The Darkest Winter

by William W. Johnstone

  With a loud crack, the former officer’s spine snapped in two. He went limp all over. Breckinridge snarled as he pulled Ralston’s face close to his and looked into an eye from which the life was fading swiftly.

  Then Ralston was dead and Breckinridge threw him aside like so much trash.

  He turned back toward Bitter Mouth to find that Gray Bear and Swims Like a Fish were already kneeling on either side of him. Gray Bear looked up at Breckinridge and said, “He is gone, my friend. He gave his life to save yours.”

  “Damn it,” Breckinridge rasped. “He didn’t have to do that.”

  “I believe he did,” Swims Like a Fish said. “He died when his woman did, back there in the village. Never again would he have been the warrior, the man, he once was. Better to leave this life doing a good thing for a friend.”

  “I’ll never forget him,” Breckinridge said. “But I’m gonna remember him grinnin’ and makin’ some joke.”

  “He would like that,” Gray Bear said as he rose wearily to his feet. He clasped Breckinridge’s arm. “Go to your woman, my friend. We will make sure everything is all right out here.”

  Breckinridge nodded and turned toward the cabins. He took a step and then another.

  And then he was running.

  Chapter 36

  Six months later

  Breckinridge pushed aside the tipi’s hide flap and stepped out into the warm sun. Its caressing rays felt good. He was glad that spring was finally here, after the winter he had just spent here in the Crow village . . . the darkest winter of his life.

  Not just because the sky had been overcast most of the time and the village had remained snowbound for weeks on end. Those things were bad enough, but Breckinridge had experienced much worse.

  He was not alone in that, either.

  A soft step sounded behind him. Dawn Wind said, “The sun is shining today. This is good.”

  Breckinridge turned to smile at her. “The world is beginnin’ again,” he said.

  “For some. I am happy for my people.”

  She didn’t look happy, though. Her face was still as thin and drawn as it had been for months now, and the same pain and grief were visible in her eyes. She started to turn away, but Breckinridge took hold of her arm and stopped her.

  “Don’t you reckon it’s time you and me started over, too, the same way the plants and the animals are doin’?”

  She looked up into his eyes and slowly shook her head. “I wish we could, Breckinridge,” she said. “But we both know it is not to be.”

  She had regained her health after losing the child, but she had lost weight steadily ever since and Breckinridge had never seen a smile on her face, not once. She never came right out and said that she blamed him for what had happened. He knew that feeling lurked in her heart, though.

  And knowing it was like a knife in his guts, day after day.

  “There are many beaver in the streams,” she went on now. “You should go and trap them. Already there are other white men in the mountains who have come to take the pelts. Go and be one of them.”

  “I can’t go off and leave you—”

  She smiled sadly and shook her head. “You are not with me now, Breckinridge. Can you not see that?”

  He could. He could see it plain as day. And that just made the pain worse.

  He might have tried to argue with her, even though he knew it would be a waste of time and breath, if he hadn’t noticed Swims Like a Fish hurrying toward them. Judging by the expression on the warrior’s face, something unexpected had happened.

  “Breckinridge,” Swims Like a Fish said as he came to a stop, “white men in canoes are paddling up the creek.”

  “Not the first ones we’ve seen this season,” Breckinridge replied. “Sure won’t be the last, neither. There’s some mighty good trappin’ in these parts.”

  That was true . . . now that the evil was gone.

  “One of these men we have seen before,” Swims Like a Fish insisted. “But not this year.”

  “What are you tryin’ to say?”

  “It is your friend Morgan, Breckinridge. Morgan Baxter.”

  Dawn Wind gasped. Breckinridge felt like he’d been punched. She had told him what Carnahan had said about killing Morgan and Running Elk and stealing the pelts. Breck had given some thought to going and looking for their bones once the winter was over, but he didn’t really expect to find them.

