowd had gathered at the ferry landing, summoned by the excited Cooter. Breckinridge heard men calling bets back and forth to each other and realized that they were wagering on whether or not he would make it to the other side.
They were betting on whether he lived or died.
That angered him, but he tamped it down. He couldn’t afford to lose his temper right now. He was fifty or sixty feet from shore, still close enough to get back in if he fell, but with each foot that he pulled himself along the rope, he was that much farther from safety.
His muscles burned, but he ignored the pain. Steady, steady, he told himself. Reach, pull, tighten his grip, take a breath, reach, pull . . .
Time had no meaning, only distance. He felt water against the back of his head and knew he was at the point where the rope sagged the most. He had reached the middle of the river.
The Frontiersman Page 9