The Frontiersman

by William W. Johnstone

  “Who are you?” the soldier asked.

  Breckinridge hesitated before answering. He had never heard of the army hunting down wanted criminals before. That was a job for the civilian authorities.

  Anyway, out here on the plains miles west of St. Louis, it was highly unlikely these soldiers would have heard of him and know he was wanted for murder back in Tennessee.

  “My name’s Breckinridge Wallace,” he said.

  “What are you doing out here?” the soldier who seemed to be the spokesman asked. “Are you an immigrant?”

  Breckinridge thought about it and replied, “I reckon you could say that.”

  “Where’s your wagon train? Did you wander off from it?”

  “No wagon train,” Breckinridge said. “I’m, uh, travelin’ by myself.”

  “What about your saddle horse? Your pack animal?”

  Breckinridge couldn’t help grinning ruefully as he said, “I reckon what I’m wearin’ and carryin’ is all I got to my name.”

  “Good Lord, man! Have you lost your mind? Setting out across the plains alone, with no mount and no supplies? You won’t last a week!”

  Breckinridge didn’t like having his abilities disparaged like that. His voice held a trace of anger as he said, “You might be surprised, mister. If you’ll just let me go on my way, we’ll just see who lasts and who don’t.”

  One of the other soldiers said, “Better let him go, Lieutenant. He’s probably one of those crazy mountain men. There’s no telling what he’ll do.”

  “May I remind you, Private, we have a responsibility to protect civilians, even from themselves,” the lieutenant said crisply. “If this man isn’t right in his, ah, mental state, I can’t just allow him to wander off to certain death.”

  “I’m standin’ right here,” Breckinridge said. “And I don’t take kindly to bein’ called touched in the head.”

  “Then come back to our camp with us,” the lieutenant said. “If you can convince me that I should allow you to proceed, then so be it.” He paused. “But in the meantime you can have a cup of coffee and something to eat.”

  The smell of food and coffee still hung in the air and made Breckinridge’s mouth water. He wasn’t sure it would be a good idea for him to get mixed up with a bunch of soldiers, but he supposed having some breakfast with them wouldn’t hurt anything.

  “All right,” he said. “I reckon I can do that.” He looked around and added, “You think you could tell those other fellas to stop pointin’ their rifles at me?”

  That request brought a chuckle from the lieutenant. He said, “At ease, men. I don’t think Mr. Wallace represents a significant threat to us.”

  “I dunno, Lieutenant,” one of the soldiers said dubiously. “He’s about as big as a buffalo.”

  “And sort of wild and shaggy like one of ’em, too,” another man put in.

  The soldiers obeyed their officer’s order, though, and lowered their weapons. The lieutenant motioned for Breckinridge to fall in alongside him and started walking across the prairie. The rest of the soldiers followed them.

  “I’m Lieutenant John Francis Mallory of the Army Corps of Topographical Engineers, Mr. Wallace,” the officer introduced himself. Breckinridge could see now that the lieutenant was young, probably in his early twenties. Of course, that was older than he was, Breck thought, but after everything that had happened in the past couple of months, he felt like he had grown up in a hurry.

  “What are top . . . topographical engineers?” Breckinridge asked, stumbling a little over the word. He felt confident his brother Edward would have known without having to ask, but Breck was still learning about things.

  “We’re responsible for exploring the areas of the country that haven’t been documented yet,” Lieutenant Mallory explained. “It’s our job to survey and prepare maps of those unexplored areas. There are a few trails already established across the plains, but most of the region is, well, a vast unknown.”

  “Fur trappers have been goin’ to the mountains for twenty years or more,” Breckinridge said. “I’ve heard talk about ’em.”

  “Yes, but nearly all of them stick to the Missouri River and follow it all the way to the Yellowstone country and beyond into the mountains. Then there’s the Oregon Trail to the Pacific northwest that the immigrants use, and the Santa Fe Trail into the Spanish southwest, but other than that . . .” Mallory shrugged. “We don’t really know what’s out here. There may be even better routes that no one has discovered yet.”

  “And it’s the army’s job to find ’em?”

