* * *
The canyon that Jud Carnahan had chosen for his headquarters veered off from another creek about ten miles from the Crow village, plenty far enough that the sound of axes wouldn’t be heard as the men chopped down trees and used the logs to fashion cabins. Carnahan had them building three of the structures. One would be his while the rest of the group would split up between the other two. Some of them might resent him having a cabin to himself, but he didn’t care about that. He was the leader, and he deserved the privacy.
Not that he intended to spend the entire winter alone. When the time came, that pretty young squaw Wallace had taken up with was going to be his. She would cook for him and warm his blankets at night. Carnahan looked forward to that, but he was a man who could control his appetites. He would wait until the time was right before striking at Wallace and the Crow again.
Not everybody had that sort of patience, though. While Carnahan was supervising the construction of the cabins one afternoon, Gordon Ralston approached him, that blasted scabbarded saber slapping against the ex-major’s leg as he walked. Ralston carried the sword like it made him better than everybody else, and that always got under Carnahan’s skin.
“I’ve been down at the Crow village, Jud,” Ralston announced without any greeting.
Carnahan turned sharply toward him. “I gave no orders for that,” he snapped. “What the hell do you think you were doing?”
“It never hurts to scout the enemy,” Ralston replied. “And I thought as your second-in-command, I didn’t have to wait for orders for everything I do. A good officer shows initiative.”
Carnahan wasn’t sure how good an officer Ralston had been. Based on a few enigmatic comments the man had made, Carnahan suspected that Ralston had been booted out of the army. Or maybe he had just deserted and never gone back. There was really no telling.
No point in flogging the matter now. In a rumbling tone, Carnahan asked, “What did you find out?”
“Wallace is still there.”
“Did you expect he wouldn’t be?” Carnahan laughed. “The man’s befriended those savages, and he’s sharing his robes with a hot-blooded young squaw. He’d have to be a fool to leave, wouldn’t he?”
“I suppose,” Ralston replied with a shrug. “Not everyone in that village is a friend of his, though. I was watching through my spyglass this afternoon while Wallace had a battle royal with one of the Crow braves.”
Carnahan cocked a bushy eyebrow in surprise. “Really? How did the fight turn out?”
“Wallace won,” Ralston said, “but it looked like the man gave him quite a tussle.”
“Could you tell what it was about?”
Ralston shook his head. “I was several hundred yards away, on the other side of the creek. I couldn’t hear anything they were saying. Anyway, it probably would have been in that redskin jabber, so I wouldn’t have been able to understand it. Wallace was talking quite readily to several of the savages, so I suspect he speaks their lingo now.”
“More than likely. He can’t spend all his time bedding that squaw.” Although it would be enjoyable to try, Carnahan thought.
“At any rate,” Ralston went on, “I was wondering when you plan to attack the village again.”
Carnahan nodded toward the construction going on and said, “We’re still building our cabins.”
“We don’t have to have them finished before we kill Wallace and wipe out those redskins.”
“No, I suppose not, but surely you learned something about tactics at West Point, Major.”
Ralston bristled at Carnahan’s mocking tone of voice. “Of course I did,” he said.
“Then you should know the value of striking your enemy when he least expects it. Relatively speaking, not much time has passed since we clashed with Wallace or since Machitehew and his war party attacked the Crow village. They’ll still be wary. But just let the winter set in, and they’ll be spending most of the time in their tipis, growing soft and sleepy and complacent. Wallace won’t be looking for trouble. That is when we strike.”
Ralston rested his left hand on the saber’s grip and curled his lip as he said, “I’m not sure if I want to wait that long.”
“Your revenge will be that much sweeter if you do.” Carnahan’s voice hardened as he added, “If you try anything before I say we’re ready, you’ll do it on your own. I won’t lose an advantage just to satisfy your bloodlust, Ralston.”
For a moment the two men stood there trading glares. Then, abruptly, Ralston nodded. He turned and walked away. Carnahan watched him go and thought that Ralston was going to come in handy for making his plans come to fruition.
