He caught sight of a flickering light up ahead, through the trees, and realized it was something burning. Something bigger than a campfire, too. He slowed as he neared the edge of the trees that surrounded the Crow village.
Several of the tipis were in flames. People rushed here and there. A few of them tried to put out the fires, but most were either running for their lives or fighting with other Indians whose faces were streaked with paint. Those attackers belonged to a war party from some other tribe, Breckinridge realized. When he saw one of the raiders lift a tomahawk and get ready to bring down a killing stroke on a Crow defender who had fallen, he didn’t hesitate. He snapped his rifle to his shoulder and fired.
The ball smashed through the invader’s ribs under the upraised arm and tore through the man’s lungs. He dropped the tomahawk and fell to the ground, then writhed for a few seconds as he drowned in his own blood before dying.
Breckinridge bounded into the open. One of the attackers lunged at him, also swinging a tomahawk. Breck drove the rifle’s brass butt plate into the man’s face with such force that bone crunched and the raider went backward as if he had run face-first into a stone wall.
Something tugged at Breckinridge’s shirt. He realized it was an arrow that had come from behind him. He whirled around in time to see a war-painted figure drawing back a bow to launch a second missile. One of Breck’s pistols was already in his hand as he turned. The gun boomed and bucked against his palm as he squeezed the trigger. The double-shotted weapon sent both balls into the raider’s chest, shredding it and knocking him backward off his feet. The man released the arrow, but it soared harmlessly high over Breck’s head.
He shoved the empty pistol behind his belt, set his rifle aside, and picked up the tomahawk dropped by the first man he had shot. With his knife in his left hand and the tomahawk in his right, he started toward the large tipi at the center of the village, where White Owl lived. Dawn Wind lived with some of the other young, unmarried women, but Breckinridge believed that when the attack started, she would have tried to reach her father.
Two of the raiders spotted him and charged him. Breckinridge stood his ground, and for a long moment he fought them off, the knife flashing in the firelight as he parried and slashed with it and the tomahawk. Then a lunge buried the blade in the chest of one enemy, and a swift stroke with the ’hawk crushed the second man’s skull. Breck yanked the knife free, leaped over the corpses, and bulled on toward his destination, pausing only to kill another couple of raiders when they got in his way. He was like an avalanche rumbling through the village, obliterating every obstacle in his path.
He suddenly veered off his course when he saw one of the raiders snatch up a screaming, terrified child. The youngster looked like he was barely old enough to walk. Nearby lay a woman with blood gushing from a hideous wound in her neck. She was probably the child’s mother and had been trying to flee with him when she was struck down.
The attacker grasped the child’s leg and swung him high, ready to smash him against the ground. Breckinridge slid his knife back in its sheath as he lunged forward. His left hand flashed up and closed around the wrist of the raider’s upraised hand. The fury inside him welled up and was channeled through his muscles into that horrible crushing grip. Bones snapped and ground together. Taken by surprise, the raider screamed in agony. His hand opened and the child fell.
Breckinridge caught the boy before he could hit the ground. Then, cradling the child against him, he swung the tomahawk in a backhanded blow that caught the raider in the throat, sheared through muscle and bone, and separated the man’s head from his shoulders. It popped into the air as blood fountained from the gaping wound where the head had been attached a second earlier.
Breckinridge had already turned away before the dead invader’s head thumped to the ground.
He saw one of the Crow women and thrust the boy into her arms, then resumed his charge toward White Owl’s tipi. When he reached it he saw the chief struggling with one of the painted warriors. White Owl was not as young and strong as he once was, and he fell under a glancing blow from the raider’s tomahawk. As White Owl slumped to the ground, his attacker lifted the weapon to strike again.
Out of nowhere, a slim, buckskin-clad form leaped between them, hovering over the chief’s fallen form. Horror seized Breckinridge as he realized the newcomer was Dawn Wind, trying to protect her father even though it meant her own death as the tomahawk streaked toward her.
