“The whores and the booze will still be there a year from now,” Carnahan said. “Think how much more you can enjoy them as a very wealthy man.”
Nusser scratched at his brown beard. “It’s a mite hard for me to imagine that. I ain’t ever been wealthy.”
“Then this is your chance.”
Ralston inclined his head toward Machitehew and the other Blackfeet, who hunkered a short distance away from the fire and maintained their usual aloofness from the whites.
“What about our, ah, allies?”
“They’d be free to stay or go, as they pleased,” Carnahan said. “But they need our help if they want to have their revenge on the Crow.”
That was true. Only a dozen warriors were left alive after the raid on the Crow village. Although a Blackfoot warrior considered himself easily the equal of ten men from another tribe when it came to fighting, Machitehew was practical enough to know that another attack on their despised enemies would result in the rest of his men being wiped out. He hated the Crow, but his hatred wasn’t strong enough to turn him into a fool. He’d always had plenty of cunning to go along with his ruthless nature.
Carnahan was well aware of that. From the first moment he had laid eyes on Machitehew, when the two groups unexpectedly faced each other across a clearing and hesitated as they tried to decide whether to do battle, Carnahan had sensed a kindred spirit in the Blackfoot war chief.
That was why he had stepped forward, palm outstretched in the universal gesture of peace, and hoped the savage felt the same way. They could kill each other, or they could join forces and become much more dangerous to their mutual enemies.
Of course, at that precise moment, Carnahan hadn’t known for sure that they even had mutual enemies. But when Machitehew spoke sharply to his warriors and hostilities didn’t break out, everyone relaxed a little. Machitehew spoke some English, and he and Carnahan and Ralston soon had their heads together in a council of war.
They understood each other well enough that it hadn’t taken Carnahan long to figure out Machitehew and the surviving Blackfeet also had a grudge against the massive youngster named Breckinridge Wallace. Wallace and his friend Baxter had been in the Crow village when the Blackfoot war party attacked, and the big redhead had killed more of Machitehew’s men than anyone else and turned the tide of battle almost single-handedly.
Machitehew wanted to kill all the Crow and burn their village to the ground, but he wanted vengeance on Breckinridge Wallace as well.
Although Carnahan deliberately made no mention of it around his rough-and-tumble companions, he was an educated man. He had read treatises on war; more of them, he suspected, than the former army officer who was his second-in-command. He realized immediately that since he and Machitehew had common goals, it made sense to work together. The Blackfoot war chief shared that instinct, and so the partnership had formed.
So far they had killed Baxter, his Indian friend, and the other three trappers and added a nice pile of pelts to their loot, but they could do so much more, Carnahan thought now. They could afford to bide their time and grow into the most powerful force west of the Mississippi, especially if Machitehew cooperated and helped bring in allies from other Blackfoot bands. If Machitehew didn’t want to go along with that, he could be gotten rid of when the proper moment came.
Carnahan could see it all unfolding in his head, like scenes from a play. As he thought about it, his certainty that he was right grew stronger.
Ralston nodded and said, “All right, Jud. I’ll go along with this plan of yours . . . for now.”
Carnahan returned the curt nod. He would accept Ralston’s agreement.
For now.
The major seemed to think that he was indispensable to Carnahan’s efforts, though, and sooner or later he might have to be taught just how wrong he was.
* * *
The weather remained cold enough that the snow stayed on the ground for several days without melting.
Breckinridge spent most of that time in the tipi with Dawn Wind. Lovemaking occupied some of their hours, of course. Folks had to rest up from that, too, so they had plenty of chances to talk.
They shared stories from their lives, often laughing as they did so. But sometimes solemnly as well, as when Breck told her about the troubles that had brought him to the frontier in the first place.
He even told her about Dulcy, and after he had gotten started on that tale, he worried that it was a mistake. A gal wouldn’t want to hear about some other gal her fella had almost married . . . would she?
But Dawn Wind didn’t seem to mind. She was sympathetic, and she even assured Breckinridge that he hadn’t done anything wrong. Maybe she was just trying to make him feel better. He didn’t know about that, but he was grateful to her anyway.
