The Frontiersman

by William W. Johnstone

Where in blazes did the Indian know him from? He wasn’t one of the Osage warriors who had jumped the surveying party the year before. If anything, he looked more like one of the Indians from back home....

  A memory was teasing at Breckinridge’s brain when a strained voice said, “You’re awake. Thank God. I was convinced you’d gone and died, Wallace.”

  Breckinridge turned his head, thankful for the interruption. He had been staring at the leering, hate-filled visage of his captor like a small animal transfixed by the gaze of a deadly serpent.

  A few feet away, Morgan Baxter was sprawled awkwardly on the ground, too, with his arms and legs bound in similar fashion to Breckinridge. His face was bruised and swollen, and blood had dried on a gash in his forehead. He went on, “I knew you were alive when that Indian stepped in to stop the beatings, but I was afraid you’d died after they brought us here. After all, you were shot in the head.”

  “Shot . . . in the head?” Breckinridge rasped.

  “Yes. I think the ball just nicked you, though.” Morgan’s eyes were wide with fear. No, not fear, Breckinridge thought, but rather sheer terror. Morgan went on shakily, “It doesn’t really matter. They’re going to kill us anyway!”

  “Where are we?” Breckinridge asked. He tried to look around, but he couldn’t see much because of the fire’s glare.

  Morgan had to swallow hard before he could answer. He said, “It’s some sort of Indian village. I don’t know anything about how to tell which tribe. Is it important?”

  “I don’t reckon it is,” Breckinridge said. “Are Tom Lang and the rest of that bunch here?”

  Morgan shook his head.

  “No, they . . . they brought us here and then left.” Morgan swallowed again. “I heard a lot of shooting not long after that.”

  Breckinridge nodded and said, “The ambush at the bluffs.”

  “Do you . . . do you think my father is still alive?”

  Breckinridge answered honestly. He said, “I hope so, but I sure wouldn’t count on it, Morgan. I wouldn’t be surprised if they wiped out everybody else in the expedition. But they might’ve taken a few prisoners, so don’t give up hope just yet.”

  Bitterly, Morgan repeated what he’d said earlier: “It doesn’t matter. They either died then, or they’ll die later. Just like us.”

  “We’re still drawin’ breath,” Breckinridge said. “Where I come from, that means we’ve still got a chance.”

  “I don’t see how,” Morgan insisted. “I don’t know what that scar-faced devil is waiting for.” His voice rose raggedly. “Why doesn’t he just go ahead and kill us and get it over with?”

  Breckinridge didn’t say anything, but he thought he knew the answer to Morgan’s question. The Indian wanted to draw out their torment as much as possible. He was enjoying their suffering.

  A commotion nearby drew Breckinridge’s attention. He craned his neck enough to see the teepees of the Indian village. A number of white men were entering the village. Breck spotted Tom Lang and Pete Hargrove among them. The thieves had returned.

  They brought a handful of prisoners with them, too. Breckinridge saw Akins, who had shared the lead canoe with him and Tom Lang for weeks. Four more trappers were with Akins, all of them battered, disheveled, and sporting bloodstains on their clothing.

  Morgan could see them, too, and a choked sob escaped from his throat. Colonel Baxter wasn’t among the prisoners, and that could only mean one thing.

  “Hold on,” Breckinridge told him. “It’s bad, but it ain’t over.”

  “My father is dead,” Morgan said dully.

  “More than likely, but he wouldn’t want you to give up. He’d want you to keep fightin’.”

  “How can I do that? I’m bound hand and foot!”

  The Indian stopped pounding on the drum, and with a final sneer for Breckinridge, he went over to talk to Tom Lang and Hargrove. The other men herded the prisoners forward at gunpoint until they were near Breck and Morgan. The captives were forced off their feet and tied up.

  Akins said, “I wondered what became of you two. Once the ambush started I figured you were dead and Lang had lied about that like he did about everything else.”

  “What did he say when he came back to the river?” Breckinridge asked.