But when that was over and done with, it would be high time for the arrogant son of a bitch to die.
Chapter 26
For a few days, Breckinridge didn’t see Big Stump around the village. When the man finally showed his face again, both eyes were blackened and his nose was still swollen and sore-looking. It appeared he—or someone else—had tried to straighten the broken nose, with decidedly mixed results.
Big Stump didn’t seem to have gotten over his anger, either. He still glared at Breckinridge from a distance. But he stayed away and didn’t provoke any more fights, so Breck was willing to settle for that outcome. He went on enjoying life in the Crow village: hunting, fishing, spending time with White Owl and some of the other warriors during the days . . . and spending the nights with Dawn Wind in the warmth of their tipi. If this was what being an old married man was like, Breck thought, it wasn’t bad at all.
A couple of weeks later, winter arrived in earnest. The temperature dropped like a rock again, and snow began to fall, often for days at a time without stopping. A thick blanket of white covered the landscape.
In a situation such as that, time had little meaning. Days slipped past and turned into weeks with Breckinridge hardly noticing. The sky was overcast most of the time, which meant darkness descended early. As long as he was spending his nights with Dawn Wind, Breck didn’t see that as any reason to complain.
Supplies began to run shorter. There was less dried meat to support the people. Breckinridge accompanied hunting parties that left the village in search of game. They had competition, though, from the wolves and mountain lions. The herds of deer, elk, antelope, and moose had already been thinned out considerably by those natural predators. Even rabbits were harder to find. When spring came, things would be different, but it was still months until spring.
On a morning with a thick, dark gray layer of clouds in the sky that held the potential for more snow, Breckinridge left the village with a small party of hunters, three Crow warriors who had become his friends: Swims Like a Fish, Gray Bear, and Bitter Mouth. The latter was a repudiation of anyone who claimed that Indians lacked a sense of humor. Bitter Mouth was always smiling, laughing, and making jokes, usually at the expense of his friends.
The four men ranged far up the creek toward the Bighorn Mountains. Gray Bear, the oldest of the group and the best tracker, claimed that in this direction they would find a herd of the nimble-footed sheep that gave the river and the nearby mountains their names. He had spotted their tracks the week before but had not had enough time that day to pursue them. Breckinridge and the others started out early this morning, so they would have a chance to find the sheep, kill a couple of the beasts, and haul them back to the village before nightfall. That would provide enough meat to last for a while. With a new storm possibly brewing, though, it was important that they not waste any time.
Breckinridge found himself walking along beside Bitter Mouth. The warrior was more serious than usual, Breck noticed. He asked, “Something wrong?”
Bitter Mouth shook his head. “No. There is talk about you, my friend.”
“About me?” Breckinridge said. “Is somebody upset with me? Besides ol’ Big Stump, I mean?”
“Isáa Sampa is part of the problem. He talks to many of the men in the village and says that you are not a friend to the Apsáalooke people.”
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“Well, that’s just a dadgum lie! What in the world would make him say such a thing?” Before Bitter Mouth could respond, Breckinridge went on, “I reckon I know. This is still because I wound up spendin’ the winter with Dawn Wind.”
“That is exactly what Isáa Sampa says: that you will spend the winter with us and then leave when the spring comes. That when the weather is warm and the beaver swim in the streams again, you will no longer care about the Apsáalooke. You will abandon Dawn Wind because you are not a true husband to her.”
Anger welled up inside Breckinridge. He said, “Those are damned lies. The Apsáalooke are my friends and always will be. Dawn Wind is my wife. I might have to leave for a while, but I’ll always come back.”
Emotion led him to speak the words, but as they came out of his mouth, he realized they were true. He would never forget his family, but his home was here in these mountains. He would never leave the frontier for good. He didn’t think he could be happy anywhere else.
He tried to explain that to Bitter Mouth, although he had never been that comfortable talking about how he felt. The warrior nodded, and a trace of his customary good humor appeared on his face again.