  Now Swims Like a Fish was telling him that Morgan was alive. That didn’t seem possible. Breckinridge grasped the warrior’s shoulders and said, “Are you sure?”

  “I saw him myself, in a large canoe with several other men. And there were other canoes and more men with them. It was Morgan, my friend. I am certain. But you can go and see for yourself.” Swims Like a Fish pointed. “They are nearly here.”

  Breckinridge looked down the stream and saw four canoes gliding over its surface as the men inside them stroked with their paddles. One man in the lead canoe wasn’t paddling. He seemed smaller, shrunken. But there was something familiar about him . . .

  Breckinridge broke into a run.

  Men were stepping out of the canoes and pulling them onto the bank when Breckinridge got there. One of the men reached back to help the small, frail figure out. Breck came to an abrupt halt.

  It was Morgan. Pale, sickly-looking . . . but Morgan Baxter, beyond a doubt.

  Another shock went through Breckinridge when he looked down and saw that Morgan’s right leg ended just below the knee. In its place was a wooden peg that made Morgan’s gait awkward as he walked up the bank, leaning on the man who had helped him from the canoe.

  “Morgan . . .” Breckinridge said in an awed half whisper.

  Morgan smiled and said, “Hello, Breck. You figured you’d never see me again, didn’t you?”

  Breckinridge swept down, arms wide, ready to grab Morgan up in a bear hug. Then he stopped short and said, “Uh . . .”

  “You’re not going to hurt me,” Morgan said as his smile widened into a grin. “Come here, you big buffalo.”

  Breckinridge let out a whoop, enveloped Morgan in his embrace, and lifted the smaller man from the ground. Morgan reached around Breck and pounded him on the back.

  Finally, Breckinridge put him down and said, “How . . . I thought you was . . . This don’t make any sense!”

  “Sure it does,” Morgan said, growing more solemn. “Let’s find some place to sit down, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

  “I’m sure Carnahan believed I was dead,” Morgan said a short time later as he and Breckinridge sat on the same log where they had sat while Breck told him about Dulcy. “I held my breath and stayed underwater as long as I could and let the river carry me on downstream. I knew that was the only chance I had—and it wasn’t a very good one.”

  “But you made it,” Breckinridge said.

  “I did. After a while I crawled out of the water and tried to figure out what to do next. I didn’t think I stood much of a chance of getting back here, but I thought maybe if I went downstream I’d run into some other trappers and get them to help me. That’s what happened. I broke off a tree branch to use as a crutch and hobbled downstream for a couple of days before I came on a camp. The fellows there patched me up and splinted that broken leg. They didn’t want to turn around and take me back to St. Louis, but I promised to pay them more than double what they could have made from a season of trapping, so eventually they agreed.”

  “They took you all the way back down the Missouri.”

  “They did,” Morgan said, nodding. “And by the time we got there, my leg was in such bad shape that the doctor had to take it off. It was a near thing. I almost died, they tell me. But I wasn’t going to do that, as long as I had a score to settle.”

  “With Carnahan,” Breckinridge said, his voice flat and grim. “I hate to tell you this, but the bastard seems to have gotten away. We wiped out the rest of his men. Well, except for Chet Bagley, who I told to skin outta this part of the country as fas
t as he could if he wanted to live.”

  “Major Ralston?”

  “Dead.” Breckinridge held up his hands. “Broke his neck my own self.”

  “Good,” Morgan said. “He had it coming.”

  “I’ve got the pelts they stole from you and Running Elk, as well as the ones they took from the other fellas they killed.” Breckinridge scratched his jaw. “I thought I might sell ’em and give most of the money to the families of trappers who disappeared out here in the mountains. Wouldn’t seem right just to keep it.”

  Morgan nodded solemnly. “Yeah, I can see that. We don’t know who all Carnahan and his bunch murdered, but we can make some pretty good guesses.” He paused. “What about that Blackfoot war party?”

  “All dead. I done for their war chief Machitehew, too.”

