The Frontiersman

by William W. Johnstone

  Tom Lang saw Breckinridge and raised a hand in greeting. Colonel Baxter noticed him, too, and said, “Ah, there you are, Wallace. I was beginning to think perhaps you had reconsidered your decision to accompany us.”

  “Nope, I’m here and rarin’ to go,” Breckinridge said, although that was overstating the case a little. A part of him still wished he had set out for the mountains on his own.

  But he had agreed to this deal, and now he was bound to make the best of it.

  Tom Lang said, “How about you comin’ along in my canoe, Breck? I’ll be out front, so you might not want to be there. We’ll be the first ones into any trouble.”

  “That sounds mighty fine to me,” Breckinridge said, then glanced at Baxter and added, “If that’s all right with the colonel. He’s in charge.”

  Baxter waved a hand and said, “Of course, of course. That’s fine. I, of course, will be in one of the middle canoes so that I’ll have a good vantage point of the entire party.”

  And so that there would be men all around him to protect him if they were attacked, Breckinridge thought, but he kept that to himself. He supposed Baxter had earned that much, since it was his money funding the whole expedition.

  Breckinridge stowed his gear in the lead canoe. The canoe at the back end of the line was packed full of supplies and attached by a rope to the craft in front of it, and more supplies were spread out through the other canoes.

  The group’s imminent departure had drawn some interest from the people working on the docks and also the men who frequented the nearby taverns. A crowd had gathered to watch. Breckinridge scanned the faces, thinking that maybe Sierra had changed her mind and might show up to say good-bye to him.

  He saw no sign of her, though, and that came as no surprise. Once she made up her mind about something, she was too strong willed to change it.

  Tom Lang was already in the canoe. He held up a hand to Breckinridge to help steady him as Breck stepped into the canoe. This was his first time in one of the lightweight craft, and balancing himself wasn’t easy.

  “Careful there,” Tom said with a grin under his bushy white beard. “Big fella like you, step down too hard and your foot’s liable to go right through the bottom.”

  Cautiously, Breckinridge lowered himself onto the middle of the three seats.

  “Can’t put you in the back or the front,” Tom said. “You’d weigh down either end too much and maybe capsize us. We got to spread out that weight.”

  “All right, I think I’m set,” Breckinridge said. He picked up a paddle. “I’ve never used one of these things before. Hope it don’t take me too long to get the hang of it.”

  “Just watch me,” Tom advised. “Do what I do, and you’ll be fine.”

  Within a short time, all thirty-three men in the group had climbed into the canoes. Men on the dock untied the lines holding the canoes. Breckinridge and the others began working the craft away from the dock and out into the river. He followed Tom Lang’s suggestion and watched the old scout closely, trying to imitate all his actions with the paddle. With Breck’s natural athletic ability, he soon began to feel comfortable in the canoe.

  “You’re gettin’ it,” Tom told him. “Just like I thought you would.”

  From behind them, Colonel Baxter called in a booming voice, “Off to the mountains, men! Let the great adventure commence!”

  Tom glanced over his shoulder at Breckinridge, grinned again, and said quietly, “He’s a stuffed shirt, but he ain’t a bad sort for all of that.”

  Their canoe took the lead as Breckinridge, Tom, and the third man, a stolid gent named Akins, paddled steadily and smoothly. Breck looked over his shoulder and saw the way the canoes were arranged. Two of the craft traveled side by side about twenty yards behind the lead canoe. Next came three abreast, with Colonel Baxter in the middle one. Morgan was in the canoe flanking his father’s canoe to the right. Two more pairs followed, and finally came a single canoe towing the one loaded with supplies. Breck wondered if they would follow that same pattern all the way up the river.

  He knew from his time on the Sophie just how strong the Mississippi’s current was, but the canoes were light enough to skim along the top of the water without encountering too much resistance. Paddling upstream was actually easier than he had thought it would be. He soon fell into a rhythm and knew he could keep this up tirelessly for a long time.

