The Darkest Winter

by William W. Johnstone

  Then it went away along with everything else as blackness swept over her.

  * * *

  As snow flew around his head and filled the air, Breckinridge had a hard time breathing. Falling rocks pelted him. His hat had flown off when he fell. He got his arms over his head to protect it as much as possible.

  At the same time, he drew in his legs, so he began to roll like a ball down the slope.

  The tumbling descent lasted only a few seconds, but to Breckinridge it seemed much longer. When he landed hard at the bottom of the slope, he allowed his momentum to carry him into another roll, then came out of it on his feet.

  He stumbled away from the rock slide as several more good-sized stones thumped against his back and legs. Then he was out of range of the falling rocks and paused for a second to take stock of himself.

  Amazingly, he didn’t seem to have broken any bones, although he would probably be black-and-blue all over from the pounding he had taken.

  Equally surprisingly, he still had all of his weapons and they were intact. The bow hadn’t snapped, and the arrows were still in the quiver.

  He drew in a deep breath and looked around. Carnahan’s cabin was about a hundred yards away, visible in the falling snow even though the rest of the canyon beyond it wasn’t.

  That was where Breckinridge hoped to find Dawn Wind. He loped toward it as the flat, booming sound of gunfire continued at the far end of the canyon.

  When he came closer, he could make out the other two cabins as well. No one seemed to be around them, but if the other prisoners were there, guards probably were posted where Breckinridge couldn’t see them.

  He would worry about that later, after he had found Dawn Wind, he told himself. None of the cabins had any windows in the back, so no one inside them could see him coming from this direction.

  He swung to his right and reached the corner of Carnahan’s cabin. Pressing his back to the rough log wall, he drew both pistols from behind his belt and looped his thumbs over the hammers. Holding the weapons ready, Breckinridge slid along the wall toward the front.

  When he got there, he risked a look around the corner. No one was in sight. It appeared that the cabin’s front door was standing wide open, though, and that struck Breckinridge as strange.

  His heart pounded heavily and he couldn’t seem to get his breath as he steeled himself to move. Then, as fast as he could, he lunged along the front of the cabin in two long strides and wheeled through the open doorway with the pistols thrust out in front of him. He thumbed back the hammers as he leveled the guns.

  The cabin was empty.

  Breckinridge shifted slightly. Snow that had blown in through the open door crunched under his boots. He stiffened.

  The cabin wasn’t empty after all. A dark shape lay huddled on the floor next to a crude table. Breckinridge’s heart froze as he made out the familiar buckskin dress in the dim light that came from outside and from a small fire in the fireplace.

  “Dawn Wind!”

  He wouldn’t have recognized that croaking sound as his own voice. He lowered the hammers on the pistols and sprang forward. His eyes widened in horror as he spied the dark pool spreading around her.

  Breckinridge dropped the pistols on the table and fell to his knees beside her. His big hands gently clasped her shoulders and lifted her, turning her so that he could see her face. Lines of pain had been etched into her features.

  He cradled her against him, heedless of the blood smearing his clothing. “Dawn Wind!” he said wretchedly. “Dawn Wind!”

  Her eyelids flickered and then came open.

  Hope shot through Breckinridge. Dawn Wind wasn’t dead. She looked up at him and gradually focused on his face.

  “Breck . . . in . . . ridge,” she whispered. “I knew . . . you would . . . come for me.”

  “You just rest easy,” he told her. “I’m here now, and you’re gonna be all right.”

  “The . . . child?”

  “It’s fine, just fine.”

  Breckinridge knew that was probably a lie. His eyes searched Dawn Wind’s body and saw no signs of a gunshot or stab wound. The blood soaking into the puncheons appeared to have come from under her dress. There was no way she could be bleeding that badly and have the baby be all right, he thought.

  But telling her that wasn’t going to do any good. His main goal now was to see that she got out of here safely. He wanted her to live, above all else.

  In her condition, there was no way she could climb the talus slope. Nor could he carry her up that treacherous route. She would have to leave this canyon through its mouth, and there was only one way that would be possible.

  Carnahan, Ralston, Machitehew, and everyone else who stood in his way had to die.