  “That the bluffs were clear and it was safe to paddle on past them. He said he’d left you two up there on guard and you’d signal us if anything was wrong. So we started on upriver . . . and paddled right into the worst storm of lead I’ve ever seen. It’s a miracle some of us survived . . . for all the good it’ll do us.”

  His attitude seemed as bleak as Morgan’s. Breckinridge supposed he couldn’t blame Akins for feeling that way. The odds against them were mighty high.

  “How did Lang get out of bein’ in the canoes with you?” Breckinridge wanted to know.

  “He said he was going back up to the top of the bluffs to fetch the two of you. Pretty slick work all the way around . . . the son of a bitch.”

  Morgan said, “My father . . . did you see what happened to him, Akins?”

  “Yeah. He was shot through and through. At least four times, I’d say. Like most of the rest of the fellas, he never had a chance.” Akins paused, then added, “Sorry, Morgan.”

  None of the other men in the expedition had liked Morgan Baxter much, although they deferred to him since he was the colonel’s son. Morgan was arrogant and disrespectful. But this tragedy had forged some bonds that hadn’t been there before. The seven prisoners were all in the same trap, facing the same fate.

  Whatever that might be.

  Tom Lang nodded to the scar-faced Indian and then came toward Breckinridge and the others. As he came to a stop he thumbed back his broad-brimmed hat and said, “I surely am sorry about all this, boys. I don’t reckon any of you did a damned thing to deserve what’s gonna happen to you. Well, ’cept for you, Breck. Ol’ Tall Tree’s got hisself a personal grudge against you.”

  “You’re talkin’ about that scar-faced Indian?” Breckinridge asked. “What the hell did I ever do to him?”

  Tom Lang looked a little surprised as he said, “Why, you’re the one who put that scar on his face, son. Don’t you remember?”

  And just like that, Breckinridge did remember. His mind flashed back to that day in the thickly wooded foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains, the day he had fought with those four Chickasaw renegades and used a tomahawk to lay open one warrior’s face to the bone...

  “Tall Tree,” Breckinridge repeated. “That’s him? I never knew his name. I didn’t even know he was still alive.”

  “Probably didn’t know he calls you Flamehair, either,” Lang commented. “But that’s the way he’s thought of you all this time while he was nursin’ his grudge against you.”

  Breckinridge’s mind was spinning again, but whether it was from confusion or the blow to the head he had suffered, he couldn’t say.

  “How the hell did he wind up all the way out here, almost to the Rocky Mountains?”

  “Well, you’re here, ain’t you? Life has a way of takin’ folks down some funny trails. You wind up in places you never thought you’d be, doin’ things you never even considered.”

  “Like betrayin’ the fellas who trusted you,” Breckinridge snapped.

  Tom Lang’s face darkened.

  “I tried to talk Tall Tree into killin’ you fast, so you don’t suffer,” he said. “Keep actin’ like that and you’ll make me sorry I did.”

  “Yeah, but it didn’t do any good, did it?”

  Lang shrugged and said, “None to speak of. He still plans to torture all these other fellas to death and make you watch, ’fore he gets around to takin’ his turn with you. Don’t seem to be a thing in the world I can do to change his mind.” The old scout glanced overhead at the night sky. “Come sunup, I reckon the screaming’ll start.”

  * * *

  Breckinridge kept an iron grip on his nerves during the long night. A part of him wanted to give in to his fear and whimper and sob
like Morgan and some of the other prisoners, but he wouldn’t allow it. For one thing, to do so would be admitting that he had given up hope, and he wasn’t going to do that.

  Sometime along toward morning, when the eastern sky held the faintest trace of gray, the renegade Chickasaw came over to Breckinridge. Exhaustion had finally claimed the other captives. Breck was the only one still awake. The flames had died down, reflecting only a red glow rather than the nightmarish glare. Tall Tree still looked like something out of a bad dream.

  “You come to pound on that drum some more?” Breckinridge asked. “That godawful noise is about as bad as any other torture you could come up with.”

  He didn’t know if Tall Tree spoke English, other than the rudimentary greeting he had used earlier, but it seemed possible considering that Breckinridge had seen the Indian talking to Lang and Hargrove. Of course, the two white men might have been speaking Chickasaw, although that seemed unlikely.

