She didn’t come up until she had to breathe again. She lifted her head and gasped for air. The shoulders and front of her dress were soaked, and so was her blond hair. It hung in thick, wet curtains around her face and in her eyes.
Through it, she saw something on the other side of the creek. Several seconds went by before she realized that she was staring at an Indian mounted on a spotted pony.
Not just one Indian, either. There were two more mounted savages behind the one who had ridden up to the creek from the south. She didn’t know anything about Indians, had no idea how to tell which tribe they belonged to by their clothes and decorations and the way they wore their hair. For all she knew, these could be more Blackfeet, like the ones who had killed poor Edward and attacked the trading post.
One thing was certain: they seemed almost as surprised to see her as she was to see them. The one in front stared at her with his dark eyes wide. He was young, maybe not any older than she was. He wore moccasins and buckskin leggings and no shirt. His long dark hair was pulled back and tied behind his neck so it hung down his back like a horse’s tail. A necklace of what looked like animal claws of some kind was around his neck. He carried a bow in one hand and had a quiver of arrows slung over one shoulder.
The intensity of the gaze he directed at Ophelia made her glance down at herself. Her dress was ripped in numerous places so that her pale skin showed through it. The soaked cloth was plastered to her body like a second skin, and she was breathing so hard it made her breasts rise and fall quickly. He couldn’t help but have his attention drawn to them. Ophelia saw the same look in his eyes that she had seen in the eyes of countless men, young and old, over the past seven or eight years.
The lust on his face disappeared and was replaced by a look of pain and shock as a gun boomed somewhere behind Ophelia. The young Indian rocked back on his pony. Blood spurted from the hole in his chest and splashed down on his belly. The spooked horse went one way and the Indian went the other as he toppled off the animal’s back.
For a second the other two Indians who had come up behind him seemed frozen in place. Then they let out shrill cries of rage and kicked their mounts forward. They were armed with bows as well, and they swiftly drew arrows and nocked them.
Another gunshot roared. One of the Indians twisted under the impact of a pistol ball to the chest. He didn’t fall off his pony, but he did drop his bow with the arrow unfired and clung to the pony’s mane as his face contorted with agony.
The third man got his arrow away. The shaft whipped through the air above Ophelia’s head. She heard it thud against something and dreaded to look back because if the arrow had struck and killed Jud Carnahan, she would be at the mercy of the savage who had fired it.
She didn’t know if that would improve her situation or make it even worse, but the uncertainty was too much for her to stand. She jerked her head around, which caused the wet hair to fly in front of her face. She pushed it back and saw Carnahan standing beside one of the trees with his rifle in his hands. His pistols lay on the ground at his feet where he had dropped them, and she knew he had used them to shoot the first two Indians.
Next to him, a foot away from his head, the arrow was stuck in the tree trunk. Its shaft still quivered from the impact.
Hooves pounded. Ophelia looked around again. The third Indian had whirled his horse and was trying to get away. Carnahan drew a bead on his back and pressed the trigger. The flintlock boomed. The Indian hadn’t had time to get out of range, and Carnahan’s aim was deadly. The man threw his arms out to the sides and pitched off the horse, landing in a limp heap.
The second man Carnahan had shot, the one who was still on his pony, groaned and fell, landing on the opposite bank. He writhed around, fumbling at his waist. Ophelia realized he was trying to draw a knife sheathed there.
The Indian hadn’t managed to do that by the time Carnahan splashed across the shallow creek. Carnahan’s own knife was in his hand. He leaned over and with one swift stroke slashed the Indian’s throat, stepping back quickly so the blood that fountained high in the air didn’t splatter him. With such a wide, deep wound, the Indian bled to death in a matter of seconds.
The first Indian, the young one who had looked so raptly at Ophelia, lay motionless nearby. He hadn’t moved since Carnahan shot him. Carnahan stepped over to him and cut his throat anyway, just to make sure.
