He straightened from the loophole and asked Donnelly, “Who’s out at Blue Feather’s grave?”
The scaffold on which the body lay wasn’t really a grave, but that was the way Breckinridge thought of it.
“Richmond and a couple of the Mandan women.”
“Go get ’em,” Breckinridge said. Without really thinking about it, he had assumed command of the men, even though he was the youngest of the bunch. Maybe that was because of his size, or because he had more actual experience on the frontier despite his youth, but whatever the reason, no one had raised any objections to him giving the orders.
Donnelly hurried over to the gates. John Rocklin had already removed the bar and now opened one of them enough for Donnelly to slip out. He trotted quickly toward the site where Blue Feather had been laid to rest.
Garwood said, “Since they’re white men, should we go down to the river to meet them?”
Breckinridge shook his head. “Let them come to you. It’ll give you a chance to look ’em over good.” He pointed to the wall. “You probably ought to build yourself a watchtower there. Be a lot handier for keepin’ an eye on what’s goin’ on around here.”
“An excellent idea,” Garwood agreed. “I’ll start the men working on it right away, as soon as we see what we’re dealing with here.”
Rocklin had left the gate open so Donnelly could get back in with Richmond and the two Mandan women. Breckinridge, Morgan, and Garwood looked through the gap between the gates and watched as the newcomers grounded their canoes on the riverbank. Some wore buckskins, others the sort of rough work clothes common in St. Louis and farther east. Plenty of rifles were visible, but that was common, too, and none of the men appeared threatening. Breck could hear some of them laughing and talking, although he couldn’t make out any of the words. When all the canoes were ashore, the men began walking toward the trading post.
Breckinridge and his two companions stepped aside so Donnelly, Richmond, and the Mandans could hurry back into the compound. Rocklin started to close the gate, but Breck motioned for him to stop.
“Leave it open so we can get a better look at those fellas,” he said. “Just be ready to close it in a hurry if we need to.” He looked at the others who were gathered around. “The rest of you boys spread out and take positions at the loopholes. When I give you the word, put your rifles through them.”
Everyone seemed to understand the orders. They did as Breckinridge told them, and the tense air behind the stockade wall was evidence that they were all ready for trouble.
The newcomers were all close enough now to confirm Breckinridge’s initial impression of them. Then he tensed as he unexpectedly recognized one of them.
“That’s Cabe there with ’em,” he said.
“By God, you’re right,” Morgan said. “I didn’t think we’d see him again, after he left the way he did.”
“Looks like he found some new friends.”
Breckinridge was right. Cabe was smiling and talking with the other men as they approached. Then he looked at the gates and lifted a hand in greeting.
“Howdy, boys,” he called. “I’m back.”
George Donnelly, who had clashed with Cabe to start that brawl, said from his position at a nearby loophole, “I ain’t so sure that’s a good thing.”
“Let’s wait and see what happens,” Breckinridge said. It wasn’t that common for him to be the one counseling patience and restraint, but in this situation it seemed the wisest course of action.
Of course, being prepared for trouble was wise, too, so he added, “Rifles up, boys.”
The men thrust their flintlocks through the loopholes, and the sight of all those rifle muzzles suddenly staring at them brought the newcomers to an abrupt halt. One of them called, “Hey, what are you doing?”
“Bein’ careful,” Breckinridge replied through the gap between the gates. He held his rifle ready, too, and he made sure the men outside the wall could see it. “Who are you fellas, and what are you doin’ here?”
The man who had spoken before took a step forward, placing him in front of the others, and glared at Breckinridge.
“This is a piss-poor way of doin’ business,” he said. “If you own this trading post, mister, you shouldn’t be pointing guns at your customers.”
“He don’t own it,” Cabe said. “A fella name of Garwood does. I see him in there, though, standin’ with Wallace.”
Garwood spoke up, saying, “We’re not looking for any trouble, men. We were attacked by a band of Blackfoot the other day, and it’s got us a little skittish, I suppose.”
