The Frontiersman

by William W. Johnstone

  The place was busy despite the early hour. Most of the tables were occupied by men drinking or playing cards or both. More men lined the bar and nursed buckets of beer or threw back shots of whiskey. Breckinridge saw a few women, all of them hard-faced serving girls with coarse hair and expressions that said they had seen it all, more times than they cared to remember.

  Then a flash of honey-colored hair caught his eye and he turned his head to look closer. His breath froze in his throat as he saw the man and woman sitting at one of the tables where a poker game was going on. Neither of them had seen him yet.

  Sadie and MacKenzie must not have stayed in Chattanooga for very long, because here they were, now, in St. Louis.

  BOOK FOUR

  Chapter Fifteen

  Breckinridge’s mind was a riot of emotions. First and foremost among them was anger. He wanted to charge across the room, grab Jack MacKenzie, pull the gambler up out of his chair, and smash a fist in his face a few times. MacKenzie was a no-good thief and deserved nothing less.

  Breckinridge was mad at Sadie, too, but he still wanted to believe that MacKenzie had talked her into double-crossing him. Anyway, he wasn’t the sort who would ever lay hands on a woman in anger, no matter how treacherous she was.

  At the same time, a part of him wanted to wheel around and get the hell out of Red Mike’s place before either of them noticed him. That would certainly simplify matters. He could find Christophe later and get the money the keelboat captain owed him. If he waited at the Sophie, he was sure Christophe would show up sooner or later.

  Harry noticed how Breckinridge had stopped short and started to say, “Hey, what—”

  At that moment, Breckinridge knew he had delayed too long. Sadie glanced up, and across the room their gazes met. Breck couldn’t hear it over the hubbub in the tavern, but he saw her mouth open and knew she had just gasped in surprise at seeing him.

  Her hand shot out and her fingers closed, claw-like, on MacKenzie’s arm. Angrily, the gambler tried to shake her off, but she spoke rapidly to him. His head jerked up. He saw Breckinridge, too, and his other hand made an instinctive move toward his coat. Breck figured MacKenzie had a pistol under there. MacKenzie hesitated, probably waiting to see what Breck was going to do.

  “You go ahead and find any of the other fellas who are here, Harry,” Breckinridge said. “I see some old friends over there.”

  “Are you sure? You looked pretty shaken up there for a second, Breck.”

  “I’m sure,” Breckinridge said. He started across the room toward the table where Sadie and MacKenzie sat, keeping his walk to a slow, deliberate pace. He didn’t want to spook MacKenzie into pulling a gun and firing in this crowded room.

  As Breckinridge came up to the table, MacKenzie threw his cards in and said, “Sorry, gents, I’m out of the game.”

  “Wait a minute,” one of the other players objected. “I believe you owe me quite a bit of money. I was willing to extend you credit and give you a chance to win it back, but if you’re going to walk away, you’ll have to pay up first.”

  MacKenzie’s lips tightened into a thin line. He said, “I don’t have that much money, Rory. You know that.”

  The other man leaned back in his chair and gave him a mocking smile.

  “In that case you’ll have to pay with some other currency,” Rory said. He turned his insolent gaze on Sadie. “I can think of something that will do quite nicely.”

  She flushed in anger or embarrassment or both as she said, “Don’t let him talk like that, Jack.”

  Rory leaned forward and said, “He doesn’t have any choice but to let me do whatever I want. He’s in the hole to me, remember?”

  Breckinridge moved a little closer to the table. As his shadow loomed over it, Rory turned his head to glare up at him.

  “What do you want, you lunkhead?” the expensively dressed young man demanded.

  Breckinridge never would have dreamed that if he ever saw Sadie and MacKenzie again, he would be put in the position of defending them. He disliked the man called Rory on sight, however. The card player was no riverman or fur trapper. His fancy clothes and soft hands were proof of that. They bespoke wealth. Breck had a hunch Rory was one of those well-to-do fellas who liked to associate with working men so he could feel superior to them. Breck despised that arrogant breed.