  After a while they came to the place where the Missouri River flowed into the Mississippi. The Big Muddy joining the Father of Waters, Breckinridge thought. He had never seen anything quite so impressive. He was sure the Rocky Mountains would be even more so, once he got to them, but for now Breck was content to gawk at the junction of the two mighty streams, the biggest rivers on the entire continent.

  With Tom Lang setting the pace, the lead canoe veered into the waters of the Missouri. As Breckinridge paddled, he asked, “Do we follow this river all the way to the mountains?”

  “That’s right, son,” Tom said. “You can’t hardly get lost. All you got to do is follow the river.”

  * * *

  Breckinridge had no idea what was a good distance to cover in one day, but Tom Lang seemed pleased with their progress when they camped that night. As the men set up tents, Tom told Breckinridge that he could bunk in with him.

  While two members of the party were cooking supper, Tom went to Baxter and said, “Colonel, we’ll need to post sentries tonight. Since we have plenty of men, I’d suggest three at a time on two-hour shifts.”

  Morgan was standing nearby, as was Breckinridge. Before the colonel could answer, Morgan said, “Why in the world do we need guards? We just left St. Louis earlier today. Surely there aren’t any hostile Indians this close!”

  “Probably not, but I don’t rightly feel like bettin’ my hair on it.” Tom nodded toward Breckinridge and went on, “Breck and I can tell you how the Injuns can jump you when you ain’t expectin’ it. That happened to us last year, didn’t it?”

  Breckinridge nodded solemnly, remembering how his friend Lieutenant Mallory had died during that battle.

  “Not only that,” Tom continued, “but you got a whole canoe full o’ supplies, and that might be a temptin’ target for fellas who ain’t too particular how they outfit themselves for a trappin’ trip.”

  Colonel Baxter frowned and asked, “You’re saying we might be set upon by thieves?”

  “It could happen. Again, we’re probably too close to the settlement for that . . . but you never know.”

  Baxter rubbed his chin as he deliberated. Glaring, Morgan said, “Really, Father, are you going to listen to this man? You’re in command of this expedition, not him.”

  “That’s true, but Mr. Lang has a great deal more practical experience than I do,” the colonel said. “If he thinks it’s wise to post sentries, then I suppose that’s what we should do. You’ll see to it, Tom?”

  “Sure, Colonel. Be happy to.”

  Breckinridge could tell that Morgan was upset with his father’s decision. The matter was a minor one, piddling, really, but Morgan didn’t like the way Baxter had paid no attention to his opinion.

  Breckinridge saw the way Morgan looked at Tom Lang, and he knew that rightly or wrongly, the old scout had made an enemy tonight.

  * * *

  That wasn’t the end of the friction between Morgan Baxter and Tom Lang. Over the next few weeks, as the members of the expedition paddled steadily up the Missouri River, Morgan seized every opportunity he could find to undermine Tom’s advice to the colonel.

  Some of that hostility was directed toward Breckinridge as well, since he and Tom were friends. Morgan made jeering comments about Breck’s size and intelligence, suggesting that the two were in inverse proportion. Breck wasn’t sure what that meant, exactly, but he knew Morgan was calling him dumb.

  He kept a tight rein on his temper, but he was afraid it was only a matter of time until real trouble erupted between him and Morgan. Tom Lang was old enough to let the veiled—and not so v
eiled—insults roll off his back, but Breckinridge had more trouble following the scout’s lead. Anger and resentment festered inside Breckinridge.

  Luckily the group didn’t run into any other problems. The only Indians they encountered proved to be peaceful, and they didn’t even see any other white men. Storms rolled in and dumped some chilly spring rain on them for a couple of days, but the trappers were able to push on through the bad weather.

  They passed the Kansas River, the Platte River, the Niobrara, Tom Lang pointing out each of them in turn. One day, after the storms had all cleared up and left the air crystal clear, Tom leveled a finger toward the west and said, “Breck, you see that dark line, way over yonder on the horizon?”

  Breckinridge peered over the seemingly endless plains and said, “Reckon I do. What is it?”

  “Those are the Black Hills,” Tom explained. “Sacred ground to the Sioux. They call ’em the Paha Sapa and believe that the spirits live there.”

