Damnation Valley

by William W. Johnstone

  The rain had washed out the tracks they’d been following, of course, so once again Breckinridge and Moss had to search for a long time, splitting up and riding back and forth seemingly endlessly, before they found the now-familiar hoofprints again. And as Breck well knew, all that time spent searching was more time Carnahan and Ophelia were using to get ahead of them.

  The only glimmer of hope the two men had in those early days was that the tracks of two horses carrying riders proved Ophelia was still alive.

  Gradually the trail began to curve to the south. Breckinridge had expected Carnahan to turn in that direction as soon as they cleared the mountains, but it hadn’t happened. Eventually the tracks had led due south, and after a few days of riding that way, Breck and Charlie Moss spotted something looming up from the prairie ahead of them. The land was so flat they could see it for miles before they reached it.

  The thing was a fort, a huge structure made of logs with tall, thick walls, with guard towers rising on two of the corners and a sturdy, two-story guardhouse inside the wall next to the gate.

  Charlie Moss had let out a whistle of admiration and said, “If Absalom Garwood had built something like that, nobody would have ever gotten in to bother him.”

  “I reckon that’s what he had in mind,” Breckinridge had replied as they halted their horses and studied the impressive structure. “See those flags?”

  He pointed to a flagpole flying two flags, one the Stars and Stripes, the other also red, white, and blue, but with the colors divided vertically rather than horizontally. Pennant-shaped, rather than rectangular like the American flag, it had writing of some sort in the white field in the middle.

  “That’s the American Fur Company flag, ain’t it?” Moss asked. “I’ve seen it before.”

  “Yeah. I think I’ve heard of this place. Fort John, I think they call it.”

  Moss had swept a hand toward a long line of ruts that led across the prairie in a roughly east–west direction, passing near the fort, and said, “Then that must be what they’ve started callin’ the Oregon Trail.”

  Breckinridge nodded. He had heard a lot of talk about the trail that had been blazed through these parts so immigrant wagons could follow it all the way from Missouri to the Pacific Northwest.

  He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. He could understand why folks wanted to spread out and see some new country. He had been like that himself, before he ever came west. But while he could sympathize with the people joining up with those wagon trains to go to the Oregon country, they weren’t hunters and trappers and explorers, like him. They were farmers, from what he had heard. And storekeepers. The sort of folks who didn’t just look around and leave a place like they found it. They changed things.

  Breckinridge didn’t much want the frontier changed. Sure, it had brought him a lot of suffering and loss, but those were the risks a fella ran when he set out for someplace new. Whatever he found was bound to be a mixture of good and bad, because that’s the way life was everywhere.

  One thing was for sure, though. There was nothing Breckinridge or anybody else could do to stop that tide once it started flowing westward. The Indians thought it was bad having a few fur trappers roaming around the mountains. Things were fixing to get a lot worse for them, and he wasn’t sure they could survive it.

  Breck and Moss had ridden on in to Fort John. There were no wagon trains there at the moment, but a dozen or so trappers were there, having come in to sell their furs. Breckinridge didn’t know any of them, but Charlie Moss recognized a couple of them and introduced them to Breck as Harmon Russell and Jim Faherty. While they were having a drink with the men in the tavern attached to the fort’s store, Breck took advantage of the opportunity to ask them about Carnahan and Ophelia.

  “Carnahan,” Russell had repeated, stroking his chin. “Name’s vaguely familiar, but I don’t think I know the man. What’s he look like?”

  “You couldn’t miss him if you ever saw him,” Breckinridge said. He described Carnahan’s tree-stump shape and the long, bushy beard, then added, “He’s traveling with a young woman. Blond hair, mighty easy on the eyes.”

  That had brought grins from both of the trappers.

  “Now, her I’d remember for sure,” Faherty said. “I can tell plain, Wallace, we ain’t seen ’em.”

  A man sitting at a nearby table spoke up. He was a thin, cadaverous-looking fellow in a black swallowtail coat. His head was bald, but he had a black, pointed beard.

  “I saw those two,” he said. “They were here about ten days ago, I’d say.”

  “That was before Jim and me got here,” Russell put in.

  “Was the woman all right?” Breckinridge asked quickly.

  “She mean something to you, friend?” the man in the swallowtail coat drawled.

  “She ain’t my sister or my wife, if that’s what you mean,” Breckinridge said, “but I wouldn’t want to see anything bad happen to her.”

  “I suppose that depends on your definition of bad.” The man shrugged. Breckinridge suppressed the impulse to get mad at him for his nonchalant attitude and waited for him to go on. “She didn’t appear to have been physically harmed. She limped a little, as if one of her feet was sore, but other than that she seemed fine.”

  Breckinridge remembered all the bloody footprints he had seen when they were first trailing Carnahan and Ophelia. They had been riding long enough that the damage should have healed by now, but maybe it had been bad enough that it left Ophelia with foot trouble permanent-like.

  “As for her state of mind, I can’t speak to that,” the stranger went on. “She seemed pretty cowed. Kept her head down, never said anything. And when the man with her let it be known that gents could spend some time with her, for a price, she never objected or acted like it bothered her.”