“Well, you can look at us and tell we aren’t Blackfoot, or any other kind of savage,” the group’s leader said. “My name is Henry Joslyn. We’re headed west to do some trapping. We ran into Cabe here, and he told us about this place. We could do with restocking some of our supplies, and this is probably going to be where we bring our pelts to sell them later on. That is, if being threatened isn’t the common practice around here.”
Breckinridge looked over at Absalom Garwood, who displayed both suspicion and business interest on his face. Business won out, and he said, “They seem to be telling the truth and don’t mean us any harm.”
Breckinridge hesitated, thinking for a long moment before he finally nodded to Rocklin and took hold of the other gate himself.
“Let ’em in,” he said.
Chapter 8
There were eighteen men in the party of newcomers, including Cabe. Henry Joslyn continued acting as if he were their leader. He was a tall, thick-bodied man with a mostly bald head, which he revealed as he took off his wide-brimmed black hat and set it on a table inside the trading post’s main room. A fringe of dark hair surrounded his ears and wrapped around his face to form a close-cropped beard.
“I’d like to buy you a drink, Mr. Garwood,” he said as he gestured toward the table.
“No, thanks,” Garwood replied. “I’m not much of a drinking man. I’d be happy to have a cup of coffee with you, though.”
Joslyn smiled and nodded, then looked at Breckinridge and Morgan. “You young men are welcome to join us. You’re in charge of this other party, I take it?”
“We are,” Morgan said. He held out his hand. “I’m Morgan Baxter. This is Breckinridge Wallace.”
“Cabe mentioned both of you,” Joslyn said as he shook hands with both of them. “I hope you’re not upset that we seem to have stolen him away from you.”
“That’s his choice,” Breckinridge said. “One good thing about the frontier, a fella’s free to come and go as he pleases, at least most of the time.”
Ophelia brought cups and a pot of coffee over to the table where the four men sat. Breckinridge saw Joslyn eyeing her appreciatively, but he wasn’t too blatant or insulting about it. When she had returned to the bar, Joslyn picked up his cup and offered a toast.
“To a successful season of trapping.”
The men drank, then Morgan asked, “Is this your first trip west, Mr. Joslyn?”
“As a matter of fact, it is. Do I look like that much of a neophyte?”
“Out here you’d be more likely to be called a greenhorn,” Morgan said with a smile. “But no, you look like you have a pretty good idea how to take care of yourself. All your men do.”
That was true. The newcomers seemed friendly enough, but they had an air of hardness about them. They looked like they had known trouble in the past . . . and vanquished it.
They were all clustered together at the bar, drinking and talking to Ophelia but not associating with any of Breckinridge’s bunch. Charlie Moss, Ben Pentecost, and George Donnelly sat together at one of the tables. John Rocklin was outside on guard duty, and Richmond had gone back to watching over the two Mandan women keeping their vigil at Blue Feather’s resting place.
Joslyn took another sip of his coffee and then said, “Tell me more about that attack you mentioned. I was under the impression that this region was relatively peaceful where the Indians are concerned.”
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“A place can be peaceful most of the time,” Breckinridge said, “but when the Blackfeet come around, it ain’t.”
He sat back and let Morgan and Garwood fill in the details of the battle. It made him a little uncomfortable when they talked about how he had saved them all by putting out the fire on the wall and then keeping the other flaming arrows from doing any damage.
“That’s remarkable,” Joslyn said. “And you didn’t lose any men?”
“Only one of the Mandan Indians I brought out here with me,” Garwood said. “He was killed as soon as the attack began.”
“How many of those redskins do you have working for you?”
“Five men and four women, now that poor Edward is gone. They’ve proven to be quite loyal and hardworking.”
Joslyn nodded. “And you’ve got a fine establishment here.” He raised his cup again. “Here’s hoping we’ll be doing a great deal of profitable business together over the years to come.”
“I’ll certainly drink to that,” Garwood agreed.