  “That’s what we’re here for. There’s a great deal at stake. The entire western half of the continent can’t be settled and developed properly unless there are safe trails that can be used by civilians.”

  Breckinridge wasn’t sure the western half of the continent really needed to be “settled and developed properly.” It seemed to him that the land had been getting along pretty well the way it was. But he supposed that was what governments did, otherwise they wouldn’t have had much of an excuse for existing.

  A few minutes later the group came to a campsite on the bank of a small stream. The camp was coming alive for the day as at least two dozen men attended to a variety of chores. Some were cooking, others took care of picketed horses, and still others were taking down tents and packing them for the day’s journey. It was a busy place, bustling with activity.

  But all of the soldiers stopped what they were doing to stare at the giant redheaded stranger with Lieutenant Mallory and the other members of the patrol. The attention made Breckinridge feel a little like a freak.

  One of the men, a short, grizzled veteran, asked, “Who’s this, Lieutenant?”

  “Allow me to present Mr. Breckinridge Wallace, Sergeant Falk,” Mallory said. He added dryly, “Evidently Mr. Wallace is immigrating to the west but traveling very light.”

  Falk looked Breckinridge up and down with a skeptical eye.

  “Where’s his gear?”

  “That’s it,” Mallory said. “Just what you see.”

  Falk’s disgusted snort made it clear what he thought about that.

  Breckinridge said, “Well, I ain’t a soldier. I can get by without havin’ to tote all the comforts of home around with me.”

  “All the comforts of home, is it?” Falk snapped. The scrappy little non-com took a step toward Breckinridge, who was almost twice as tall as he was. “I’ll show you comforts of home, you big—”

  “That’s quite enough, Sergeant,” Mallory said. “I’ve invited Mr. Wallace to have breakfast with us while I speak with him, and I expect him to be treated in a hospitable fashion.”

  “Of course . . . sir,” Falk replied with obvious reluctance.

  “Come with me, Mr. Wallace,” Mallory said. He gestured for Breckinridge to have a seat next to one of the cook fires. Breck lowered himself to the ground and sat with crossed legs. Mallory used a piece of leather to lift the pot from the edge of the flames and poured coffee into tin cups for each of them. Breck took an appreciative sip of the hot, black brew, then accepted a tin plate of bacon and flapjacks from one of the other soldiers.

  The food was good, and Breckinridge ate with gusto. During his time on the keelboat, he had started to regain some of the weight he had lost on his near-starvation trek across Tennessee, but even under the best of circumstances his appetite was prodigious.

  Lieutenant Mallory watched him and said with a smile, “You’re just a growing boy, aren’t you, Mr. Wallace?”

  Because of his size, most folks took Breckinridge for several years older than he really was, but evidently Mallory had done a better job of guessing his age. However, it often came in handy to be thought older than he was, so Breck said guardedly, “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

  Quietly, Mallory replied, “I daresay you’re younger than I am . . . and Sergeant Falk never misses an opportunity to remind me of just how wet behind the ears I am.”

  “I’m old enough to be o
ut here. Let’s just let it go at that.”

  “Of course. It’s really none of my affair, anyway.”

  Breckinridge agreed.

  As they continued eating and the sky grew rosy above them with the approach of dawn, Mallory asked, “Are you bound for any place in particular, or just heading west in general?”

  “I thought I’d go to the Rocky Mountains,” Breckinridge said. “I plan to be a fur trapper.”

  “The Rocky Mountains take in a great deal of area. In fact, they stretch from up in Canada all the way down into northern Mexico. They may not be referred to as the Rockies that far south, but they’re all really part of the same chain, or at least that’s what I believe from studying the available maps.”

  “Well, wherever they have the best trappin’, I suppose that’s where I’ll go.”

  Mallory shook his head and said, “The fur industry isn’t what it once was, you know. I’m told that back east men have started wearing silk hats instead of beaver.”

  “I reckon there’ll always be a market for beaver pelts,” Breckinridge said, although in truth he really didn’t know much about that subject just yet. He’d figured he would educate himself when he got to the mountains.