  “Like to have a word with my friends here,” Breckinridge said in reply to Rory’s question. He nodded toward Sadie and MacKenzie.

  “You can talk to them when I’ve finished my business with them,” Rory snapped. “Until then, go away.”

  “Nope, I’ve got to see ’em now,” Breckinridge said stubbornly. “They can deal with you later.”

  Rory stiffened. The other men at the table began sliding their chairs back carefully and getting up. A hush radiated out from this confrontation and spread across the room.

  “Do you know who I am?” Rory demanded.

  “Nope, and I don’t care, either,” Breckinridge answered honestly.

  “I’m Rory Ducharme.”

  “Sorry, that don’t mean a thing to me.”

  “It will, you ignorant oaf!”

  With that, Rory lunged up out of his chair. His hand darted under his coat and came out clutching a derringer. The little gun flashed up toward Breckinridge’s face. At this range, even the small-caliber ball fired by such a weapon could be fatal, Breck knew. He swung his new rifle, and the barrel cracked down hard against Rory’s wrist. The derringer popped, but the ball smacked harmlessly into the table, scattering cards and coins.

  Breckinridge launched a straight, hard punch that crashed into the middle of Rory’s face. He felt Rory’s nose flatten under the blow, and he thought maybe some bones broke there, too. Rory probably wouldn’t be as handsome once he recovered.

  As Rory fell unconscious to the sawdust-littered floor, several men charged toward the table from the bar. Breckinridge realized that Rory probably wouldn’t venture into a rough place like this without a few hired bodyguards to keep him safe. They hadn’t done their job, but now they would come after the man who had struck down their employer and try to even the score.

  Breckinridge was willing to fight the men, but Sadie grabbed his arm and MacKenzie brandished a pistol and barked, “Let’s get out of here!”

  Harry yelled, “All you rivermen, on your feet! It’s a brawl!”

  Indeed it was. In a matter of seconds a swirling melee filled the tavern. Behind the bar, a brawny, redheaded Irishman who had to be Red Mike shouted at the combatants, who blatantly ignored him as they flailed and pounded at each other.

  Sadie tugged Breckinridge toward the door as she urged, “Come on, Bill!”

  That reminded him she didn’t know his real name. He would set her straight on that if he got the chance. He would set her straight on a lot of things.

  But first they had to get out of the middle of this ruckus. Even though it galled him to turn his back on a fight, Breckinridge wanted to confront Sadie and MacKenzie more than he wanted to stay there and wallop Rory Ducharme’s bodyguards.

  The three of them bulled their way through the crowd toward the door. As they passed Harry, Breckinridge caught the eye of the little rat-like man, who waved them on with a cheerful grin and called, “Go on, get outta here! See you later at the boat!”

  Then Harry leaped on the back of a larger man and started to choke him.

  Breckinridge, Sadie, and MacKenzie stumbled out of the tavern. Night had fallen, and the shadows along the waterfront were thick. MacKenzie said, “Down here,” and led them away from Red Mike’s Black Ship.

  Breckinridge was soon lost, but MacKenzie seemed to know where he was going. The gambler finally stopped near a pier where water lapped softly against the pilings.

  MacKenzie laughed and said, “It seems fate has cast us as allies again, Bill. Why is it that hell always seems to start popping as soon as you come around?”

  “My name ain’t Bill. It’s Breckinridge Wallace, and don’t start
talkin’ about us bein’ allies. I ain’t forgotten that you drugged me and robbed me, Jack.”

  “Oh, Bill—I mean Breckinridge,” Sadie said. “I’m sorry about that—”

  “Don’t listen to her,” MacKenzie said. “She was perfectly willing to go along with the idea as soon as I suggested it.”

  Breckinridge’s hands tightened on the rifle he held. He said, “So it was your idea, not hers.”

  MacKenzie shrugged.

  “I’ve never minded owning up to whatever I’ve done,” he said. “I don’t live my life making apologies, and I won’t start now. Yes, I slipped something in your drinks to knock you out. I suggested that we take your horse and your gear. But I could have killed you, and I didn’t. Not only that, I also told Rollins that if he hurt you, I’d come back and kill him. So you see, in one way of looking at it, I probably saved your life. Rollins is a vicious, spiteful bastard.”