  “Are we goin’ there?” Breckinridge asked.

  “Naw, no real reason to. Trappin’ ain’t bad, from what I hear, but you run too big a risk of gettin’ the redskins all het up if you go in there. Trust me, there ain’t nothin’ in the Black Hills worth gettin’ yourself killed over. Where we’re goin’ is a lot better.”

  They pushed on, each day much like all the others that had preceded it. Tom had studied a map along with Colonel Baxter, pointing out various landmarks on it and explaining where they were going, and Breckinridge had taken advantage of the opportunity to look over Tom’s shoulder during the discussion. He knew they would follow the Missouri to the mouth of the Yellowstone River, then veer southwest on the Yellowstone across another stretch of plains and finally to the mountains.

  Breckinridge was ready to be there.

  All the men had bushy beards now except Colonel Baxter and Morgan. They shaved every day, using a looking glass they had brought along. Breckinridge thought that was sort of a waste of time. Besides, most of the mornings were still pretty chilly, and a beard felt good. But whatever the Baxters wanted to do was really none of his business, he supposed.

  He tried to avoid Morgan as much as possible, since the man clearly didn’t like him, but one morning not long before dawn when Breckinridge walked from camp down to the river, carrying a bucket, Morgan was there shaving, wearing his trousers and a pair of long underwear. The suspenders attached to the trousers were let down.

  Morgan was trying to hold the looking glass with one hand and shave with the other, since there were no trees or any other place to hang the glass. He was having trouble since he didn’t have a free hand to pull the skin of his throat tight. He looked around, saw Breckinridge, and snapped, “Here, Wallace, put down that bucket and hold this glass for me while I shave.”

  The imperious tone of command in Morgan’s voice rubbed Breckinridge the wrong way. It reminded him too much of the way Richard Aylesworth talked to those he considered his inferiors, which was just about everybody but especially Breck.

  “Akins sent me to get some water for the coffeepot,” Breckinridge said, not bothering to keep the surly tone out of his own voice. “You’ll have to manage your own self.”

  Morgan lowered the mirror and the razor and scowled at Breckinridge.

  “Blast it, I’m the second-in-command of this expedition,” he said. “I gave you an order, Wallace, and I expect you to obey it.”

  “If it was somethin’ to do with the expedition, I might do what you say.” Might was as far as Breckinridge would allow. “But I ain’t your personal manservant, Baxter, and I don’t have to help you shave.”

  “That’s Lieutenant Baxter.”

  Breckinridge thought about John Francis Mallory, a good man who’d actually earned the right to use that rank. As far as he could tell, Morgan was just calling himself a lieutenant with no real basis in fact.

  This whole thing was stupid and a waste of time as far as Breckinridge was concerned. He said, “I’ve got real work to do,” and started to turn away.

  “By God, I won’t stand for such disrespect!”

  Breckinridge heard Morgan moving and glanced back to see the young man striding toward him and swinging his right hand as if he intended to slap Breck with it.

  Then the light from the cooking fire that was already burning reflected off the blade in Morgan’s hand, and Breckinridge realized what was about to happen here.

  Morgan was trying to slash him with that razor!

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Breckinridge reacted instinctively, swinging the bucket up so that it blocked Morgan’s arm. The bucket cracked hard against the young man’s wrist. He cried out in pain as his fingers opened and he dropped the razor.

  “Have you lost your mind, Baxter?” Breckinridge demanded angrily. “You tried to cut me!”

  Morgan bellowed, lowered his head, and charged. Morgan was a good-sized man, but he probably wouldn’t have been able to budge Breckinridge if not for the fact that Breck was standing a little lower on the bank where it sloped down to the river, and he was slightly off balance.

  Morgan rammed his head into Breckinridge’s chest. Breck went over backward, but he grabbed Morgan and took the other man with him. Water flew up in a huge splash as they landed in the Missouri River.

  Morgan slugged away at Breckinridge, but the blows were wild and frenzied and most of them missed their target. Breck was able to shrug off the ones that landed. He grabbed Morgan’s shoulders and shoved him away, then rolled over, thrashing a little in the water, and struggled to his feet.