And as he had told Morgan, with everything out in the open now, he felt like he had healed up inside. There might be a scar where life had wounded him, but that was better than a festering sore.
He and Dawn Wind also went out and ranged through the woods near the village. One day when they were out exploring, Breckinridge killed a rabbit with a throw of his knife, and they skinned and roasted it over a fire Dawn Wind built. Food had seldom tasted better, Breck thought, but maybe that was because of the company and the wild, beautiful landscape around them.
The weather warmed, the snow melted, and as soon as the mud left behind had dried up, life was good again, crisp autumn days and clear, cold nights. Breckinridge sat with White Owl one afternoon as the chief made arrows. Breck watched for a while, then began to help out. White Owl showed him what to do, speaking in Crow, which Breck had begun to understand fairly well, but communicating mostly in gestures.
Breckinridge frowned as he began to feel like someone was watching him. Without being too obvious, he glanced up from the arrow shaft he was fashioning from a branch with his knife.
One of the Crow warriors stood about fifty feet away, glaring at him. The man was big for a Crow, broad across the shoulders but also thick through the body. It was rare to see a fat Indian, but this fella almost fit that description. Breck figured a lot of his thickness might be muscle, though. He vaguely remembered noticing the man around the village before but didn’t recall ever hearing his name.
Frowning, Breckinridge said to White Owl, “See that fella standin’ over there givin’ me the evil eye? Who’s he?” He repeated the question in the Crow tongue as best he could.
White Owl glanced up, then said in his language, “That is Isáa Sampa.” The chief added in halting English, “You say . . . Big Stump.”
“Big Stump,” Breckinridge repeated, nodding. “I reckon that’s a good name for him. He’s as thick as a big ol’ stump.”
The warrior looked coldly at Breckinridge for another moment, then turned and walked away with his back stiff. Breck didn’t know what the hell that was all about, but he wasn’t sure he cared enough to find out.
Despite that, when he was in the tipi that evening and they had finished the stew Dawn Wind had cooked for supper, he gave in to his curiosity and said, “I was visitin’ with your pa this afternoon when I noticed one of the warriors givin’ me a strange look. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he wanted to lift my hair.”
“Do not even joke about such a thing, Breckinridge,” Dawn Wind said. “All of the Apsáalooke are your friends.”
“I don’t think this fella was. White Owl said that in English he’d be called Big Stump.”
“Oh!” Dawn Wind put a hand to her mouth in surprise. “I did not think about Isáa Sampa. I am not sure his name would be exactly Big Stump in your tongue.” She laughed. “But now that I think about it, that would be a good name for him.”
“Who is he, and how come he’s mad at me?”
“We were children together, and ever since we were young, he has wanted to marry me. For many moons he has said that one day I would be his wife. He had his father offer my father five horses for me.”
“What the—” Breckinridge dr
ew in a deep, angry breath. “That ain’t hardly right!”
“You think I am worth more than five horses?”
“No, but . . . Well, yeah, but . . . I mean . . . he shouldn’t ought to have his pa tryin’ to buy you!”
“That is often the way things are done among my people. There is no real shame in the two of us lying together even though I am not yet your wife, and a father arranging a marriage for his daughter is accepted by all, as well, even though it is not always done that way.”
“Well, ol’ Big Stump ain’t gonna buy you for no five horses, I can tell you that,” Breckinridge declared. “Not for five hundred horses!”
“I do not know . . . I believe if my father was offered five hundred horses, he would be very tempted.”
Breckinridge might have said something to argue with her, but then he saw how she was smiling at him.
“You’re just havin’ some sport with me,” he said. “You ain’t interested in gettin’ hitched to Big Stump, are you?”
Dawn Wind shook her head. “I will marry no one except Breckinridge Wallace, if he will have me.”
She leaned closer, put her arms around his neck, and kissed him. Breckinridge returned the embrace, sliding his arms around her waist, then picking her up and depositing her on his lap. From a while they simply sat and kissed and snuggled, enjoying the closeness they shared.