  Breckinridge kept a tight rein on his temper. It wasn’t easy. He said, “How’d the two of you come to be here in Saint Louis?”

  “I thought my luck would have changed when we returned to Chattanooga. It hadn’t. I deemed it wise to make a change of scenery.”

  “In other words, you made a run for it out of town so you wouldn’t have to pay off your gamblin’ debts.” Breckinridge didn’t bother trying to hide the disgust he felt. “Do you ever pay up . . . or do you keep some pretty gal with you and make her square things for you?”

  Sadie sniffed and said, “You don’t have to be crude about it.” She paused, then added, “But at least you called me pretty.”

  “You are pretty,” Breckinridge said. “I don’t reckon I’d ever trust you again, though.”

  “That’s fine,” she said, and now there was a touch of anger in her voice. “We’ll just go our separate ways—”

  The sudden roar of a gunshot interrupted her. Breckinridge jerked around toward the sound and spotted Rory Ducharme standing about half a block away with his right arm extended and smoke curling from the barrel of the pistol he held. He had another pistol in his left hand, and as he started to bring it up, Breckinridge’s instincts took over. Earlier, after buying the rifle, he had loaded and primed it, so all he had to do as he brought the weapon smoothly to his shoulder was cock it. He pressed the trigger and the flintlock snapped down, sparking and detonating the powder charge. The rifle boomed and kicked against his shoulder.

  Rory Ducharme flew backward like he’d been punched by a giant fist.

  As the echoes of the shots faded, Breckinridge heard shouting. It was still several blocks away but coming closer. MacKenzie grabbed his arm.

  “That’ll be Ducharme’s men trying to catch up to him,” he said. “We have to get out of here.”

  Rory hadn’t moved since he’d fallen. Breckinridge was reasonably sure the man was dead. He’d aimed for the heart, and even in bad light he was a good shot.

  He and MacKenzie turned at the same time, and the gambler let out a choked exclamation at the sight of Sadie lying crumpled on the ground. He sprang to her side, knelt there, and lifted her. Breckinridge felt something twist inside him at the sight of the large dark stain on the front of her dress.

  Rory’s single shot hadn’t missed completely after all.

  MacKenzie seemed genuinely grief-stricken as he clutched Sadie’s limp form to his chest. Breckinridge’s throat felt pretty tight, too. He and Sadie had never been as close as she had wanted, and in the end she had gone along with betraying him, whether it had been her idea or not. But even so, he hadn’t wished for any real harm to come to her.

  After a long moment, MacKenzie heaved a sigh. He looked up at Breckinridge and said, “You should go. Ducharme’s bodyguards will be here any minute. Once they find out he’s dead, they’ll come after you. They’ll know that if they don’t bring your head back to his father, it’ll be their own lives at stake.”

  “His father . . . ?”

  “Otto Ducharme. One of the wealthiest—and most evil—men in this part of the country. He only loves one thing: his son. And you’ve killed him.”

  “He shot at me first,” Breckinridge said.

  “That won’t matter. Ducharme will have you hunted down and killed. You’d better get out of Saint Louis as quickly as you can, any way you can.” MacKenzie paused. “Whichever way you go, I’ll tell them you went the opposite direction. I’ll give them that phony name you were using as well.”

  “Why would you do that for me?”

  MacKenzie looked down at Sadie’s face, which was still and peaceful now in the moonlight. Without lifting his head, he said, “Believe it or not, she still had a soft spot for you. She was sorry about what we did to you. I don’t think she’d want anything else to happen to you.”

  “What happened to my horse?”

  “I sold him in Memphis to pay for our passage on the riverboat that brought us here.”

  Breckinridge sighed. It looked like he would never see Hector again. He wondered if the horse had been there in Memphis when the Sophie had gone by without stopping. It seemed entirely possible.

  The shouts were louder now. Breckinridge knew he was just about out of time. He wondered if he dared go back to the keelboat and wait for Christophe. It didn’t seem like a very good idea. Otto Ducharme’s men might track him there. He wasn’t going to bring trouble down on the heads of Christophe, Andre, and his other friends from the keelboat.