Joslyn looked at Breckinridge and Morgan and said, “You’ve come to try your hand at trapping, too?”
“We’ve been out here before,” Breckinridge said. He wasn’t necessarily trying to be rude, but his voice was rather curt.
“We just sold a large load of pelts to Mr. Garwood,” Morgan added.
Joslyn’s bushy eyebrows rose. “This early in the season?”
“Some of ’em were left over from last fall,” Breckinridge said. He didn’t offer any other explanation.
“Well, that gives you a jump on the rest of us, I suppose, but that’s all right. Nothing wrong with a little friendly competition, eh?”
“You’ll have a chance to catch up,” Morgan said. “We’re not going to be doing any trapping for a while.”
“No?” Joslyn looked puzzled. “Why else would anyone be out here in this wilderness?”
Morgan leaned forward in his chair. “We’re looking for someone. A man named Carnahan. You wouldn’t have happened to run into him, would you?”
“Carnahan . . .” Joslyn repeated slowly. He shook his head. “If I’ve ever run into the man, we weren’t introduced. I don’t recall anyone by that name. What does he look like?”
“Sort of a short fella,” Breckinridge said, “but he’s not little. He’s almost as wide as he is tall, and it’s all muscle. Has a long, bushy black beard and wears a coonskin cap with the coon’s head still on it.”
Joslyn laughed. “He sounds like quite a distinctive character. I still don’t remember ever encountering him. Why are you looking for him?”
Morgan opened his mouth to answer, but before he could, Breckinridge said, “We’ve got some business to take care of with him. Nothing that important.”
That last part was a lie—nothing was more important to Breckinridge right now than settling the score with Jud Carnahan—but he was starting to feel like it probably wasn’t a good idea to go spreading their intentions all over the place. The frontier was sparsely populated, but gossip still got around surprisingly well.
Joslyn didn’t press for more of an answer than that, and in fact he changed the subject by saying, “I’m surprised to see three such lovely young women out here in the middle of nowhere, Mr. Garwood, although Cabe did mention to us that your daughters work here at the trading post.”
“I wouldn’t know how to get along without them,” Garwood said proudly. “Desdemona’s turned out to be a mighty fine hunter. Keeps us in fresh meat. Ophelia takes care of the bar, and Eugenia keeps track of all the figures much better than I could ever hope to.”
“Some strapping young frontiersmen are liable to come along and woo them away from you,” Joslyn said with a chuckle. He nodded toward Breckinridge and Morgan. “Perhaps these two.”
“The last thing in the world I’m lookin’ for is a wife,” Breckinridge said. He noticed that Morgan just cleared his throat and didn’t say anything.
That made Breckinridge wonder just what Morgan would do in the long run, after they found Jud Carnahan and evened accounts with him. The previous year, Morgan had professed a desire to remain partners with Breck and lead a trapper’s life, but that was before the injury that had cost him part of his right leg. Although Morgan got around fairly well on his peg, Breck knew it pained him quite often, and he would never have the strength he once had, nor the stamina, as Morgan himself had admitted.
Morgan Baxter came from a wealthy, privileged background, and he’d been downright arrogant when Breckinridge first met him. The danger and hardships they had encountered had left him little choice except to get over that attitude and grow up, and Morgan had adjusted to life on the frontier better than Breck had ever expected.
But was it a good idea for him to remain out here permanently? Breckinridge wasn’t sure about that. Morgan would have an easier life if he went back East where the rest of his family and his father’s businesses were. They were Morgan’s businesses now, Breck supposed, since he’d inherited them when his father died.
It was something to think about. Breckinridge knew he would miss Morgan if his friend returned home, but it was more important that Morgan do whatever was best for him.
* * *
Joslyn and his companions stayed at the trading post that day instead of pushing on. Breckinridge could tell the men were glad for the chance to rest a bit before journeying deeper into the mountains.