  “Well, for your sake, I hope you’re right.” A wistful note came into Mallory’s voice. “You know, I wouldn’t mind seeing the mountains myself. I come from Illinois. It’s mostly flat there. Farming country. Not nearly as adventurous as trapping and fighting Indians and mountain lions.”

  “Don’t forget the grizzle bears,” Breckinridge said, thinking about what Harry had said to him the day before, back in St. Louis. He looked down at the rifle lying on the ground beside him, the rifle he had bought with Harry’s help.

  Hard to believe that had happened less than twenty-four hours earlier. Sadie’s death was even more recent. And yet to Breckinridge, that part of his life was already receding into the past. It seemed to him that his life always took violent, dramatic lurches from one path to another. There was never anything gradual. He never knew when he was going to be thrown completely off balance.

  There was a stir on the other side of camp. A man in a broad-brimmed felt hat and a fringed and beaded buckskin jacket strode toward Breckinridge and Mallory. His lined face looked like it had been carved out of hardwood, and the white beard he sported made his permanent tan seem even darker.

  Mallory stood up to greet the newcomer, and for some reason Breckinridge got to his feet, too.

  “How does it look up ahead, Tom?” the lieutenant asked.

  “Clear sailin’ for the most part,” the older man replied. “There’s a good-sized herd of buffler a couple miles farther on. We’d best give them a wide berth. You don’t want to be anywhere around a bunch of buffs if they take it in their heads to run. That’s the quickest way in the world to get yourself stomped flat.”

  “No Indian sign?”

  “Nope. I don’t expect to cut any for a few more days, either. We ain’t gotten to their huntin’ grounds yet.” The man looked at Breckinridge. “Who’s this big galoot?”

  Breckinridge stuck his hand out and said, “Breckinridge Wallace.”

  “Tom Lang,” the bearded man replied as he shook Breckinridge’s hand.

  “Tom is our civilian scout,” Mallory explained. “Tom, Mr. Wallace is a traveler who’s joining us for breakfast.”

  Tom Lang grunted and said, “Eatin’ some of our rations, is what you mean.”

  “I’d be willin’ to do a little huntin’ in exchange for the food,” Breckinridge said. “Maybe help your party get some fresh meat.”

  Lang bristled at that. He said, “You don’t think I can hunt well enough to keep these soldiers well supplied with meat? That’s one reason the army hired me to come along on this here expedition.”

  “I never said that—”

  “Well, it sure sounded like it to me.”

  “Maybe I’d better be movin’ on—” Breckinridge began.

  “Nonsense,” Mallory said. “Our conversation has convinced me that you’re sane, Mr. Wallace. I won’t try to stop you from continuing on your way. But since you’re going west . . . and we’re going west . . . there’s no real reason we shouldn’t travel together for a time, is there?”

  Breckinridge hesitated. Earlier he had thought about the possibility of joining up with a wagon train if he came across one. This army surveying party wasn’t the same thing, but Breck had to admit to himself that he wouldn’t mind the company.

  While Breckinridge was considering the proposition, Tom Lang spoke up, saying, “No disrespect, Lieutenant, but we don’t need this big ol’ farm boy slowin’ us down. He’s a greenhorn, never been west of the Mississippi before.”

  “I might remind you that neither have I, Tom,” Mallory said.

  “Yeah, but that’s different. It’s your job to be out here now. Anyway, you got me to guide you and show you what’s what. I don’t reckon Wallace here could contribute much. He’d just be a drain on our supplies.”

  Listening to Lang got Breckinridge’s dander up enough for him to say hotly, “If you’re worried about your provisions, Lieutenant, we’ll just say that I won’t eat nothin’ I didn’t shoot my own self.”

  “I don’t think we need to go that far,” Mallory said. “I believe we have more than enough for an additional member of the party.”

  “One other thing you ain’t considered,” Lang argued. “You don’t know this fella. He could be a cutthroat, a highwayman. Could be the law’s after him.”