  The commotion had drawn the other men to the riverbank, including Colonel Baxter. The colonel called, “What the devil’s going on here? Morgan, is that you?”

  Morgan came up out of the river smeared with mud and with water streaming off his clothes. He lunged at Breckinridge again and swung a punch. Breck didn’t want to hurt him, so he leaned aside and let Morgan’s fist go past him. Using Morgan’s own momentum against him, Breck grabbed him under the arms and heaved him onto the bank. He landed rolling as the other men jumped back to get out of the way.

  “Here now!” the colonel shouted. “Stop that! Stop that, I say!”

  Breckinridge was more than willing to stop fighting, but that was going to be up to Morgan. When Morgan stopped rolling, he pushed himself up on his hands and knees and glared murderously at Breck. Snarling, he surged up and charged again, ignoring his father’s shouts.

  Breckinridge darted aside, but Morgan was fast and got a hand on him. Their legs tangled together and they went down in the mud again. Morgan locked his hands around Breck’s throat and started squeezing, obviously intent on choking the bigger man to death. Breck heaved up from the ground and threw Morgan to the side.

  Clearly, there was only one way to end this fight.

  When Morgan came up off the ground this time, Breckinridge was ready for him. Breck set his feet and swung his right fist in a tight arc that ended at Morgan’s jaw. The blow sounded like someone splitting wood. Morgan’s head jerked around under the force of Breck’s fist, and his eyes went glassy and then rolled up in their sockets. He dropped straight down to the ground and didn’t move again.

  Breckinridge became aware that everything was silent now except the murmur of the river and the pounding of his own heart. He looked around and saw the other members of the expedition staring at him in awe. After a moment, Tom Lang expressed what seemed to be their common sentiment when he blurted out, “Good Lord, boy, did you kill him?”

  Breckinridge looked down at Morgan and saw his chest rising and falling. Breck said, “He’s alive, just out cold.” He turned to Baxter and went on, “I’m sorry I had to hit him like that, Colonel. I didn’t want to hurt him . . .”

  “But he gave you no choice,” Baxter said. “I know, Wallace. I saw him. My son has a . . . problem . . . with his temper.”

  “Reckon you can say that again,” Tom Lang muttered. Then he said, “Sorry, Colonel.”

  Baxter sighed and shook his he
ad.

  “It’s all right, Tom. I know Morgan’s shortcomings. My hope was that this journey might help him grow up a bit. Perhaps it still will.” Baxter turned and gestured curtly to the others. “A couple of you men drag him away from the river and throw some water in his face to wake him up. Make sure that punch didn’t break his jaw. Then we’ll continue preparing to move out.” The colonel gazed off to the northwest. “We still have a lot of miles to go.”

  * * *

  The only good thing about the fight with Morgan Baxter was that afterward Morgan seemed to focus all his anger and hatred on Breckinridge. He didn’t try to cause any more trouble for Tom Lang. Breck was grateful for that, anyway.

  Morgan came up with every dirty job he could think of to hand to Breckinridge, and he made scathing comments about him to anyone who would listen. Breck put up with the harassment stolidly, although it wasn’t easy for him to keep his temper under control. He hoped that eventually Morgan would get that anger and resentment out of his system, but he wasn’t going to hold his breath waiting for that to happen.

  They continued up the Missouri River, and as they did, Tom Lang got more worried. One night as they sat next to a campfire, the old scout told Breckinridge, “I could feel eyes on me today, son. They were out there, watchin’ us.”

  “Indians, you mean?”

  Tom sipped his coffee and nodded solemnly.

  “But if they could see us, why couldn’t we see them?” Breckinridge asked.

  Tom chuckled and said, “That’s just the way it is out here. You won’t never see a Injun unless he wants you to see him. They can hide where you think there ain’t a bit of cover.”

  “What tribe do you think it is?”

  “Hard to say. Sioux, Crow, Arikara . . . Could be any of ’em, but it don’t really matter. They all hate us and want to take our hair.”