Then Breckinridge leaned back, frowned slightly, and said, “Do I have to worry about this here Big Stump comin’ after me? You know, to get rid of his competition?”
“Isáa Sampa is no competition for you, Breckinridge. You are not afraid of him, are you?”
“Not hardly! I just don’t want to cause any trouble for you or anybody else in the village. You folks have took me in like this was my second home.”
“You have been a good friend to us. Do not worry. I will speak to Isáa Sampa. There will be no trouble.”
Breckinridge hoped she was right. The only problem was, it seemed like every time somebody promised him there wouldn’t be any trouble, things never quite worked out that way.
Chapter 25
Breckinridge didn’t see anything more of Big Stump for a couple of days. He knew the warrior had to be around the village somewhere, but if Big Stump was avoiding him, that was just fine with Breck, knowing what he now knew about the man’s feelings for Dawn Wind.
Unfortunately, that respite didn’t last. Breckinridge was sitting again with White Owl one afternoon, both men cross-legged on the ground, when the chief suddenly looked across the village and frowned. Breck followed White Owl’s gaze and saw Big Stump coming toward them. The thickset warrior had an angry, determined expression on his face.
“Breck’ridge Wallace,” Big Stump said as he came to a stop in front of Breckinridge and White Owl. He continued in the Crow tongue, “I would speak with you.”
Breckinridge had spent a lot of time with Dawn Wind practicing her language, so he was able to understand Big Stump. He put a hand on the ground to brace himself and got to his feet. Breck was a head taller than most of the Crow warriors, but Big Stump was almost as tall. He had to look up only a couple of inches to meet Breck’s eyes.
“Isáa Sampa,” Breckinridge said with a nod. “I will listen.”
Big Stump looked a little surprised at the response. He said, “You know who I am?”
“I have spoken to White Owl and Dawn Wind about you.”
Big Stump’s hands clenched into fists. “Then you know that Dawn Wind is to be my wife.”
“I know that’s what you want,” Breckinridge said. “I also know she’s never agreed to that.”
“It does not matter. The spirits have told me that we are meant to be together.”
“If that was true, the spirits would have told her, too. She’s with me.” Breckinridge knew that among the Crow, as with many other tribes, an actual ceremony wasn’t necessary, so he stated flatly, “Dawn Wind is my wife.”
“No!” Rage darkened Big Stump’s face. A white man who was so overcome with anger probably would have thrown a punch. Big Stump’s reaction was different.
He launched himself at Breckinridge and tackled him.
The attack didn’t exactly take Breckinridge by surprise. He knew Big Stump was mad and unpredictable. But the warrior moved faster than Breck expected and crashed into him with considerable force. Big Stump was no lightweight, either. The collision knocked Breck back a step. Big Stump drove hard with his legs, keeping Breck off-balance, and when a piece of firewood rolled under one of his feet, he went down.
Big Stump fell on top of him. The warrior’s weight drove most of the air out of Breckinridge’s lungs, and an instant later, Big Stump locked his hands together behind Breck’s back and tightened his arms in a bear hug. Breck couldn’t get his breath. Big Stump was strong, too, strong enough that Breck felt his ribs creaking under the inexorable pressure.
Breckinridge heaved up from the ground and rolled. He hoped that would knock Big Stump loose from him. The warrior’s grip never lessened, though. If anything, he squeezed even harder. Breck’s body began crying out for air. Red flashes danced in front of his eyes.
He wound up on top. Big Stump wrapped his legs around Breckinridge’s knees and held on that way, too. With his arms and legs pinned, Breck had only one way of fighting back. He lifted his head as much as he could and then slammed his forehead into the middle of Big Stump’s face.
Blood spurted from Big Stump’s nose. He grunted in pain. But he didn’t let go. Breckinridge butted him again. This time he felt Big Stump’s grip slip slightly.
For a third time, Breckinridge rammed his forehead into Big Stump’s face. As the warrior’s arms loosened even more, Breck heaved with his arms and shoulders and broke free. He pushed himself up far enough to hook a hard right into Big Stump’s midsection.