“This is very good to hear, Breckinridge. For many moons, since Dawn Wind was a girl, many of our people have believed that in time she would marry the son of a chief from another band, to make a bond between us. Either that, or she would marry a great warrior. You may not be the son of a chief, but there is no doubt you are a fighter. You have killed many enemies of our people. When Dawn Wind gives birth to your son, there will be no more talk by Big Stump or anyone else of how you are not a true friend to the Apsáalooke.”
“I should hope not,” Breckinridge said. “I—Wait.” He stared at Bitter Mouth. “What did you just say?”
“That Big Stump will have to . . . what would a white man say? Shut his lying mouth.”
“No, before that. About my . . . son.”
Bitter Mouth suddenly looked worried. “I should not have spoken,” he said. “I do not know that it is true. My wife is friends with Dawn Wind, and she tells me that Dawn Wind has said things to make her believe she is with child.”
“Good Lord!” Breckinridge said. He wasn’t really shocked to hear that Dawn Wind might be going to have a baby. They had been together so many times during the past few months that the odds were heavily in favor of that development. But being aware of that in his mind wasn’t the same as knowing it in his heart.
His first feelings were happiness and anticipation, but then he began to worry that he was too young to be a father. Then he thought that he definitely wasn’t smart enough or stable enough to be responsible for bringing up a child. Hell, it had only been a little more than two years earlier that he’d been on the run from the law with a murder charge hanging over his head!
Of course that charge had been false. A lot of things had happened since then, it was true, and no doubt he had learned quite a bit about life. He’d been forced to, in order to survive. He wasn’t the same wide-eyed, hair-triggered, devil-may-care hell-raiser he had once been.
That still didn’t make him fit to be a father.
But if Dawn Wind really was expecting, there wasn’t a blasted thing he could do about it. He would have to figure out how to be a good parent.
Maybe she wasn’t going to have a baby after all, Breckinridge reminded himself. Bitter Mouth wasn’t sure. It was just a hunch his wife had.
Either way, Breckinridge was suddenly even more anxious to get back to the Crow village than he had been earlier. Bitter Mouth grinned as Breck said, “Let’s hurry up and find them dang sheep!”
* * *
Gordon Ralston grimaced as he lowered the spyglass from his one good eye.
“I don’t see the son of a bitch,” he said. “I’ve been watching, and I haven’t spotted him moving around anywhere. He has to be there, damn it!”
“Take it easy,” Carnahan said. Both men lay in the snow on the far side of a knoll about five hundred yards away from the Crow village. Machitehew, the other Blackfoot warriors, and the rest of the outlaw trappers were waiting behind them, well out of sight.
“I want Wallace dead,” Ralston said. “He’s the luckiest bastard I’ve ever seen. I’ve come close to killing him I don’t know how many times, and somehow he always survives.”
Carnahan gave the major a narrow-eyed glance and said, “I don’t recall sending you to kill Wallace that many times, but we’ll leave that alone for now. This is the day to hit that village, and that’s what we’re going to do.”
“I don’t see why it’s so important that we do it today.”
“Look at the sky to the north,” Carnahan said. “There’s snow in those clouds. The redskins know that as well as we do. They’ll be thinking about getting ready to make it through another blizzard. They won’t be expecting trouble. Hell, there’s a good reason these savages don’t usually fight among themselves at this time of year. They’d rather stay in their tipis and try not to freeze to death.”
Ralston muttered something Carnahan couldn’t make out, then sighed and said, “You’re right. We have a better chance of taking them by surprise today. But Wallace had better be there somewhere. I want him to die, and I want my face to be the last thing he sees!”
Carnahan nodded and looked at the sky again. As he did, he felt something cold touch his face. He lifted a gloved hand, brushed away the snowflake, and grinned. He half turned, raised his arm, and motioned to Machitehew and the others.
“Come on,” Carnahan said as he got to his feet. “It’s time.”
* * *
“There,” Gray Bear said as he pointed at a rocky mound about a hundred yards away. Breckinridge saw at least a dozen bighorn sheep among the rocks as they pawed at the spaces between the big slabs of stone in order to expose the hardy grass in those gaps.
