“A friendly bunch,” Morgan commented quietly.
“Yep. Too bad bein’ friendly hasn’t done much for ’em except to make certain they have to move on every few years.”
That was a problem he couldn’t solve, Breckinridge mused. He had done some Indian fighting in his life and expected to have to do more before he crossed the divide. But he would just as soon get along with them as much as he could.
The two visitors and the group of elders sat on buffalo robes around the fire in the middle of the lodge. Smoke from the crackling, burning wood drifted through the hole in the center of the roof above them.
They passed around a pipe. Breckinridge puffed on it when his time came, although he didn’t really care for it. When they were done with that, women brought bowls of thick stew that he liked better.
While they were eating, Breckinridge asked, “Are we the first white men who have stopped here this season?”
“Yes,” Mohasca replied. “Although a group of them camped across the river last night.”
“Is that so? How many?”
“Six canoes. Three men in each canoe.”
Carnahan’s bunch, Breckinridge thought.
As if to confirm that, Mohasca went on, “Their chief was a little man with a long beard, like the ones who dwell underneath the earth.”
Breckinridge wasn’t sure what he meant by that, but Morgan said, “A dwarf, like the ones in the old folktales from Europe. As short and wide as Carnahan is, with that beard, I can understand that.”
“I do not know what you mean, my friend, but their chief did look like that. You know these men?”
Mohasca’s lips pursed a little, as if his future attitude toward Breckinridge and Morgan might depend on their answer.
“We know who they are,” Breckinridge said. “Saw them back in St. Louis. They ain’t friends of ours.”
“This is good. They were very loud. We could hear them all the way across the water.” Mohasca’s wrinkled face creased even more in a stern frown. “They spoke ugly things. I was glad that few of my people have an understanding of the white man’s tongue. We seek no trouble, but if our young men had known what was being said about our women, they might have wanted to cross the river and fight.”
“I’m mighty sorry, Chief. We won’t cause you any problems like that.”
“No, I can tell that you are decent young men who will not abuse my people. You are welcome to spend the night in the village of the Ioway.”
Breckinridge glanced at Morgan. A couple hours of daylight remained. They could get a few more miles upstream if they pushed on after finishing the meal with their hosts.
But Breckinridge could tell Morgan wanted to stay, and what difference would a couple of hours make, anyway?
“We’re obliged to you for the hospitality, Chief,” Breckinridge said, “and we’ll sure take you up on it.”
Chapter 4
Some of the tribes were known to provide visitors with female companionship to warm their robes at night, but the Ioway weren’t that hospitable.
Actually, Breckinridge was just fine with that development, although he suspected Morgan might have been a tad disappointed. Breck thought it was unlikely that he had sworn off women for good, but right now he didn’t need any of them complicating his life, even temporarily.
He and Morgan talked long into the night with Mohasca and the other elders. The chief translated for those who didn’t speak English, which was most of them. During the conversation, Mohasca explained that he had learned the language from a black robe—a Jesuit priest—who had come down the Mississippi River from Canada with a party of French trappers some forty years earlier. The padre had spoken not only French but also English and Spanish and had taught all three languages to the young boy, who was eager to learn. In those days, the Ioway had lived far to the east of their current hunting grounds, on the other side of the great river.
Finally, an older woman who Breckinridge figured was one of the chief’s wives had led the two white men to one of the smaller lodges. A fire had been built and buffalo robes were laid out around it. Breck and Morgan turned in as the flames burned down to embers.
Breckinridge wasn’t sure how long he had been asleep when something woke him. As always, he was awake instantly, fully alert, ready for trouble if any threatened.
But as he lay there with his eyes open, he didn’t hear anything except Morgan’s deep, regular breathing on the other side of the fire’s faintly glowing remains. He looked around the lodge’s dimly lit interior. Nothing was moving or out of place. Breck’s rifle, pistols, knife, powder horn, shot pouch, hat, and boots were right beside him.