  “Somehow I’m not surprised.”

  Breckinridge frowned and said, “You didn’t look too surprised when I told you Carnahan got away, neither.”

  “That’s because I wasn’t. I saw him in St. Louis, Breck.”

  Breckinridge couldn’t help himself. He came to his feet and his hands clenched into fists.

  “He made it all the way back down there alive?”

  Morgan nodded. “Yes. I was sitting in Red Mike’s one night, when I was putting together a party to come out here, and Carnahan walked in. This was about six weeks ago. I was going to get my gun out and shoot him then and there, even though I probably would have been hanged for murder, but Mike told him to leave. I tried to go after him . . .” Morgan smiled. “I’m afraid I’m not very fast on my feet these days. By the time I reached the street, he was gone.”

  “What was he doin’ in there?”

  “I asked Mike that same question. He said he’d heard that Carnahan was putting together a trapping expedition, but Mike didn’t want him recruiting in there. I’d already told Mike, you see, about what Carnahan did out here. Mike won’t take sides in many disputes, but he said he wouldn’t have a snake like that in his place.”

  Breckinridge rubbed his jaw and then said, “So Carnahan’s alive and headed for the mountains again, eh?”

  “He may already be here. What do you think we should do about that, Breck?”

  “I ain’t sure you’re in any shape to do anything.”

  Morgan stiffened. “I’m still a lot tougher than I look, damn it! I’m getting better all the time at getting around on this blasted peg leg. If you think I can’t keep up or carry my weight, you’re wrong. All I want is a chance to show you.”

  Breckinridge had sat back down on the log. Now he turned his head to gaze toward the tipis. Dawn Wind stood beside the one they had shared—without touching—for the past six months. Her body was slim and straight and inflexible. She had her arms crossed over her chest, and Breck could tell she was looking at him, too.

  Then she lowered her arms, turned away, and disappeared into the tipi.

  Breckinridge drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. He nodded to Morgan and said, “Let’s go find Carnahan and kill the son of a bitch.”

  Turn the page for an exciting preview!

  Johnstone Justice. What America Needs Now.

  Bestselling authors William W. Johnstone and

  J. A. Johnstone have thrilled readers with the epic struggles

  and hard-fought triumphs of the pioneering Jensen family.

  Now this great American saga continues—

  with the next generation of Jensens . . .

  JENSEN PROUD. JENSEN TOUGH.

  It’s the dawn of a new century. But on the vast

  Sugarloaf Ranch not much has changed since

  legendary gunfighter Smoke Jensen and his wife,

  Sally, tamed the land two decades ago. Raising cattle

  is still a dangerous business—and just as deadly

  as ever. When Smoke is injured swapping bullets

  with some cow thieves, Sally puts out a call for help

  to Matt, Ace, and the rest of the Jensen clan.

  But time is running out. The bloodthirsty rustlers

  are ready to strike again—and there are lots more

  of them. And the Sugarloaf’s last defense is

  Smoke and Sally’s next of kin . . .

  Enter the Jensen twins. Denise and her brother

  Louis have just returned home from their schooling

  in Europe. Louis is studying to be a lawyer and is

  too sickly to defend the ranch. But Denise is to

  the manor born—she can ride like a man,

  shoot like her daddy, and face down the

  deadliest outlaws like nobody’s business.

  THE JENSEN BRAND, the explosive new series

  by WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE

  with J. A. Johnstone!

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  THE JENSEN FAMILY

  FIRST FAMILY OF THE AMERICAN FRONTIER

  Smoke Jensen—The Mountain Man

  The youngest of three children and orphaned as a young boy, Smoke Jensen is considered one of the fastest draws in the West. His quest to tame the lawless West has become the stuff of legend. Smoke owns the Sugarloaf Ranch in Colorado. Married to Sally Jensen, father to Denise (“Denny”) and Louis.