The hunters made sure they were downwind of the mound as they approached, so their scent wouldn’t carry to the sheep. Breckinridge had brought his rifle with him, but he had rigged a sling for it so he could carry it on his back. He had a quiver of arrows on his back as well, arrows that he had fashioned with the help and advice of White Owl. His right hand was wrapped around a bow he had made. He was going to try hunting today the way the Crow did it.
That meant the men would have to get closer. Gray Bear warned them that the sheep had excellent eyesight, as well as hearing and sense of smell. It wouldn’t be easy getting within range for the bows and arrows the hunters carried. The men used every bit of cover they could find and moved as stealthily as if they were creeping up on human enemies.
Finally Gray Bear held up a hand in a signal to stop where they were. The hunters crouched behind a low screen of brush as they silently withdrew arrows from their quivers and nocked the shafts. They would get only one try. As soon as the sheep knew they were there, the animals would bound away and wouldn’t stop running until they were long gone.
Gray Bear had already told the men to each pick a different target. Breckinridge had settled on a good-sized ram with large horns that rose and curled back around its head to point forward. The ram stood on one of the rocks while several ewes hunted for grass below his position, as if he were standing guard over them. Breck felt a slight pang of regret that he intended to kill the ram, but that was the way nature worked. The ram wanted to protect his family. Breck wanted to feed his.
“Now,” Gray Bear whispered.
All four men stood up at the same time and drew back their bows. Breckinridge aimed his arrow and loosed it, trusting to his eyesight and instincts. All four missiles flew through the air with deadly swiftness. Several of the sheep threw their heads up in alarm as they spotted the movement, but there wasn’t time for them to escape.
Breckinridge grimaced as he saw the arrow he had fired glance off the rock only inches from the front hooves of the sheep he had targeted. The creature leaped high, sailing off its perch to land just below the ewes, still in its protective attitude. If an
y enemy came within reach, the bighorn would charge it with incredible speed and power.
At the same time, a ewe on another part of the mound leaped up and let out a shrill bleat of pain from the arrow driven into its side, just behind the front legs. The arrowhead must have penetrated the animal’s heart and killed it almost immediately, because it collapsed after that single reaction. Several yards away, one of the rams, similarly wounded, staggered and then went to its knees. The sheep struggled to stay upright for a second before toppling over.
The other arrow had missed, like Breckinridge’s shaft. In not much more than the blink of an eye, the ewes had whirled and fled over the top of the mound. The rams raced after them. Swims Like a Fish and Bitter Mouth were fast enough to launch a second arrow apiece before the last of the sheep disappeared, but those shots fell short as the rams vanished over the mound with flicks of their lighter-colored rumps.
“Dadgum it!” Breckinridge exclaimed.
Gray Bear put a hand on his shoulder and said, “Do not be ashamed, my young friend. You made a fine shot.”
“I didn’t hit the dang thing! I came so blasted close, too.”
“Yes, you came very close on your first shot at a bighorn sheep. That is an achievement. Bitter Mouth’s arrow missed as well—and by more than yours.”
Bitter Mouth grinned and shrugged.
“So I say again, do not be ashamed,” Gray Bear went on. “What matters is that we downed two of the sheep. There will be food for the village’s families.”
“And we should not waste any time getting back there with it,” Swims Like a Fish added. He pointed to the sky.
Breckinridge looked up and saw the snowflakes beginning to swirl down from the heavens. As he watched, the snow thickened and began to fall faster.
Chapter 27
Dawn Wind sat in her father’s tipi, mending some of White Owl’s buckskins. Her mother had died some years earlier, and since then White Owl had taken two more wives, both of whom had passed on as well. Now he had declared that he was too old to be married again, a decision that Dawn Wind didn’t necessarily agree with. But it was her father’s choice to make, and as his daughter she would see to it that he was well cared for. She cooked his meals and mended his clothing.
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