He stiffened as he caught the sound of a quiet cry from somewhere outside. It lasted only a second and then cut off abruptly, as if someone had clapped a hand over the mouth from which the outcry issued.
The sound came from a woman; Breckinridge was sure of that. But it didn’t necessarily mean anything. Some wife could have been arguing with her husband. The noise might have even been an outburst of passion, although that wasn’t the way it had sounded to Breck.
But whatever was going on, it was none of his business, and he was trying to convince himself to roll over and go back to sleep when a dog suddenly began barking angrily, then yelped and fell silent.
That wasn’t right, and every instinct in Breckinridge’s body told him so.
He slid out of the robes and reached for his boots. Without making any noise, he pulled them on and then stood up. He picked up the pistols and the sheathed knife and shoved them behind his belt. Leaving everything else where it was, he went to the entrance and eased aside the deer-hide flap that covered the opening.
A few desultory barks came from other dogs in the village, but none of them seemed really upset about anything. Maybe he was jumping to conclusions, Breckinridge told himself.
Then he heard the brush rustle a little, not far from the lodge he and Morgan shared, which was on the edge of the village away from the river. The growth in that direction was thick. It would be difficult to move through there without making some sort of racket.
It would be even harder to do so if you were dragging a prisoner along, Breckinridge thought.
Now he was really jumping to conclusions. A muffled cry, a bark, a yelp . . . those things didn’t add up to a woman being kidnapped.
But they didn’t rule out the possibility, either. Breckinridge knew he had to make sure nothing bad was going on. The Ioway had extended their hospitality to him and Morgan. He owed them that much.
He glanced over his shoulder at the vague shape Morgan made under the buffalo robe and thought about waking his friend. Since he wasn’t certain about what was going on, he decided to let Morgan sleep. He didn’t expect to run into anything he couldn’t handle himself.
Moving with uncanny stealth for such a big man, Breckinridge drifted out of the lodge and let the flap fall closed behind him. He cat-footed his way to the brush and glided into it.
He was good in the darkness and was able to move fairly swiftly without making much noise. Every minute or so he stopped briefly to listen. The first couple of times he didn’t hear anything, but the third time, the crackle of branches again came to his ears, followed by something unmistakable.
A curse, grated softly in a low, guttural voice. It came from a white man, no doubt about that.
Another voice hissed what sounded like a command, although Breckinridge couldn’t make out the words. He went forward again, moving like a ghost.
The village was at least a hundred yards behind him now, maybe more. Whomever he was following must have believed they’d put enough distance between themselves and the lodges that they didn’t have to be as careful. They started making more noise as they pushed through the brush.
Once Breckinridge heard a soft little cry of pain or fear—or both—but again it was quickly stifled. Two men, at least, and they had a prisoner.
Could some of Carnahan’s bunch have doubled back to
steal a woman from the Ioway village? That seemed to be the likeliest explanation. From what Breckinridge had seen of the men, he wouldn’t put much of anything past most of them.
Too many trappers seemed to regard Indians as less than human. It wouldn’t bother them to kidnap an Ioway woman so they could have their sport with her and then eventually, when they tired of her, kill her or abandon her in the wilderness. They might even plan on trading her as a slave to some other tribe.
Those thoughts filled Breckinridge with fury. He started moving faster in an attempt to catch up, then when he stopped to listen again and heard nothing but a somehow ominous silence, he realized he might have made a mistake.
The tiny snap of a branch was the only warning he had. He turned as a dark shape hurtled at him from behind. In that split second, he knew the men he was following had heard him, and at least one of them had stopped to lie in wait for him.
It was too dark for anything except instinct to guide him. He twisted aside and felt something sharp rake along his side, leaving behind a fiery line of pain. Breckinridge knew he had just been cut by a knife, and whoever was wielding the blade had intended to plunge it into his back.
He struck out straight ahead with his right fist, putting all the massive strength of his arm and shoulders into it. The pile-driver blow landed solidly against what felt like a man’s chest.