Then he turned to Ophelia and said, “Stay here while I go check on the other one.”
He stalked off, leaving her there on the north bank of the creek.
Her hands were still tied, but her feet and legs were loose. She struggled to her feet. When she stepped into the creek, the water felt like ice, but it numbed the pain in her tortured feet. She would have stood there for a long time, relishing the relief, but she had her mind and her eye on something else.
The knife that Indian had been trying to get.
She stumbled out of the stream and over to the gory corpse. Blood had splashed all the way down past his waist and was on the bone handle of the knife. Ophelia didn’t care. She glanced toward Carnahan and saw that his back was still toward her as he walked out to where the third Indian had fallen.
She bent down, pulled the knife from its sheath, and stuck it under her dress. She pressed her arm against it as best she could to hold it in place. She looked at the bows and arrows and was tempted for a second, but she realized there was no way she could use those weapons as long as her hands were tied. It was doubtful that she would have been able to shoot Carnahan with one of them even if she didn’t have those bonds around her wrists. She’d never used a bow before.
But the knife . . . that was different. If she could just get close enough to him, she was strong enough to plant the whole blade in his body.
Still breathing hard, she watched him bend over the third Indian. Cutting his throat, too, she thought. Then Carnahan slowly approached the pony that stood a few yards away, eyeing him warily. Ophelia didn’t think he would be able to catch the pony, but Carnahan surprised her. He seemed to have a knack for it and soon had the pony’s reins in his hand. He led the animal back to the creek.
That was good, Ophelia realized. If he could catch one of the other ponies, they could ride. She didn’t know how that would work out, but at least she wouldn’t have to keep walking until her feet were nothing but bloody stumps, which seemed to be what he’d had in mind.
“By God, this is a stroke of good luck,” he said as he came up to her. “Wallace will never catch up to us once we’re mounted.”
Ophelia hadn’t thought about that. Carnahan was right. The chances of Breckinridge Wallace rescuing her had just dropped dramatically.
But at least she wouldn’t have to walk anymore.
“You can throw that knife down now,” Carnahan went on.
“Kn-knife?” Ophelia forced out.
“I know you’ve got it.” Carnahan waved a hand toward the corpse she had taken the knife from. “His sheath’s empty, for God’s sake. Now throw it down, or I’ll tear what’s left of that dress off of you and find it.”
Ophelia didn’t doubt for a second that he would do exactly that. It might goad him into doing other things that he hadn’t so far, too. She sighed, reached awkwardly into the dress, and slid the knife out. She tossed it onto the grassy bank between them.
“You might as well get it through your head right now, you’re not going to put anything over on me, girl. But if you don’t even try . . . if you don’t give me any trouble . . . you’ll live longer and life will be easier for you.”
She looked down at the ground and muttered, “My name’s Ophelia.”
“What’s that?” he asked sharply.
She jerked her head up and said defiantly, “My name is Ophelia, not ‘girl.’”
He looked at her for a moment, then laughed.
“Is that so?” He stepped over to her and thrust the pony’s reins into her hands. “Can you hang on to this horse, Ophelia, while I catch the other two? You’d
better, unless you want to walk while I ride. We still have a lot of ground to cover, and it’ll go faster on horseback.”
She clutched the reins and nodded.
“That’s good.” He cocked his head a little to the side and studied her with a shrewd expression on his bearded face. “You know, having you around might just turn out to be a good thing after all.”
She wasn’t sure if she ought to be glad to hear him say that . . . or horrified.
Chapter 20
It was well after dark before Breckinridge and Charlie Moss reached the promontory where Carnahan and the other man had hidden to ambush them. Breck was confident he could find the place, even by moonlight, and that turned out to be true. The boulder-littered knob was easily visible in the silvery illumination.
They put in to shore, pulled the canoe well out of the water, and then climbed to the top of the ridge behind the promontory, taking their supplies with them.