  Tall Tree hunkered on his heels and said, “You are full of talk, Flamehair.”

  “My name’s Breckinridge Wallace.”

  Tall Tree ignored him. The renegade went on, “You must pay for what you have done. You maimed my face, you killed my friends, you made my people lose respect for me. After that, no one wanted to join me in waging war against the whites. In time I was driven from my own land, this time by my own people.”

  “Probably because you’re a crazy son of a bitch,” Breckinridge said.

  Tall Tree didn’t rise to the insult. Instead he said, “I was forced to wander for many moons, starving and alone, until I fell in with the one called Hargrove and his friends. They thought the tribes out here might be more likely to leave them alone if they had a redskin in their midst.” Tall Tree let out a short, guttural laugh. “White men are fools. Why would Crow care whether they have a Chickasaw among them? These Indians are not my brothers. I am nothing to them. Less than nothing, because I have cast my lot with whites. The only reason they have not risen up in anger is because this band was plagued by sickness. Most of the warriors died last winter. The few who are left were no match for Hargrove and his men. They have taken over, eaten the people’s food, taken the women, and none dare fight back.” The renegade looked pleased with himself. “They fear me most of all. They say an evil spirit lurks under my skin.” He leaned closer to Breckinridge and smiled. “They are right.”

  It was a long speech, and an unnerving one. Breckinridge knew that was the way Tall Tree intended it. This was just one more way for the renegade to torment him.

  “I reckon there’s nobody more long winded than an Indian who’s learned English,” Breckinridge said. He wasn’t going to let Tall Tree get under his skin.

  The Chickasaw’s smile vanished. As he straightened he said, “All your talk will soon vanish. Your mouth will be too full of screams to hold any words.”

  With that he turned and stalked away.

  In a quiet, miserable voice, Morgan Baxter said, “Why did you have to antagonize him like that, Wallace? Isn’t what he’s going to do to us bad enough already?”

  “Thought you were asleep,” Breckinridge said.

  “I dozed off a little, but who can sleep facing death like this?”

  “Listen to me, Morgan. I know I’m younger than you, but I’ve learned a few things this past year. If we don’t give Tall Tree what he wants, we’ve kept him from winnin’. That may be the only thing we can do, but I plan to try my hardest. And if I get a chance to go out fightin’ . . .”

  “What chance is there of that?”

  Honestly, Breckinridge didn’t know. But he didn’t want to give up hope, so he said, “Life’s got a habit of springin’ some surprises, especially when I’m around.”

  He didn’t add that usually, those were bad surprises life threw his way.

  * * *

  A short time later, one of the Indians approached the prisoners. Breckinridge had caught glimpses of them during the night, but none had come close. This one was an old man, and he carried a water skin.

  He stopped in front of Breckinridge and said in a cracked, reedy voice, “The one called Tall Tree says you should all drink.”

  “Doesn’t want us to die of thirst, eh?” Breckinridge said wryly. “That’s mighty nice of him.”

  The old man looked over his shoulder as if to make sure that no one else was close enough to overhear, then hunkered on his heels and said quietly, “No, he is as evil as you think he is. He knows that men who are losing blood will live longer if they have had plenty of water. He wants to prolong your agony.”

  “You speak pretty good English,” Breckinridge commented.

  “Years ago a missionary came among my people. He taught some of us the white man’s tongue, so we could pray better to your God. I say what kind of Creator would not understand the words of all his creations? The black robe lost much patience with me.” The Indian held the water skin to Breckinridge’s mouth. “Here. Drink.”

  Breckinridge drank. The water had an unpleasant musty taste to it, probably from the skin, but he was thirsty enough after the long night that he didn’t care.

  After he’d licked his lips, he asked, “How many of the white men are there?”

  The old man hesitated, then answered, “As many as the fingers of both hands, twice.”

  “And how many warriors are left in your village?”

  The old Indian still looked wary, but he replied, “Six. But some are hurt.”

  “Can they fight?”

  “They can,” the old man said with a slow nod.