The two bunches still kept to themselves rather than mingling, but there was no trouble between them. No clashes over the attentions of the Garwood daughters. That wouldn’t have surprised Breckinridge if it had happened, but thankfully it didn’t.
The Mandan mourners returned to the trading post at sundown. One more day of grieving for Blue Feather would complete their ritual. The body would remain exposed to the elements until it was nothing but bones, and then those bones would be gathered and buried.
Except for the skull, one of the other men had explained to Breckinridge. The skull would be kept by the Mandans as an honored relic. That seemed a mite gruesome to Breck, but other folks had a right to their own customs, he supposed.
Members of Breckinridge’s party were still standing guard all day, and there were two men on sentry duty at night. After supper, as dusk was settling over the landscape, Henry Joslyn came to Breck and suggested, “Why don’t you let some of my men take over tonight? We’re accustomed to standing watch as well, and that would give your men a full night’s rest for a change.”
“There’s no need for that. We’re used to what we’ve been doin’.”
“It was just meant as a friendly gesture,” Joslyn said.
Breckinridge heard the stiffness in the other man’s voice and said, “Why don’t we split it up? One of your men could stand guard with a fella from our bunch.”
That put a smile on Joslyn’s bearded face. “An excellent idea. I’ll stand the first watch myself.”
“And I’ll join you,” Breckinridge said.
Joslyn seemed satisfied with that arrangement. Slowly but surely, everyone else turned in. The light from a candle that showed through the trading post’s windows winked out. The men had spread their bedrolls outside, so it wasn’t long until the sounds of snoring filled the night air around the compound.
Breckinridge and Joslyn met at the gates. “How do you handle this?” Joslyn asked. He had a flintlock rifle cradled in his left arm, and the butts of two pistols stuck up from behind his belt.
“One man stays here by the gates while the other walks around inside the wall and keeps an eye out for anybody tryin’ to climb over from outside or cause any other mischief. They trade places every now and then, when they feel like it.”
“Whatever you prefer is fine with me.”
“I’ll walk around,” Breckinridge said. “Always feels good to stretch my legs.”
Joslyn nodded his agreement. The moon was low in the sky and wasn’t providing much light yet, but millions of stars glittered overhead and provided enough il
lumination for Breckinridge to see where he was going as he set off on his first circuit of the compound.
When he was near the barn, he heard something moving around inside. That made him frown. The barn was empty at the moment. Garwood had built it so that any trappers who came this way on horseback would have a place to stable their mounts, and he had mentioned that in the next year or so he planned to have some cattle brought up from St. Louis so he would have milk and calves to build a small herd. That bit of domestication seemed completely out of place to Breckinridge, out here on the frontier. But it agreed with what Morgan had said about Absalom Garwood harboring a dream of there being a town here someday, with him its leading, most influential, and no doubt wealthiest citizen.
But for the time being, the barn didn’t have any animals in it, and Breckinridge couldn’t think of any reason for any of the men to have ventured out here. Might be an animal inside there, he thought. A big cat could have climbed over the wall in search of prey. If that was what had happened, the men sleeping on the other side of the main building might be in danger. He needed to check it out.
Holding the rifle ready, he moved to the double doors on the front of the barn. They weren’t fastened, and in fact one of them stood open a foot or so. Breckinridge nudged it open even more with his foot and then stopped to listen. He didn’t hear anything else and wondered if he had imagined the sound a few moments earlier.
That wasn’t likely, he decided. He wasn’t given to flights of fancy. He sniffed, but didn’t smell anything out of the ordinary. So it wasn’t a skunk, or if it was, the polecat hadn’t sprayed recently.
Breckinridge wasn’t foolish enough to step into pitch-darkness where a mountain lion or even a bear might be waiting. He backed off, keeping the rifle leveled at the open door, and waited.
A couple of minutes later, a raccoon waddled out of the barn, paused, and rose up on its haunches to look around. Breckinridge chuckled and shook his head. Maybe he was getting a mite too skittish, if he could be spooked by a furry little bandit like that.
Damnation Valley Page 6