“We’ll make camp here and pick up the trail first thing in the morning,” Breckinridge said. “Better get some sleep, Charlie. Tomorrow’s liable to be a long day.”
“I’m sure it will be, so you wake me up in a few hours and get some shut-eye yourself,” Moss said.
“That’s what I figured on doin’.”
Moss spread the bedroll he’d carried on his back and stretched out. Within minutes, he was snoring. Breckinridge sat with his back propped against a rock and his rifle across his knees. Exhaustion sat heavily on him, but he was accustomed to staying awake when he needed to, no matter how tired he was. He didn’t doze off as the stars wheeled through the ebony sky above him and the moon raced through the heavens.
When he woke up Moss and lay down himself, he went out like someone had walloped him on the head with a hammer.
Moss roused him from sleep when dawn was still a small, rosy arch on the eastern horizon. Moss built a fire and the two men made a fast, sparse breakfast of some fried salt pork. By then the sun wasn’t up but the light was good enough for Breckinridge to start looking for tracks.
He found some leading south away from the river. Two different people had made them. One set of footprints was more sharply defined and deeper than the other. Jud Carnahan’s boots had left those prints, Breckinridge thought. The other tracks, some of them mere smudges, were left by Ophelia Garwood, who had been wearing slippers when she was taken hostage.
That was more confirmation Ophelia was alive. Breckinridge welcomed that. He believed there was a good chance Carnahan would keep her alive, and he was going to hang on to that hope unless and until they found proof to the contrary.
Like Ophelia’s body.
Breckinridge shoved that thought out of his head and gathered his gear. Charlie Moss did the same. The sun had just started to peek over the eastern horizon when the two men set out, heading south over mostly rolling prairie that was broken here and there by gullies, ridges, and hills. Mountain ranges bulked in the distance to the south and west. Breck wanted to catch up to their quarry before they reached any of those mountains, because the more rugged terrain would just make a rescue more difficult, but he would do whatever was necessary to save Ophelia and bring her back to her sisters.
They had water skins slung over their shoulders and from time to time drank sparingly from them. This country south of the river seemed to be pretty dry. Breckinridge was sure they would come to a creek or a smaller river sooner or later, though, and when they did they could refill the skins.
They stopped to rest now and then, as well, but both men were accustomed to the hard life on the frontier. The biggest challenge was following the trail left by Carnahan and Ophelia.
After a while that got easier, although Breckinridge didn’t like the reason why. He began seeing small patches of dried blood and knew they came from Ophelia’s feet. Her slippers had worn through on the rough ground, and her feet were bleeding with each step. That had to be miserably painful for her.
That mistreatment was one more mark against Jud Carnahan . . . not that he needed any to be deserving of whatever vengeance Breckinridge dealt out to him.
After a long, frustrating day, Breckinridge and Charlie Moss made camp again. Breck had hoped to catch up with Carnahan and Ophelia today, but he had also known how unlikely that was unless Carnahan stopped for some reason. Apparently, that hadn’t happened. Breck had to be content with hoping that he and Moss had narrowed the lead Carnahan had on them.
There was a good chance this chase would last several days, and each one that went by was another day when there was no telling what Carnahan might do to Ophelia.
That night, as they were sitting around for a few minutes after supper, Charlie Moss said, “You know, by the time we get back to that tradin’ post, Morgan’s liable to be sparking one or maybe both of those Garwood girls.”
“Eugenia seemed to have taken quite a shine to him,” Breckinridge agreed, “but I don’t reckon Desdemona feels that way.”
“You figure she’s sweet on you?” Moss chuckled.
“I never said that,” Breckinridge protested, although in truth he did believe he had seen a few signs of Desdemona developing some affection for him.
“Well, it might be true, but I’m quite a bit older than you, Breck, and I can tell you for a fact that no matter how a woman feels about a fella, if he ain’t around she’s gonna start lookin’ around elsewhere. Women are the most practical creatures on God’s green earth. If a fella ain’t there, he can’t do her no good. And when he can’t do her no good, she’ll just find somebody else.”