  “I’m sorry about what happened, Jack. I truly am.”

  MacKenzie stroked Sadie’s cheek and whispered, “Just go.”

  Breckinridge went.

  He ran through the night, carrying the rifle at a slant in front of his chest. He didn’t know where he was going, but he put the river at his back and headed away from it. That took him west, the direction he’d wanted to go all along. He ran through dark streets, between buildings that loomed like slouching beasts. The cobblestones gave way to hard-packed dirt. The shouts faded far behind him.

  He had a rifle, a couple of pistols, powder and shot, and a good knife, he thought as he left the settlement and entered open country. No money, but where he was going there wasn’t really anything to buy. He could have been a lot worse off, he told himself. He had been a lot worse off when he woke up behind the tavern at Cooter’s Landing. Then he’d had nothing but the clothes on his back.

  He didn’t know how far away the Rocky Mountains were, but it seemed unlikely he could walk that far. He wouldn’t have to, he decided. Something would come up. It always did.

  Finally, after he had been running for what seemed like hours, weariness caught up to him and he slowed to a walk. He looked back over his shoulder. He couldn’t see the lights of St. Louis anymore. The only lights in the whole universe were the stars above his head, and a thin sliver of moon that hung low in the sky.

  Breckinridge had never felt quite so alone, and in his solitude the sorrow he felt over Sadie’s death stabbed even deeper inside him.

  He wondered if MacKenzie had been telling the truth. Would the gambler really mislead the pursuers and send them in the wrong direction? Or would he tell them Breckinridge’s true name and point in the exact direction he had gone? Breck didn’t know, but he figured time would give him the answers.

  He wondered as well if he was destined to spend the rest of his life running away from first one thing and then another. He didn’t like the feeling.

  This was easy country to travel through, mostly flat and covered with knee-high grass. Some folks called this the Great American Desert, but these plains seemed pretty lush to Breckinridge. He strode along for what seemed like scores of miles, although he was sure he hadn’t really covered that much distance. The eastern sky was gray behind him. He thought that when it got light, he would look for some game to shoot for his breakfast.

  The smell of coffee drifting to his nose came as a complete surprise.

  Somebody else was out there in that vast emptiness. Breckinridge supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised. He’d heard about immigrants
crossing the plains, following something called the Oregon Trail. Maybe there was a wagon train up ahead somewhere. All he had to do was follow his nose. Maybe they would be the hospitable sort of folks who would offer him a cup of coffee and some breakfast. They might even let him travel along with them for a ways. He was a good hunter. He could help provide fresh meat for all the pilgrims headed for the promised land . . .

  All the thoughts and plans that sprang unexpectedly into his mind must have distracted him, because he didn’t know anybody else was in the vicinity until he heard hammers being cocked all around him and an order was issued sharply in a crisp, clear voice.

  “Don’t move, mister, or we’ll shoot.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Breckinridge knew from the sounds there were at least four guns pointed at him, so he didn’t move. As the shapes of men materialized out of the predawn gloom, he said, “Take it easy, fellas. I don’t mean you any harm.”

  “He sounds like a white man, Lieutenant, not an Injun,” one of the figures said.

  One of the other men replied, “I didn’t expect to run into Indians this early in our trip, Private Hampton.” He added dryly, “We only left Saint Louis yesterday, remember.”

  The figures surrounding him were oddly shaped, and after a moment Breckinridge realized why. They were wearing tall hats that made their heads look unnatural. That fact, along with the way the men referred to each other, told Breckinridge what he needed to know about them.

  “You fellas are soldiers,” he said.

  One of the men came closer to him. The gray light was getting stronger, and Breckinridge was able to make out the man’s dark coat, lighter trousers, and the hat with some sort of plume on it. He held a rifle with a bayonet attached to the end of the barrel. The weapon pointed down now, but even in the gloom Breck could tell that the man was alert and was ready to lift the rifle and use it in a hurry if he needed to.