  Something else occurred to Breckinridge. He leaned closer to Dawn Wind and asked, “What about the other captives?”

  “They are . . . in the other cabins. You must . . . save them.”

  “I intend to,” Breckinridge promised her. He looked around, saw a blanket on the floor nearby, and reached out with one hand to snag it. He wadded it up into a makeshift pillow and slipped it underneath her head as he lowered her carefully to the floor. “I got to go tend to things.”

  Somehow she found the strength to catch hold of his hand and squeeze it. She said, “You will . . . kill that man . . . Carnahan?”

  “I reckon you can count on that,” Breckinridge said.

  Chapter 35

  The cabins disappeared into the swirling snow behind Carnahan as he trotted toward the canyon mouth. He had to be careful; he didn’t want to blunder right into Wallace and the rest of the search party, trapped in the cross fire between the guards he had posted.

  He wasn’t the only one thinking that. From behind him, Al Nusser called out, “Better be careful, boss.”

  “I know that, damn it,” Carnahan snapped. “Have your guns ready. We’ll take them by surprise and finish the job of wiping them out.”

  He thought about ordering that Breckinridge Wallace be taken alive if possible, so Carnahan himself could have the pleasure of finishing him off, but that was too risky. Wallace needed to die, no matter who took his life.

  Carnahan could get his satisfaction from spitting on the big redheaded bastard’s corpse.

  Before heading for the ambush at the canyon mouth, Carnahan had fetched the rest of the men from the other cabins, except for one man left behind to guard the other captives. He had chosen Chet Bagley for that job, since Bagley wasn’t much of a fighter. He ought to be able to keep those redskin women and kids under control, though.

  Carnahan didn’t believe that Dawn Wind would be going anywhere, the shape she was in. He hoped he hadn’t hurt her too badly. He still intended to take his pleasure with her when this was all over.

  A frown creased Carnahan’s forehead. They ought to be getting close to the mouth of the canyon, he thought.

  Something came out of the snow and struck the coonskin cap on his head, sweeping it right off his tangled mane of dark hair. Startled, Carnahan came to an abrupt halt. He turned around and picked up the cap.

  “What the hell?”

  An arrow was embedded in the raccoon head Carnahan had left on the hide when he fashioned the cap.

  A thud sounded, followed instantly by a grunt of pain. Carnahan looked over and saw Nusser gazing down in shock and horror at the arrow protruding from his chest.

  A second later the trapper’s knees buckled and he pitched forward, driving the arrow even deeper into his body as it struck the ground.

  War cries came from up ahead. Buckskin-clad figures emerged from the clouds of snow. More arrows whipped through the air.

  The Crow search party hadn’t been caught in the trap after all. Instead, they were bringing the fight to Carnahan and his men.

  “Fall back!” Carnahan bellowed. “Fall back!”

  They would fort up in the cabins, he thought, and then those damned redskins would see what a bad mistake they had made.

 
* * *

  Breckinridge hated to leave Dawn Wind, but there was still a battle to be won. Her breathing was fairly steady and regular now, and the pool of blood didn’t seem to be growing.

  All he could do was hope she would be all right. But she sure as hell wouldn’t be if Carnahan and his bunch emerged triumphant.

  He picked up the pistols and ran out of the cabin. As he did, he saw the other cabins sitting off to the side and turned toward them. He would get the other captives and tell them to gather in Carnahan’s cabin. The other women could look after Dawn Wind.

  As Breckinridge approached, a man stepped out of the nearest cabin and pointed a rifle at him. Breck raised the pistols, but he held off on pulling the triggers when the man suddenly cast the rifle aside.

  Breckinridge recognized Chet Bagley, who had done most of the cooking for Carnahan and the others. The balding, round-faced man held out his hands and cried, “Don’t shoot, Wallace!”

  Breckinridge kept his pistols aimed at Bagley as he approached, even though he didn’t believe the man would try any tricks.

  “I don’t want any more of this,” Bagley said miserably. “I . . . I never knew how terrible Carnahan and the others were when I signed on with them. You’ve got to believe me, Wallace. I just wanted to be a fur trapper. I’m not a killer!”