Chapter 18
Breckinridge acted faster than he ever had in his life. Too swift for the eye to follow, his arm flashed back and then forward, sending the tomahawk spinning through the air in a perfect throw. The weapon’s sharp flint head struck the raider just above the left ear with such force that it cleaved through the man’s skull and deeply into his brain. The blow he had aimed at Dawn Wind continued to fall, but as the attacker’s body crumpled and twisted, the tomahawk in his hand struck the ground instead, next to White Owl. The corpse toppled onto Dawn Wind, who shoved it aside as her face twisted in revulsion.
By that time, Breckinridge had reached her side. He reached down, grasped her arm, and lifted her effortlessly to her feet. She threw her arms around his massive torso. Her hands didn’t meet on his back, but she clung to him anyway and pressed her face against his broad chest.
“Breckinridge!” she cried.
He put his right arm around her shoulders and held her close. At the same time, from his great height he was able to look over her head and turn his gaze from side to side as he searched for any more threats. The battle continued, but it seemed to be breaking up in places. As Breckinridge watched, some of the raiders gave up their attack and ran for the woods with Crow arrows flying after them. The fighting continued to become more sporadic and within minutes had ended completely.
That didn’t mean the mournful wails and the cries of pain had stopped, however. Those sounds of misery still filled the air all around the Crow village.
Dawn Wind lifted her head to look up at Breckinridge. “You are not harmed?” she asked. The firelight from the burning tipis reddened her face even more than it already was.
“I’m fine,” Breckinridge assured her. “We’d best check on your father.”
Dawn Wind looked around at White Owl, suddenly alarmed again. She slipped out of Breckinridge’s embrace and dropped to her knees beside her father, who had sat up and started shaking his head groggily. Blood dripped from the cut that the glancing blow had opened on his forehead.
Dawn Wind spoke hurriedly to him. White Owl put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. Breckinridge could tell that the gesture was meant to be reassuring. He extended his free hand to the Crow chief. White Owl reached up, clasped it, and allowed Breck to help him to his feet. He spoke a few words.
“My father thanks you for saving my life and probably his as well,” Dawn Wind said.
“I’m just sorry I didn’t get here sooner so I’d have had the chance to kill more of these varmints,” Breckinridge said. “Where’d they come from, anyway?”
“They are Blackfeet.” When Dawn Wind said the name, she sounded like it tasted bad in her mouth. “Sometimes they drift south in the summer like this and raid the villages of the Apsáalooke and the other tribes who are our allies. They kill and steal horses and take prisoners that they turn into slaves.”
“Quite a few of ’em won’t ever do that again,” Breckinridge commented as he looked around the village. A number of bodies belonging to Dawn Wind’s people lay scattered on the ground, but there were more corpses with painted faces.
Running Elk hurried toward them. The young man spoke quickly to his father and sister, no doubt making sure they were all right. Then he turned to Breck and rested a hand on his shoulder.
“Breck’ridge . . . good friend,” he said.
Breckinridge put a hand on Running Elk’s shoulder and responded, “Running Elk good friend, too.”
There was nothing more to be said. From the look on Running Elk’s f
ace, it was obvious that any reservations he’d had about Breckinridge were gone, destroyed by the bloody events of this night.
In a way, that might make things more complicated, Breckinridge mused. As long as Running Elk had considered him a completely unsuitable match for Dawn Wind, it had been a little easier for him to stay away. Without the young warrior’s disapproval, Breck was going to be even more tempted to spend time here in the Crow village.
Before he could ponder on that, Dawn Wind touched his arm and then pointed toward the trees. Morgan had emerged from them and was looking around with a shocked expression on his face. He spotted Breckinridge, Dawn Wind, Running Elk, and White Owl and hurried toward them.
“Breck, are you all right?” Morgan asked. “What in blazes happened here?”
“A Blackfoot war party raided the village,” Breckinridge explained. “I heard the commotion and came to see what was goin’ on.”
“And I heard some gunshots from back at our camp. I assume that was you?”