It was about like punching an actual tree stump, he discovered. Breckinridge’s hunch that Big Stump’s thickness was more muscle than fat was confirmed. Big Stump didn’t even seem to feel the blow. He slashed upward with an elbow that caught Breck in the jaw and knocked him to the side.
Breckinridge rolled over and tried to come up on his knees, but Big Stump had already recovered enough to tackle him again. They tumbled over and over. Big Stump managed to pin one of Breck’s arms again, but the other was still free. Breck whipped it around and peppered Big Stump’s face with several short, sharp punches. Big Stump rammed a knee into Breck’s stomach and brought a fist down on the back of his head. The two men whaled away at each other mercilessly.
They rolled against one of the tipis and got tangled in its buffalo hide wall, bringing down the cone-shaped dwelling. Somewhere nearby, a woman screeched fiercely. She probably lived there, and now Breckinridge and Big Stump were busting up her home. Breck fought his way free of the clinging folds of hide and surged to his feet. Big Stump flailed until he was loose, too, and leaped up.
“Damn it, that’s enough!” Breckinridge roared in English. “Stop fightin’, you dang fool!”
Big Stump either didn’t understand or didn’t care. He charged at Breckinridge again, arms outstretched to catch the white man in another brutal bear hug.
Breckinridge didn’t let it come to that this time. He didn’t try to avoid Big Stump. Instead he stepped forward, pivoted at the waist, and put all the power of his back and shoulders into a straight, pile-driver punch with his right fist. Big Stump was wide open as the blow rocketed in. It landed with a sound that made several of the watching warriors wince. Big Stump’s upper half went backward while momentum carried his bottom half forward. That resulted in him slamming down on his back, out cold.
At least Breckinridge hoped he was just unconscious. He worried that he might have killed Big Stump.
As he stood there, though, he saw the warrior’s chest rising and falling in a ragged rhythm. Big Stump was alive, just senseless. Breckinridge took a step back and looked around warily in case the fella had any friends or relatives who might want to continue the bat
tle.
Quite a crowd of men, women, children, and dogs had gathered to watch the fracas, but nobody seemed to be too upset. Some of the warriors muttered comments among themselves, evidently impressed by Breckinridge’s triumph.
Dawn Wind stood off to one side with a worried frown on her face. Breckinridge didn’t know if her concern was for him or for Big Stump, who, after all, had been her friend since childhood. Could be she was worried about both of them, Breck thought.
White Owl walked up to Breckinridge and said, “That was a mighty battle, my friend. It is a shame Isáa Sampa would not listen when you tried to reason with him.”
“I hope I didn’t hurt him too bad.” Breckinridge looked down at the man he had defeated. Big Stump’s nose was probably broken, and the blood from it was smeared all over his face. His breathing was raspy but had settled down and was steadier now. Breck shook his head and added, “Well, he wasn’t all that good-lookin’ to start with, I reckon.”
Dawn Wind came over and put her hand on Breckinridge’s arm. She asked in English, “You are all right?”
“Yeah. He’s a tough scrapper, but I been in fights with a heap worse. I tried to talk him out of tanglin’ with me, but he wasn’t havin’ any of it.”
“Big Stump is a stubborn man. I have told him many times I would not marry him, but he has never given up.” Dawn Wind sighed. “Perhaps now he will.”
“I wouldn’t count on it. If I had my heart set on marryin’ you but you weren’t interested, I’d sure keep tryin’ to change your mind.”
She squeezed his arm and said, “Lucky for you I am interested.”
Breckinridge laughed. “Mighty lucky, as far as I’m concerned.”
On the ground not far away, Big Stump began to stir. He moved his head from side to side and let out a groggy groan, but he didn’t open his eyes yet. Some of his fellow warriors moved forward to help him.
Breckinridge took Dawn Wind’s arm and led her toward the tipi they shared. It would probably be a good idea if they weren’t there when Big Stump came around. He wasn’t afraid of the warrior, by any stretch of the imagination, but there was no point in provoking another ruckus, either.
The Darkest Winter Page 18