  Breckinridge nodded toward the cabin and said, “Are the other captives in there?”

  “Yes, all of them. Carnahan left me to watch them.”

  “Get them and take them over to Carnahan’s cabin. Dawn Wind is in there, and she’s hurt. You protect her and the others and maybe I won’t kill you.”

  “Of course. I . . . I’ll keep them safe. I give you my word on that.”

  Breckinridge glanced toward the Blackfoot lodges. “Where are Machitehew and the rest of those varmints?”

  Bagley shook his head and said, “I don’t know, I swear I don’t. Carnahan and the rest of the men headed for the canyon mouth. The Blackfeet probably went with them.”

  Breckinridge nodded. He hoped Bagley was right about that. He wanted all of his enemies in one place.

  Easier to kill them that way.

  * * *

  Major Gordon Ralston had been with the four men hidden in the rocks on the western side of the canyon mouth when an arrow had come out of nowhere, skewering the neck of the man standing next to him. Blood gushed from the man’s mouth as it dropped open in pain.

  Ralston had just warned the men to be extra alert now that the snow had started falling so thickly, obscuring their vision. Wallace and the others shouldn’t have any idea they were walking right into a trap, but still, it wouldn’t hurt to be careful.

  As the dying man collapsed and more arrows began whistling through the air, Ralston realized instantly that Carnahan had been wrong all along. Somehow, the rescue party had sniffed out the ambush, and now they were attacking the men who should have been the jaws of the trap.

  As if to confirm that, a grim-faced Crow warrior bounded out of the snow and plunged a knife into the chest of another trapper. The blade went in and out of the hapless victim’s body several times, faster than the eye could follow.

  Ralston ducked just in time to avoid an arrow that knocked his tricorne hat off his head. The rocks were full of shadowy, struggling figures now. Death cries rang out. Ralston reached for his saber, intending to sell his life dearly, then changed his mind and turned to flee instead.

  That brought up bitter memories of running from the enemy, that moment of weakness that had cost him his military career and any pride he had left. Once broken like that, a man could never be made whole again. All that remained was the rage he felt at the world—and himself.

  But if he had to die, it would be at a time and place of his own choosing. With luck, that might not be today, in this desolate canyon. If he could reach Carnahan and the others, he could warn them and they could still wipe out Wallace and those accursed Crow.

  Even as he turned, an arrow buried itself in the back of his left thigh. That leg went out from under him, dumping him on the rocky ground. He tried to stand up but couldn’t force himself to do it.

  Instead he crawled into a small gap between two boulders and lay there panting in pain as he listened to the war cries and the screams of dying men.

  * * *

  Breckinridge saw the figures running toward him from the white curtains and skidded to a halt in the snow. He lifted the pistols but hesitated until he got a better look at the men.

  He recognized some of the outlaw trappers and the Blackfoot warriors just as they spotted him blocking their retreat. One of the white men yelled in alarm as they tried to stop and bring their weapons to bear.

  Breckinridge pressed both triggers.

  The pistols boomed and bucked in his hands as flame and smoke spewed from the barrels. The heavy lead balls, double-shotted in each gun, scythed through the air and cut down three men, striking with sounds like a butcher driving his cleaver into a big shank of meat.

  Breckinridge cast the empty pistols aside and dropped to one knee as he grabbed the bow slung on his back and brought it around in front of him. He plucked an arrow from the quiver, nocked it, pulled back the bow, and loosed.

  Driven by his great strength, the arrow went all the way through one of the outlaw trappers still on his feet. The flint head, smeared with blood and flesh now, stood out almost a foot from his back. He dropped like a stone.

  Breckinridge already had another arrow nocked. He let fly and saw this shaft sink into the belly of a Blackfoot warrior. The man folded up around it and collapsed.

  Breckinridge was just one lone man. He probably couldn’t have stemmed the retreat on his own. In another moment the enemy would have rolled over him.

  But just then the pursuers from the Crow village caught up to Carnahan’s men and the remainder of Machitehew’s war party. Chaos erupted in the snow.