“Yeah. Had to ventilate a couple of the bastards.”
“I figured you had to be right in the middle of it, whatever it was,” Morgan said. “Dawn Wind, are you hurt?”
She shook her head and said, “No. Breckinridge saved my life.” She pointed at the corpse of the raider who lay on the ground nearby with the tomahawk still lodged in his split skull. “I have never seen such a throw, not from any warrior of any tribe.”
Morgan laughed. “Yeah, Breck’s sort of a tribe of his own, I guess you could say. There aren’t any more like him back where he came from, or where I came from, either.”
Those sort of comments made Breckinridge uncomfortable. He said, “There are plenty of folks here who are hurt. We’d better see about tendin’ to ’em.”
“You are right,” Dawn Wind said. “Starting with my father.”
She took White Owl’s arm and steered him toward his tipi. Breckinridge, Morgan, and Running Owl began going around the village to check on the wounded and see that the ones in need of care got it. As Breck watched the way Running Elk took charge, he figured the young man would make a fine chief one of these days.
When they had done all they could to help the wounded, they began dragging the Blackfoot corpses out of the village. Breckinridge didn’t know what would be done with them, but he didn’t figure it would be anything good. The Crow would want to make sure their enemies weren’t able to enjoy the next life.
After that grisly chore was concluded, Breckinridge and Morgan stood near the ashes that marked the location of a burned-down tipi. Morgan said, “I get the feeling you’re even more of a hero to these folks now, Breck.”
“I wouldn’t say that. I pitched in and killed a few of those Blackfoot varmints, but that’s all.”
“And saved the chief and his daughter while you were at it,” Morgan pointed out. “I talked some to Running Elk. Well, maybe we didn’t actually talk that much, but we understand each other. As far as the Crow are concerned, you’re one of them now. You’d be welcome to stay here from now on.”
“That was never what I planned to do.”
“Sometimes our plans get changed, usually when we don’t expect it. Listen, Breck. You’ve got a smart, brave, beautiful young woman here who loves you.”
“I don’t know that I’d go that far—”
“She loves you,” Morgan repeated. “Anybody with eyes in his head can see that. You could, too, if you weren’t so damn stubborn. Now, why would any man in his right mind turn his back on a situation like that?”
“I don’t recollect ever claimin’ that I’m in my right mind,” Breckinridge said.
“Well, then, listen to somebody who is. We need to move our camp over here. If we’d been here tonight when the Blackfeet attacked, some of the people they killed before you got here might still be alive.”
Breckinridge thought about the young woman whose child he had saved. Morgan was right. If he had been on hand when the attack began, he might have saved the woman, too.
Of course, it was impossible to know such things for sure, he reminded himself. Each hand in life played out as it would, and there was no way to deal the cards again.
“Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad thing to spend more time here,” Breckinridge said. “Seems like even Runnin’ Elk was warmin’ up to me a mite.”
“Of course he is. Like I told you, the Crow consider you one of them now. They probably have some sort of ritual or ceremony to induct you into the tribe officially.” Morgan smiled. “Maybe it’s even part of their marriage ceremony.”
“Now, don’t you go startin’ on that! You’re gettin’ mighty far ahead of yourself. I ain’t said nothin’ about marryin’ Dawn Wind.”
“Well, you need to start thinking about it,” Morgan said. He laughed. “As if you really have anything to say about it.”
Breckinridge didn’t know about that, but he knew his heart took a big jump in his chest when he looked toward White Owl’s tipi and saw Dawn Wind push aside the canvas flap over the opening and step out. She smiled as she came toward him.
There was no way of knowing what was going to happen, Breckinridge thought, but maybe it was time he stopped being so stubborn and found out.
* * *
Even though it was ushered in by fire, tragedy, and death, that was the beginning of an idyllic time for Breckinridge. He and Morgan were given a tipi in the village for their dwelling. Together with Running Elk, they spent the days working the traplines and strengthening their friendship with the young warrior. Running Elk acted now as if he had never disapproved of Breck as a potential suitor for his sister.
