“She’s over yonder with Morgan.” Breckinridge waved a hand in the direction of the rocks. “She’s fine, other than bein’ broken up about her pa dyin’. But that ain’t stoppin’ her from fightin’ side by side with us against Carnahan’s bunch.”
“We would fight with you, too,” Rose declared, and the other Indians nodded their agreement.
“Figured you might,” Breckinridge said with a smile. “A couple of you stay here, while the rest go back around to the river and find Charlie Moss and the other men.” He pointed out the direction the Indians should go. “Stay low. You don’t want those varmints in the tradin’ post spottin’ you.”
All the Mandans spoke English, so they understood his directions. Two men volunteered to stay behind, while the other two men and the three women headed off through the trees to join the rest of Breckinridge’s force. It wasn’t much of an army, he reflected wryly as he led the two men with him back to the rocks where Desdemona and Morgan were still taking potshots at the trading post, but he had to make do with what was available. And so far, they had acquitted themselves fairly well.
By now a huge column of black smoke climbed into the sky from the burning barn. Every time another part of the building collapsed, sparks shot high above the destruction.
“I’m sure mighty sorry about havin’ to burn down what your pa worked so hard to build,” Breckinridge told Desdemona.
“Don’t worry about that,” she said. “Compared to everything else that’s happened, that’s nothing. I’d gladly see the whole place burned to the ground if it meant that Carnahan was dead.”
“If my plan works, we won’t have to go that far.”
Morgan said, “Don’t you think it’s time you let the rest of us in on that plan, Breck?”
“There are no windows in the back of that tradin’ post.” Breckinridge asked Desdemona, “Do you recall if your pa put any rifle ports in the back wall when he was buildin’ it?”
“No, I don’t think so,” she said. “He should have, I can see that now, but at the time he thought that with the barn and the stockade fence back there, the likelihood of anyone attacking us from that direction was pretty small.” She shook her head. “He was much too inexperienced for this, wasn’t he? We would have all gotten killed sooner or later.”
“He’d have learned,” Breckinridge said. “I don’t have no doubts about that. He just didn’t get the chance.”
“Because the first ruthless killer who came along murdered him.” Desdemona closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them and went on, “I’m sorry. I can’t be thinking about that right now. To get back to your question, there are no loopholes or rifle ports back there, but there might be some chinks between the logs where somebody could look out.”
“We’ll keep ’em pinned down, then, and wait until nightfall so they can’t see as good. Carnahan and his men are all inside, and with some good shootin’ we can keep ’em there.”
Morgan asked, “Are we going to sneak up on them from this side once it’s dark and try to get into the building?”
Breckinridge shook his head. “Nope. That’s too dangerous for Miss Ophelia and Miss Eugenia. Carnahan would be liable to kill ’em as soon as the fight started, just so we couldn’t rescue ’em. And even if he didn’t, you get a bunch of lead flyin’ around in a sort of small space like that, and there ain’t no tellin’ who’s gonna get in the way of it.”
“Then what are we going to do?”
“Make them come out,” Breckinridge said. “They got a fire goin’ in the fireplace. I been seein’ a little smoke comin’ out of it all day. All I need to do is get on the roof, plug up the chimney, and let the smoke back up and drive ’em out.”
“They could put out the fire,” Desdemona said.
“Chances are, they won’t notice what’s goin’ on until it’s too late for that to help. And I can drop some moss down the chimney to make the fire smoke even worse before I stop up the openin’.”
“It might work,” Morgan said. “But they’ll come out using those girls as hostages.”
“That’s why we’ll have some men close by when that happens. You and these two Mandan fellas will be waitin’ just behind the tradin’ post. When Carnahan and the others start comin’ out, it’ll be your job to grab Miss Ophelia and Miss Eugenia and get them out of harm’s way.” Breckinridge shrugged. “It’s still a mighty big risk. You’re their sister, Miss Desdemona. What do you think?”