The unseen attacker grunted and fell back. Breckinridge whipped his own knife from its sheath and slashed the shadows in front of him. The blade bit into flesh. A man loosed a thin cry of pain and then sobbed and cursed.
“He cut me, Harlan!” the wounded man gasped. “Get the damn redskin!”
So they thought one of the Indians had followed them from the village. Breckinridge didn’t see any reason to disabuse them of the notion.
He turned and ducked low as footsteps rushed at him from behind. The second man blundered into him and fell right over him. Breck straightened, picking up the man and flinging him away like a rag doll. The man yelled until flying flesh and bone collided with something, a tree trunk, by the sound of it. That shut him up in a hurry.
Then a third man yelled in pain and exclaimed, “The bitch bit me!” A blow thudded. Breckinridge saw red, knowing that the third man had just struck the female captive.
He bellowed his rage, since there was no longer any need for stealth, and shoved the knife back in its sheath. Guided by the sounds of a struggle, he charged blindly and hoped he wouldn’t bash his brains out against a tree.
Instead he crashed into two wrestling figures. The impact was enough to knock them apart. Breckinridge flailed around until he caught hold of somebody’s throat with his left hand. A bristly beard tickled the back of his hand, so he knew he hadn’t grabbed the woman. Aiming by that, he swung a huge fist that slammed into the face of the man he grappled with.
Breckinridge felt the satisfying crunch of cartilage when the blow landed and knew that he had just flattened the varmint’s nose. Maintaining his hold on the man’s neck, he bent and grabbed a thigh.
With only a slight grunt of effort, he heaved the struggling man into the air, lifted him high, and tossed him into the trees with enough force to break bones.
“That . . . that ain’t a Injun!” a man gasped somewhere nearby. “It’s a monster!”
“Forget about the squaw!” another man said. “Let’s get outta here!”
Breckinridge stood there, fists clenched and poised to strike again, but no one else came near him. Instead he heard the violent rustling of several men fleeing through the brush.
From the other direction, back toward the Ioway village, came the sounds of men heading this way to find out what all the shouting was about. When his temper was up, Breckinridge could be a mite loud.
Somewhere close by, a woman spoke tentatively in the Ioway tongue. Breckinridge didn’t understand but a few words of it and couldn’t make out what she was saying.
She probably wouldn’t understand him, either, he thought, but he said, “It’s all right now, ma’am. I think them low-down skunks have done took off for the tall and uncut.”
She moved closer to him, then took him by surprise by throwing her arms around him and hugging him tightly.
Awkwardly, Breckinridge rested a hand on the back of the buckskin dress she wore and then patted it a couple of times. She began to sob. From the feel of her, she was a little bit of a thing and didn’t quite come up to the middle of his chest. She seemed to be built sturdy, though.
“Here, now,” Breckinridge said. “It’s all right. You ain’t got nothin’ else to be scared of.”
Light began to flicker in the woods. Breckinridge looked around and saw that one of the men approaching from the village held a torch.
To make sure none of them took him for a kidnapper and launched arrows at him, he called out, “Chief Mohasca, over here! It’s Breckinridge Wallace. Everything’s all right.”
“Breck!” That startled exclamation came from Morgan. “What’s going on?”
The red glare from the burning brand fell over Breckinridge and the young Ioway woman who still clung to him. A dozen warriors from the village, along with Morgan and Chief Mohasca, gathered around them. Breck saw the grim faces of the men and the way they held their bows ready with arrows nocked and was glad he had called out.
The woman finally let go of Breckinridge and rushed over to hug Mohasca and chatter at him.
Morgan said, “I knew when there was a commotion and I woke up to find you gone, that you’d be right in the middle of whatever the trouble was, Breck. Then I heard what sounded like a mad bull out here and I was sure of it.”
“Some fellas snuck into the village and grabbed that gal,” Breckinridge said. “I don’t know how many there was—three or four, I reckon. I had a hunch somethin’ was up, followed ’em, and when I knew for certain, I laid into ’em.”