After about a week, Dawn Wind took Breckinridge’s hand one evening and led him to a newly constructed tipi replacing one of those that had been destroyed. She displayed pride as she showed it to him and said, “This will be mine.”
“It’s mighty nice,” he told her.
“And you will share it with me.”
Breckinridge’s brows rose. “Now, wait a minute—”
She tightened her grip on his hand and tugged him into the tipi, where a fire already burned in the rock pit in the center and robes were spread on the ground. She turned to him, raised a hand to rest it on the back of his neck, and lifted her face to his. Their mouths met in a kiss that grew quickly in passion and urgency.
Breckinridge didn’t try to stop her as she pulled her dress over her head. This was the first time he had seen her nude since that day by the pool. If anything, she had grown even more beautiful during that time.
He was fully recovered from being shot in the head, too. He proved that with plenty of enthusiasm and satisfaction for both of them.
Days spent out in the wilderness with his friends, nights spent in the arms of a beautiful, passionate young woman . . . A fella just couldn’t do better than that, Breckinridge thought many times. And since life was so pleasant, the days rolled by almost without notice, turning into weeks and then months. It was only when Breck saw what a large pile of beaver pelts he and Morgan had accumulated and felt the coolness of the air early in the morning that he realized something he had put out of his thoughts entirely.
Fall was coming. It was time to head back downriver to St. Louis.
Chapter 19
Breckinridge wasn’t the sort to sit around brooding about anything, but he wasn’t looking forward to telling Dawn Wind that he was leaving. So he postponed it as the pile of pelts grew larger and the days grew shorter. Unfortunately, the journey would have to be undertaken before much longer, or it would be too late in the season. Winter might arrive before he and Morgan could reach St. Louis.
Along with Running Elk, the two of them were headed back to the village from their traplines one day when Morgan said, “Breck, we have to talk about what we’re going to do next.”
Breckinridge nodded glumly. “I know. It ain’t somethin’ I’ve wanted to think about, let alone hash out.”
Morgan laughed and said, “That’s because you didn’t realize
that I’ve come up with the perfect solution.”
Breckinridge frowned. “What are you talkin’ about?”
“I’ll take the furs back to St. Louis and sell them for us. You stay here for the winter with our friends . . . and Dawn Wind.”
Breckinridge’s shaggy brows rose in surprise. “It’s a far piece to St. Louis,” he said. “You can’t haul those pelts back there all by your lonesome.”
“Why not? I can load both canoes and tie the second one on behind mine. Since I’ll be going with the current I can paddle enough to keep both craft moving. It’s not like there’s any chance of getting lost along the way, either. All I have to do is keep heading downstream, merging with the larger rivers, until I reach St. Louis.”
“I reckon you could find the place, all right,” Breckinridge said. “But a fella travelin’ by himself is sort of dangerous.”
“For a greenhorn, maybe. But that’s not really what I am anymore, is it?”
Breckinridge looked at Morgan and had to admit that his friend was right. The lean, hard-muscled, brown-bearded frontiersman he saw was a far cry from the soft, beardless youth Morgan had been a couple of years earlier, when Breck first met him. He had endured considerable hardship and trouble. He might not be a seasoned veteran just yet, but he was getting there.
“And you can’t be worried about me trying to cheat you out of your share of the profits,” Morgan went on. “Not after all we’ve been through together.”
“It’s sort of an insult, you even bringin’ that up,” Breckinridge said. “I trust you as much as I would any of my brothers. More, I reckon.”
“There’s a practical consideration to my suggestion, too,” Morgan went on. “You can keep all our gear with you, and next spring, you and Running Elk can get a jump on all the other trappers in the mountains. By the time I get outfitted and return, you’ll already have taken some pelts.”
Breckinridge nodded and said, “Reckon I understand now. You want me to do all the work whilst you rest easy back in civilization.”
The Darkest Winter Page 13