  “There are seven of us. With your six warriors, that’s thirteen men. Thirteen against twenty ain’t too bad when it comes to odds.”

  “Our warriors are guarded, and they have no weapons. To fight is to die.”

  “To live is to die,” Breckinridge said.

  The old man looked at him for a long moment, then nodded again.

  “I would not have thought to find such wisdom in one so young. Our women could distract the guards, but someone would need to release our warriors. I could do that.”

  “We’re all tied up, too,” Breckinridge pointed out. “We’d need to get loose somehow. They’ve got men watchin’ us, but they don’t seem to be payin’ much attention. All we’d need is a knife . . .”

  “Look beside your left leg,” the old Indian said quietly.

  In the dim gray light, Breckinridge saw the small knife lying there on the ground. He shifted his leg a little to conceal it, just in case one of Hargrove’s men came strolling over.

  “You old rascal,” he said as a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “You came over here intendin’ to talk me into tryin’ to escape and take the fight to those varmints, and I just played right into your hands.”

  “You have the look of a man who will fight. I thought it would be worthwhile to make the attempt.”

  “Spread the word to the other prisoners while you’re givin’ ’em water,” Breckinridge suggested. “I’ll get my hands on that knife and start sawin’ on my bonds.” He glanced at the sky. “Tall Tree’s plannin’ on torturin’ us, startin’ at dawn, so we don’t have much time. We’ll have to be ready to make our break then. Your warriors, too.”

  “All will be ready,” the old man assured him. “And those white men will learn how dangerous it is to hurt the Crow.”

  “What’s your name, anyway, old-timer?” Breckinridge asked as the Indian struggled to his feet on bones that cracked and popped.

  “They call me Antelope, because I was a very fast runner when I was young.”

  “You may have to move pretty fast to get out of the way when hell starts to break loose at sunup,” Breckinridge said.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  As the old man gave water to the other prisoners, they glanced at Breckinridge, some in alarm, some in grim determination. He knew that Antelope was passing along the details of the escape plan to them. As long as they didn’t react strongly enough to draw the attention of the guards, Breck didn�
��t care.

  Every time one of them looked at him, he gave a tiny nod of encouragement. Even the men who looked frightened managed to return that nod, as if to tell him that they would do their part when the time came.

  He shifted around carefully on the ground, his movements slow enough that the guards didn’t notice. Finally he was able to get his hands on the knife Antelope had left for him. He turned it so that the blade rested against the rawhide thongs around his wrists, then began sawing. Now and then the knife sliced flesh instead of rawhide, but Breckinridge ignored the stinging pain. All that mattered was getting free so he could fight.

  He glanced at the sky periodically and tried not to panic when he saw the gray light was growing stronger. There wasn’t going to be time for all the prisoners to free themselves, he realized. He might have to settle for getting himself loose so he could force his captors to kill him in battle rather than torturing him to death. If he was gone, Tall Tree might be content to just kill the others out of hand instead of making them suffer in order to torment Breckinridge.

  The last strand of rawhide was being stubborn. Breckinridge lost his patience for a second and flexed his arms and shoulders, putting all his strength behind the effort as he strained against the thong. Suddenly, it snapped, and he almost flung his arms out to his sides as the rawhide’s resistance vanished. That could have been a catastrophe. His muscles trembled as he forced his arms to remain fairly still.

  He realized he was breathing a little hard. He brought that under control and bent his knees to bring his bound ankles closer to his hands. He stretched one arm down toward them, again being careful not to move too fast, and started cutting those bonds.

  That went much faster. The rawhide thongs fell away from his ankles.

  Morgan Baxter was the man closest to him. Morgan had been watching what Breckinridge was doing. Breck said to him in a half-whisper, “I’ll toss the knife behind you. Cut yourself free and pass it on.”

  Morgan was still wide eyed with fear, but he nodded in understanding. Breckinridge waited until none of the guards were looking in his direction, then made a behind-the-back toss of the knife. It landed about six inches from Morgan’s hands. Breck motioned with his head for the other man to scoot back a little. Morgan did so, and a moment later his fingers closed around the knife’s handle.