“At odds of three or four to one,” Morgan said.
Breckinridge shrugged. “You know me, Morgan. When I’m riled up, I never stop to think about things like that.”
“And we are very grateful that you do not, friend Breckinridge,” Mohasca said. He turned the still-shaken young woman over to some of the other men so they could take her back to the village. “That is my brother’s daughter. Those men intended to treat her very badly.”
“No doubt about that. I’m glad I could help.”
Morgan said, “Do you figure the bastards came from Carnahan’s party?”
“That’s the first thing I thought,” Breckinridge said. “Some of ’em could’ve doubled back easy enough and then caught up to the rest of the bunch later. But I don’t know because I never really got a good look at ’em.”
“Whoever they were,” Mohasca said, “they will not trouble us again. Not after the punishment you dealt to them.”
“I hope that’s true,” Breckinridge said. He felt a warm, sticky wetness on his left side and put his hand to it, remembering now that he had been wounded during the fight. It had completely slipped his mind. “Speakin’ of punishment, I seem to be bleedin’ pretty good here . . .”
Chapter 5
The young woman was called Sunflower, and when a smile wreathed her round face, she was as bright and pretty as her namesake.
She fussed mightily over Breckinridge when they all got back to the village and insisted on being the one to clean the knife slash in his side and apply a poultice of herbs to it. He had to take off his shirt for her to do that, of course, and while she was busy with the chore her hands kept straying up to brush against his broad, muscular chest.
On the other side of the fire that had been built up in the lodge, Morgan tried not to grin as he said, “I’ve got a hunch you could just stay right here and become a member of the Ioway tribe if you wanted to, Breck. You’ve got yourself a ready-made wife right there and everything.”
“And let you go on to the mountains by yourself? You wouldn’t last a week.”
Sunflower said something Breckinridge couldn’t
make out, but her shy smile and coy, downcast gaze told him she was declaring something along the same lines Morgan had hinted at.
The last thing Breckinridge wanted right now was a wife. That feeling had nothing to do with the fact that she was an Indian. If he’d been in the market for a bride, Sunflower would have made a good one.
Since he couldn’t think of anything to say and she wouldn’t have understood him anyway, he just sat there in stolid silence while she placed a piece of deer hide over the poultice and tied it in place with several rawhide strips.
Breckinridge flexed his left arm, then smiled and nodded at Sunflower. Despite being messy, the wound wasn’t deep and the poultice had already taken some of the sting out of it. Breck was confident it would heal just fine and leave nothing but yet another scar on his body, which was already considerably marked up despite his young age.
“You done a mighty fine job,” he told Sunflower. “I’m sure obliged to you.”
Sunflower said something, then glanced across the fire at Morgan. She reached up and started unlacing the rawhide that held her dress closed at the throat.
“Reckon I ought to go find somewhere else to finish my night’s sleep,” Morgan said as he started to get up. “Although I’m not sure Sunflower would mind all that much if I stayed.”
“Damn it!” Breckinridge said as he reached out to take hold of Sunflower’s wrists and stop what she was doing. “Morgan, sit yourself back down.” Looking at the young woman, he shook his head and continued, “You don’t have to do that. I appreciate you patchin’ me up, but that’s plenty. We’re all square, understand? You don’t need to do nothin’ else.”
She said something in the Ioway tongue, then added tentatively, “Breck . . . in . . . ridge.” Her lower lip started to quiver.
Morgan fell over on his side on the buffalo robes. His body shook with suppressed laughter.
“Blast it, I’ll come over there and wallop you,” Breckinridge said through clenched teeth. He managed to put a smile on his face as he moved his hands from Sunflower’s wrists to her shoulders. He held her as he leaned forward and planted a chaste kiss on her forehead, the same way he would have kissed a little sister. He hoped she would get the message from that.
The Darkest Winter Page 3