  Preacher—The First Mountain Man

  Though not a blood relative, grizzled frontiersman Preacher became a father figure to the young Smoke Jensen, teaching him how to survive in the brutal, often deadly Rocky Mountains. Fought the battles that forged his destiny. Armed with a long gun, Preacher is as fierce as the land itself.

  Matt Jensen—The Last Mountain Man

  Orphaned but taken in by Smoke Jensen, Matt Jensen has become like a younger brother to Smoke and even took the Jensen name. And like Smoke, Matt has carved out his destiny on the American frontier. He lives by the gun and surrenders to no man.

  Luke Jensen—Bounty Hunter

  Mountain Man Smoke Jensen’s long-lost brother, Luke Jensen, is scarred by war and a dead shot—the right qualities to be a bounty hunter. And he’s cunning, and fierce enough, to bring down the deadliest outlaws of his day.

  Ace Jensen and Chance Jensen—Those Jensen Boys!

  Smoke Jensen’s long-lost nephews, Ace and Chance, are a pair of young-gun twins as reckless and wild as the frontier itself . . . Their father is Luke Jensen, thought killed in the Civil War. Their uncle Smoke Jensen is one of the fiercest gunfighters the West has ever known. It’s no surprise that the inseparable Ace and Chance Jensen have a knack for taking risks—even if they have to blast their way out of them.

  Chapter 1

  The Sugarloaf Ranch, Colorado, 1901

  A thin sliver of moon hung over the mountains bordering the valley, casting such a feeble amount of light that it did little to relieve the pitch blackness cloaking much of the landscape.

  A rustlers’ moon, Smoke Jensen thought.

  “Are they there?” Calvin Woods whispered next to Smoke. “I can’t see a blasted thing!”

  “They’re there,” Smoke told his foreman. He raised the Winchester he held in both hands but didn’t bring it to his shoulder just yet. A shot would spook the men who had been stealing his cattle, and he didn’t want them to take off for the tall and uncut before he had a chance to nab them. “Hold your fire . . .”

  Hidden in the trees along with Smoke and Cal were half a dozen more Sugarloaf hands, all of them young and eager for action, like frisky colts ready to stretch their legs. One reason cowboys signed on to ride for the Sugarloaf was the prospect of working for Smoke Jensen, quite possibly the most famous gunfighter the West had ever known. They figured just being around Smoke upped the chances for excitement.

  That was true. Even though Smoke had put his powder-burning days behind him more than two decades earlier and settled down to be a peace-loving rancher, things hadn’t quite worked out that way. Trouble still seemed to find him on a fairly regular basis, despite his intentions.
/>   That was the way it was with Jensens. None of them had ever been plagued with an abundance of peace and quiet.

  In recent weeks, for example, Sugarloaf cattle had begun disappearing on a regular basis. Only a few at first, then more and more as the thieves grew bolder. Smoke was in his fifties, and it only made sense to believe that he might have slowed down some. Some might have figured he wasn’t the same sort of pure hell on wheels he had been when he was younger.

  Those rustlers were about to find out how wrong they were to assume that.

  “There to the right,” Smoke whispered as he looked out across the broad pasture where a couple hundred cattle were settled down for the night. “Coming out of that stand of trees.”

  “I see ’em,” Cal replied, equally quiet. He had started out as a young cowboy, too, twenty years earlier. Back then, the reformed outlaw known as Pearlie was the Sugarloaf’s ramrod, and he and Cal had become fast friends. Pearlie was also a mentor to Cal, who’d learned everything there was to know about running a ranch. When it came time for Pearlie to retire, it was only natural for Cal to move into the foreman’s job.

  He still looked a little like a kid, though, despite the mustache he had cultivated in an attempt to make himself seem older. However, no one on the crew failed to hop when he gave an order.

  On the other side of the pasture, several riders moved out of the trees and rode slowly toward the cattle. It was too dark to make out any details about them or even to be sure of how many there were. But they didn’t belong and there was only one reason for them to be there.