  That was hitting too close to home, Breckinridge thought, at least the part about being a fugitive. He thought it was safe to assume that by now Otto Ducharme knew his son was dead. He might even know who had killed Rory. If Ducharme was as rich as Jack MacKenzie had said, the authorities would be eager to do whatever he wanted, including tracking down the man who’d killed his son.

  “That’s a good point, Tom,” Mallory agreed. A smile tugged at his mouth as he looked at Breckinridge and asked, “Are you a murderer and a thief, Mr. Wallace?”

  “No, sir, I sure ain’t,” Breckinridge replied honestly. “I never murdered anybody, and my ma raised me better than to be a thief.”

  “If I’m any judge of character, I believe you’re telling the truth. My invitation to join us still stands.”

  Tom Lang looked disgusted and shook his head, but he didn’t say anything else.

  Breckinridge was suddenly wary. He asked, “I don’t have to enlist in the army to come along, do I?”

  Mallory laughed and said, “No, we’ll carry you on the rolls as a civilian volunteer.”

  “Well, in that case . . .” Breckinridge hesitated one last time, then said, “I reckon I’ll meander along with you fellas for a while.”

  Mallory clapped a hand on his shoulder.

  “Excellent! I think you’ll be a fine addition to our company, Mr. Wallace.”

  “If I’m one of the bunch now, you better call me Breckinridge, or Breck.”

  “All right, Breckinridge,” Mallory said. “Military discipline requires that you refer to me by my rank.”

  “That’s fine, Lieutenant.”

  Mallory looked around. The sun was peeking over the horizon. He said, “We should have broken camp and been ready to move out by now. Let’s get busy, men.” He glanced at Breckinridge. “That includes you. Can you handle horses?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We have a number of spare mounts, but no extra saddles, I’m afraid.”

  “If you’ve got an extra saddle blanket, that’ll do,” Breckinridge said.

  “I think we can manage that. Pick out a horse for yourself, Breck, and get ready to ride.” Mallory turned his head to look to the west. “The great unknown awaits.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  For the next couple of weeks, Breckinridge traveled with the surveying party. He spent most of his time with Lieutenant Mallory, who seemed to enjoy trying to teach him about surveying and mapmaking. Most of what Mallory said didn’t
make much sense to Breck, but he listened carefully and picked up a few things. He discovered that the best maps were the ones he drew inside his own head. Once he had been to a place, walked the ground, studied the landmarks, he knew somehow that he would never forget it.

  Breckinridge also went on some scouting and hunting trips with Tom Lang. The guide remained gruff and not overly friendly, but Breck told himself that was just Tom’s way. And whether he liked Breck or not, Lang expressed his admiration when the young man made a difficult rifle shot and brought down an antelope a couple of hundred yards away.

  “We’ll have antelope steaks tonight!” Lang said eagerly as the echoes of Breckinridge’s shot rolled away across the plains. Then he frowned a little and added, “I hope there ain’t nobody out there to hear that shot. We’re gettin’ into Osage country.”

  “Are they hostile?” Breckinridge asked.

  “Any Injun can be hostile if he takes it into his head to be. Best way is to figure that until one of ’em proves he’s friendly, you better assume that he ain’t.”

  While they were skinning and butchering the antelope, Breckinridge said, “Have you seen any Indian sign?”

  “Not yet.” Lang gazed off into the distance. “But it’s only a matter o’ time now before we run across ’em. They got bad redskins back where you come from?”

  Breckinridge thought about his encounter with the Chickasaw renegades in the Blue Ridge foothills.

  “A few,” he replied.

  That evening while they were sitting by the campfire after supper, Breckinridge mentioned Tom Lang’s comments about the Osage to Lietenant Mallory.

  “Tom seems to think you’re gonna be in for a fight sooner or later,” Breckinridge added.

  Mallory sighed and nodded.

  “I know, and I’m afraid he’s right. The Indians may not be educated as we think of the word, but they’re smart enough to look at the situation and see what’s happening. They’ve been living in certain ways for hundreds of years, and that’s about to change. Once civilization has swept all the way across the country from the Atlantic to the Pacific, there won’t be room for them anymore. They’ll have to live like white men . . . or not live at all.”