  The battle quickly became a whirling melee of one-to-one fights, although Breckinridge was often taking on two or more of the enemy at a time as he waded into the ruckus. He had tomahawk in one hand and knife in the other as he laid waste to his foes. Blood flew in the air and turned the snow crimson.

  One of the largest of the Blackfoot warriors suddenly confronted him, also armed with tomahawk and knife. Breckinridge didn’t know it, but this was the war chief Machitehew. He attacked with a ferocity that Breck hadn’t seen from any of the others.

  For long seconds, it was all he could do to fend off the furious assault. He blocked all the blows he could, but Machitehew’s tomahawk got through once and glanced off Breckinridge’s left shoulder.

  Even at that, the impact was powerful enough to make his left arm go numb. His own tomahawk slipped from his fingers.

  Breckinridge had to duck as Machitehew continued that stroke into a vicious backhand. Armed now only with the knife and the rifle slung on his back that wasn’t going to do him any good, he knew he couldn’t fight off another flurry of blows like that.

  He didn’t even try. Instead he lowered his head and plowed into Machitehew, using his great size and strength to knock the war chief back off his feet.

  Machitehew landed in the snow with Breckinridge on top of him. Breck drove his knife into the Blackfoot’s body, angling the blade up to try to reach the heart. Machitehew spasmed and struck a blow with his own knife. Breck felt it bite into the back of his left shoulder.

  He pulled out his blade, ripped it again into Machitehew’s chest. Blood sprayed hotly from the war chief’s mouth as his breath gusted out of him. Again Breckinridge hammered the knife into him.

  Machitehew’s head was raised, the cords in his neck standing out from the strain. They suddenly went slack. His head fell back limply and his eyes were wide and unseeing. Breckinridge rolled off him.

  The fight was almost over, Breckinridge saw as he staggered to his feet. A few struggles were still going on, but the canyon floor was littered with the gory corpses of Carnahan’s men and the Blackfoot warriors. Breck looked
for Carnahan himself but didn’t see him.

  Gray Bear and Swims Like a Fish, both bleeding from minor wounds, came up to join him. They watched as the last few of Carnahan’s men were dispatched. No quarter was asked or given.

  “My friend, you are bleeding,” Swims Like a Fish said to Breckinridge.

  “So are you,” Breckinridge said.

  Gray Bear pointed and said, “You still have a knife stuck in your back.”

  “Oh.” Breckinridge gave a little shake of his head. “Didn’t notice. Reckon one of you fellas could pull it out?”

  Swims Like a Fish performed that task. Breckinridge grimaced a little as he felt the blade slide out of his flesh. Feeling had returned to his left arm. It hurt like the devil, but he moved it around and said, “Appears it’ll be all right.”

  “Our people?” Gray Bear said.

  Breckinridge turned and pointed toward the cabins. “They’re back yonder, all right as far as I know. One of Carnahan’s men is with ’em, but he surrendered and I promised him he wouldn’t be killed if he cooperated.” The two Crow warriors didn’t look too happy about that, but they nodded.

  “It will be so,” Gray Bear said. “What about Dawn Wind?”

  “She’s hurt,” Breckinridge said grimly. Now that the heat of battle was subsiding in him, worry over Dawn Wind welled up inside him again. “I got to go to her—”

  He turned and had started to take a step toward the cabins when another figure loomed out of the still-falling snow and lunged awkwardly at him with an incoherent cry of hate. Breckinridge caught a glimpse of the cadaverous face, the eye patch, and the gleaming saber that was about to drive into his chest.

  Before the blade could strike home, another figure darted in front of it. Bitter Mouth staggered, transfixed on the saber wielded by Major Gordon Ralston. When he fell, his body pulled the sword out of Ralston’s hand.

  Ralston had an arrow in his leg, Breckinridge saw as he leaped over his fallen friend. He had limped up here in a futile effort to strike one final blow, to kill Breck at last. But he would never get another chance to do that.

  Breckinridge’s hands closed around Ralston’s throat and squeezed. Ralston kicked as his feet came up off the ground. More blood flowed from the wound in Breck’s shoulder as the powerful muscles heaved and bunched.