Without hesitation, she said, “I think if Carnahan is able to keep them in his hands, they’re going to die sooner or later anyway, so we might as well give it a try. But there’s going to be one change to your plan, Wallace.”
“What’s that?” Breckinridge asked warily.
“I’m going to be right there with Morgan and the other men to free my sisters.”
That was what Breckinridge expected her to say, and he knew there was no point in arguing. Besides, Desdemona had proven already that she was a good shot and cool under fire. He knew that she was probably praying she would get a shot at Jud Carnahan, too, and he certainly couldn’t blame her for that.
“All right,” he said. “Would it do any good to tell you to be careful?”
“Not one bit,” she said.
Chapter 15
Breckinridge loped back around to the river to fill Charlie Moss in on the plan while Morgan, Desdemona, and the two Indians stayed where they were to keep an eye on the back of the trading post. If anyone tried to get out that way, a few well-placed shots would either kill them or drive them back inside.
Once Breckinridge had explained everything, Moss said, “If you’ll give us a signal when they start comin’ out of that building like rats, we’ll close in from this side.”
“You know what a bobcat sounds like?” Breckinridge asked.
Moss laughed. “I’ve heard one of the critters yowl many a time.”
“Well, I can sound like a bobcat when I want to. That’ll be the signal. When you hear it, come a-runnin’.”
“But what if it’s a real bobcat?” Richmond asked.
“There’s been so much shootin’ and yellin’, any real bobcat around these parts has lit a shuck a long time ago.”
With the signal agreed upon, Breckinridge told them that he wouldn’t put his plan into motion until after dark, so he would be less likely to be spotted from inside the trading post. Confident that he could count on Moss and the others, he headed along the river and then curved back toward the rocks where Morgan and Desdemona waited. He had filled a couple of water skins from the canoes and took them with him so the others could have a drink. They didn’t have any food—Desdemona hadn’t had a chance to do any hunting after all—so the water would have to be enough for now.
The afternoon dragged by, hot and interminable and broken up only by an occasional flurry of gunfire. The fire hadn’t burned itself out completely, but it had died down a great deal now that the flames had largely consumed the stockade wall and the barn. From time to time a charred and smoldering chunk of wood let out a loud pop as a bubble of sap burst. That sounded like a gunshot and always made the people hidden in the rocks tense and get ready to return the fire, until Breckinridge reminded them what it really was.
Most of the barn had collapsed. Any time one of the remaining sections fell, it caused a lot of racket, sparks, and smoke. The fire hadn’t reached the trading post itself, so it was still intact, but if Breckinridge’s plan worked, it would reek of smoke inside before the night was over.
He couldn’t help but wonder what was going on inside and how Ophelia and Eugenia were faring at the hands of their captors. He hoped they were all right.
Inside the trading post
As soon as Jud Carnahan saw that the water barrel was almost empty, he jerked around toward Eugenia and Ophelia with a savage snarl on his face.
“You did this!” he raged.
“We’ve been sitting right here with your men watching us all the time,” Eugenia protested. Ophelia raised her head from
her younger sister’s shoulder, looking around and blinking in confusion. Eugenia went on, “And my sister’s been asleep. She couldn’t have done anything.”
“Look around!” Carnahan yelled at his men. “See if there’s any more water!”
There wasn’t, other than one pitcher, and Eugenia knew it. It didn’t take long for Carnahan’s men to discover the same thing.
“Tip this barrel over and get what you can out of it,” Carnahan ordered as he swept a hand toward the barrel next to Eugenia and Ophelia. Eugenia felt a shiver of fear go through her. If the men moved the barrel, they would see where the water had leaked out and would know she was responsible.
“Too late, boss,” one of the other men said as he put his eye to a tiny crack between the logs of the rear wall. “Looks like the fence is burnin’ all along the back, and the barn just caught on fire, too.”
A flood of venomous curses came from Carnahan’s mouth. He looked like he was about to lose control completely, but then one of the men said, “We’d better save what water’s still in there, Jud. We’ll need it for drinkin’ .”