Breckinridge frowned in the darkness. “You really think so?”
“Seen it happen over and over again. A friend of mine went back home after bein’ out here trappin’ for eight months and found his wife six months along in the family way. And his brother had been visitin’, if you get my drift.”
“What did he do?” Breckinridge asked, wondering if the “friend” Moss was talking about was actually him.
Moss shrugged and said, “Well, when the baby was born, it looked sort of like the fella, so he decided that was close enough and went right on. That was tolerable open-minded, if you ask me.” Moss chuckled again.
“Maybe so,” Breckinridge said. He’d had considerable experience with women, despite his young age, but when he stopped and thought about it, he realized that of the three gals who had meant the most to him, one of them had married somebody else, one was a prostitute, and one had turned her back on him. Either he’d had a run of remarkably bad luck, or else Moss might have something there.
But he’d had no claim at all on Desdemona Garwood, although he had come to admire her, and if she turned to Morgan that was none of his business.
He thought about what his old friend would do if both sisters were interested in him. If there was a way to turn such a situation to his advantage, Morgan Baxter would derned sure do it, Breckinridge thought with a smile.
* * *
They pushed on the next morning. The spots of blood that Breckinridge assumed were from Ophelia’s feet had dried to a dark brown. Those grim markings made the trail easier to follow, but Breck’s heart went out to the girl because of the misery she had to be suffering.
After a couple of hours, Breckinridge and Charlie Moss both stopped short at the same time. Moss said, “I reckon you’re seein’ the same thing I just spotted.”
“Yeah,” Breckinridge said. “And I don’t like it.”
Several hundred yards ahead of them, a line of trees marked the course of a stream. Above those trees, a pair of buzzards circled lazily in the sky. As Breckinridge and Moss watched, the carrion birds dipped down and disappeared behind the trees.
“Could be worse,” Moss said. “I’ve seen a dozen or more buzzards circlin’ like that in one place.”
“And it could be these two came late,” Breckinridge said. He took a deep breath. “We’d better go see.”
They strode forward, covering the ground between themselves and the creek fairly quickly. As they came clo
ser, Breckinridge was able to peer through the screen of trees and see some dark figures moving around on the other side of the creek. Those were the two buzzards he and Moss had spotted a few minutes ago, he decided, plus some other winged scavengers.
There wouldn’t be that many buzzards if there was only one body, he thought as he frowned. Maybe Carnahan and Ophelia had run into some hostile Indians and the savages had killed both of them. He hoped that wasn’t the case. He didn’t want anything that bad to have befallen Ophelia . . . and he didn’t want to be cheated out of his vengeance on Jud Carnahan.
“I see two bodies,” Moss said, “and I just saw another buzzard land out yonder a ways on the other side of the creek.”
Breckinridge nodded. He had noticed the same thing, and it was puzzling. If the two bodies by the creek were Carnahan and Ophelia, who did the third corpse belong to? Assuming, of course, that was what the buzzard that had alighted out there was after.
The next few minutes cleared up the mystery. Breckinridge felt relief go through him as he realized the two dead people nearest the creek weren’t the ones he and Moss were after. Buzzards had already been at the bodies and done so much damage that Breck figured they had died sometime the day before. Both wore buckskin trousers, though, and enough flesh remained here and there on the bones for him to see the coppery hue of the skin. These two were Indians. The one lying out farther from the creek probably was, too.
As if reading Breckinridge’s mind, Charlie Moss said, “I’ll go have a look, while you see what you can tell around here.”
That sounded like a good idea to Breckinridge. He began studying the ground around the bodies and along the creek bank.
What he noticed almost immediately was that horses had been here. Unshod horses, meaning they had belonged to the Indians. Breckinridge made a guess that the warriors were Cheyenne, but under the circumstances he couldn’t be sure about that.
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