Concerned muttering came from several other men. Water was going to be in short supply inside the trading post, and soon. Eugenia didn’t expect much more to drain from the barrel, since from the sound of it the level was almost down to the bung, but that wouldn’t leave much, either.
The men turned their attention back to shooting at their enemies who had taken cover along the river. Eugenia could tell from listening to their mostly profane comments that the fire was spreading to the stockade wall her father had worked so hard to build. That saddened her, but it was hardly the worst thing she had to worry about right now.
Ophelia whispered miserably, “What’s going to happen to us? Are they going to kill us? Or . . . or worse?”
Eugenia’s practical nature made her unsure there actually was anything worse than being killed, but it wouldn’t do any good to say that to Ophelia, or to speculate on what these evil men might do.
Instead she said, “Mr. Wallace and Mr. Baxter are still out there. They seem very capable. And don’t forget, Desdemona is, too. She’s not going to let anything bad happen to us if there’s anything in the world she can do to prevent it.”
“She . . . she couldn’t do anything to keep that man from sh-shooting Papa.”
“I know,” Eugenia said softly as she blinked to hold back tears of her own. “I know, but we can’t give up hope.”
“What’s going on back there?” Carnahan demanded in a harsh voice, addressing the man who had his eye pressed to the crack in the back wall.
“Barn’s burning more. The roof’s on fire now. Here come our men who were back there along the wall. They’re shooting at somebody on this side—”
The man’s head jerked back. Eugenia happened to be looking in his direction, and she saw the blood, brain matter, and bone shards explode from the back of his skull. He toppled backward and landed in a limp sprawl on the floor. Blood swiftly pooled around his head.
Carnahan roared a curse as he stared at the dead man.
Eugenia’s eyes were wide with amazement, too. She knew what must have happened: One of the rifle balls fired by the men outside the compound had hit that crack in the wall at just the right angle to blast on through it and into the man’s eye. Then it had bored through his brain and burst out the back of his head. That was the only explanation.
Beside her, Ophelia made gagging sounds. She had witnessed the man’s shocking death, too, and was sickened by it.
Eugenia couldn’t bring herself to feel any sympathy for him. As far as she was concerned, Jud Carnahan and his allies deserved whatever fate awaited them. The grislier and more painful, the better.
A moment later, one of the men inside swung open the trading post door so several more men could scramble in from outside. The door slammed closed behind them. Carnahan glared at them and said, “Where in blazes are the rest of you? I posted more men than this back there!”
“Don’t know what happened to ’em, Jud,” one of the men replied. “I heard some shootin’ from the barn, I think. Maybe those redskins got loose.”
That brought more vile exclamations from Carnahan. “Is there any end to the things that are gonna go wrong?” he demanded, but he didn’t seem to expect an answer. He waved a hand wearily and went on, “Get back to the loopholes and keep shooting at them. Maybe we can whittle ’em down.”
The gloomy atmosphere inside the trading post settled down to sporadic gunfire and a never-ending litany of curses. Eugenia and Ophelia huddled together behind the bar, reasonably safe from any rifle balls that happened to get inside—but not safe at all, considering the sort of cruel, ruthless men who held them prisoner.
Without meaning to, Eugenia dozed off. The strain had been too much for her, too, and her brain retreated into slumber. She had no idea how long she had been asleep when Ophelia nudged her awake.
“Eugenia,” her sister whispered, “is it getting smoky in here?”
At that moment, a huge cloud of smoke billowed from the fireplace and filled at least half the room, causing Carnahan’s men to curse and choke.
* * *
Breckinridge returned to the river in the late afternoon to scoop some mud from the edge and smear it on his face. He planned to approach the trading post as soon as it was sufficiently dark, before the moon rose. Despite that, anything he could do to make himself less visible was a good idea, he decided. His buckskins were fairly dark already and wouldn’t show up much in the starlight.
Morgan looked like he wanted to make some comment when Breckinridge returned to the rocks, but he kept his mouth shut. He must have figured that after all the tragedy and violence today, now wasn’t the time to poke fun at Breck’s appearance.
While he was coming back through the woods, Breckinridge had gathered up an armful of dry moss. He took the makeshift bowstring he had used earlier off the bow and tied the moss into a bundle that he could sling around his neck. He would need both hands free while he was climbing onto the building.
Great care would be required, as well. If any of Carnahan’s men realized he was up there, he could wind up trapped and an easy target for his enemies. They would have to come out of the trading post to shoot at him, but some of them might be willing to risk it for a chance to kill him.
Quietly, Desdemona said, “You asked me earlier if it would do any good for you to tell me to be careful. How about the other way around?”
Breckinridge chuckled. “People have been tellin’ me for years how reckless and hotheaded I am. I don’t think I’m that way at all. It’s just that sometimes a fella’s got to take a chance, and other times, a bunch of thinkin’ clutters up his brain so much he can’t do what needs to be done. But I ain’t exactly foolhardy, Desdemona. You can count on that.”
“Well, don’t get your head shot off, Wallace. And don’t go thinking that just because I say that, I’ve gotten sweet on you or anything like that.”
“Never crossed my mind,” Breckinridge said honestly. He admired Desdemona Garwood, and in another time and place—another life, really—he might have done more than admire her. Here and now, though, that was never going to happen.
As the sun went down and the sky began to darken, Breckinridge could tell that Morgan and Desdemona were getting more nervous. They knew the time was approaching to put his plan into action. The two Mandan Indians were as stolid as ever, much like Breck himself. He had never suffered from nerves before a battle, partly because of his confidence in himself and partly because of the fatalistic streak that ran through him. He would do the best he could, and destiny would have to take care of the rest.
When the stars were out and the shadows were thick, he slung the bundle of moss around his neck and checked both pistols thrust behind his belt. He couldn’t take his rifle with him, but he had the pistols, his knife, and his tomahawk. When the smoke began to force his enemies out of the building, he intended to jump down among them and commence to s
pilling blood. Death dropping from the sky . . . He liked the sound of that.
“Be ready,” he told Morgan and Desdemona. “When you hear the bobcat yowl, you’ll know it’s time to move.”
“We’ll be behind you, covering you once you get on the roof,” Morgan promised. “Desdemona may not tell you to be careful, Breck, but I will.”
Breckinridge clapped a hand on his friend’s shoulder, squeezed for a second, and then cat-footed off into the darkness, toward the trading post.
His eyes were keen enough for him to see where he was going, but he didn’t hurry. He picked his way over the charred debris that was left from the burned stockade wall. The fire had gone out except for an orange glowing ember here and there. He avoided those. Then, crouching low, he skirted the ruins of the barn and moved along the corral toward the trading post.
He had studied the building enough during the day that he’d been able to figure out the best place to climb onto the roof. Some of the logs Absalom Garwood had used still had bumps and protrusions on them where branches and limbs had been trimmed off. Breckinridge had traced a series of footholds and handholds that would take him up to the level of the roof’s overhang. Once he reached it, he would have to grab hold and haul himself up by brute strength. Most men his size couldn’t do that, but he believed he could.
Despite his young age, Breckinridge had years of experience at moving silently when he wanted to. He didn’t get in any hurry as he approached the trading post. A few clouds floated in the night sky, which was a good thing because they created slowly moving shadows. Breck just blended in with them.
He reached the spot he wanted. The darkness was almost pitch-black here. He had to work by feel as he located his first handholds. Wedging his toe against a tiny knob, he pulled himself up.
He had to climb only a few feet before he was able to reach up and grasp the edge of the roof. When he was sure his grip with that hand was secure, he moved the other hand to the roof.
Then, after taking a deep breath, he held on and let his legs swing out so that he hung straight down. The muscles in his arms and shoulders bunched and bulged as he began lifting himself.
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