  When he heard that, Breckinridge had to grip the edge of the table and hold on hard to keep from standing up and bellowing in anger. The news that Carnahan was whoring Ophelia out didn’t come as any real surprise, but it enraged him anyway. Moss looked upset, too.

  “I reckon we had to expect it,” the older man muttered, “but dang, that’s low of Carnahan.”

  “He’s done worse, I reckon,” Breckinridge said curtly. To the stranger, he said, “Do you know where they went when they left here?”

  “I believe they headed east,” the man said. “That’s all I can tell you . . . except that they were some richer than when they started out.”

  Breckinridge knew what he meant by that comment, and it almost made him mad again. But he just grunted his thanks, stood up, left his drink on the table, and stalked out of the tavern. With some obvious reluctance, Charlie Moss followed him.

  Breckinridge was headed for the horses when Moss caught up to him.

  “We ought to stay here a day or two,” Moss said. “We’ve been pushin’ those Injun ponies for a long time, and pushin’ ourselves, too.”

  “Maybe we can trade these horses for some fresher ones.”

  “Maybe. But we can’t trade away how worn out we are.”

  Breckinridge swung around sharply and said, “Blast it, Charlie, you heard what Carnahan’s doin’. That poor girl—”

  “It’s already done, Breck. I don’t mean to sound callous about it, but anything that could be taken away from her has done been took.”

  “It’s got to be hell for her.”

  “I expect it is. That’s more marks on the wall against Carnahan. But as far ahead of us as they already are, a couple of days ain’t gonna make a difference. The time when speed counted was at the beginnin’ of this chase, and like it or not . . . Carnahan gave us the slip. Now we got to be slow and steady and determined. He’ll think that he’s got away clean, and he’ll stop tryin’ as hard. Sooner or later he’ll stop somewhere, relax, and that’s when we’ll come up and get him.”

  Moss’s words made sense. Breckinridge had to admit that, even though doing so put a bitter taste in his mouth.

  “All right. I still have th
e money Garwood paid us for those furs. We’ll see if we can trade these ponies, maybe put some cash with ’em, and get a packhorse and some supplies, too. And we’ll rest up tomorrow and start out first thing the next mornin’. How’s that sound to you?”

  “Like good ideas,” Moss said.

  Good ideas they might have been, and having better horses and some supplies made the traveling easier, but Jud Carnahan continued to elude them as the weeks passed. The man had followed the Oregon Trail back toward Missouri, and for a while Breckinridge was convinced Carnahan intended to go all the way to St. Louis.

  But then he and Ophelia dropped south again. Breckinridge and Moss might not have known that if they hadn’t stopped at a small trading post being operated out of a couple of wagons. The men who owned them had decided to set up shop about halfway between Independence, Missouri, where the immigrant trains actually started, and Fort John. Carnahan and Ophelia had been through there, stopped over for a night, and then headed south, away from the settlers’ route. Breck suspected the two traders had had their way with Ophelia, but he didn’t ask them about that. Best not to dwell on it until he could do something about it, he told himself.

  The weather had been good, no more thunderstorms, and one day they came upon familiar tracks, old but still visible.

  “Is that them?” Moss asked in amazement.

  “I believe it is,” Breckinridge said.

  “But they’re headed west again! What in blazes is Carnahan doin’? Does he plan on wanderin’ back and forth from one end of the blamed frontier to the other?”

  “He’s still afraid that we’re behind him,” Breckinridge said, nodding slowly. “He’s smart enough to know that I ain’t the sort to give up easy. So yeah, he’s gonna wander around like a drunk Indian on a blind mule. Figures that’ll throw us off the scent. He’s come pretty close to doin’ just that a few times.”

  “Yeah.” Moss rubbed fingertips on his beard-stubbled chin. Both men had shaved while they were at Fort John, and their beards hadn’t come back out full yet. “Luck’s been with us, though. What if it turns on us one of these days, Breck?”

  “We’ll keep goin’ anyway until it turns back in our favor.”

  That was what they had done—kept going. Across the plains and into the mountains again. The sun went down and rose again. Whenever they encountered anyone, white or red, they asked about the bushy-bearded man and the blond woman. Every so often, then ran into somebody who had seen Carnahan and Ophelia. The last man they had met on the trail, a half-crazy old-timer who claimed to be a preacher out to bring the Holy Gospel to the savages, as he put it, had pointed them out of the mountains.

  “The bearded brother asked me if I knew where Bent’s Fort was,” the would-be sky pilot told them. “I said I’d been there recently my own self and pointed out the path to him and the woman. That’s my job, pointing out the paths folks should take that will bring them to the Lord.”

  “The last thing Carnahan wants is to find the Lord,” Moss said. “More likely he’d want to march into hell and take over from the Devil.”

  “He’s gonna get his chance to do that, one of these days,” Breckinridge said. “What’s Bent’s Fort? Seems I’ve heard tell of it, but I don’t remember.”

  “Some fellas built it as a trading post, down on the Arkansas River,” the old-timer said. “It’s right on the Santa Fe Trail.”

  Breckinridge and Moss looked at each other. Moss said, “You speculated a long time ago, Breck, that he might head down into Mex country.”

  “I didn’t think he’d meander around all over creation gettin’ there,” Breckinridge said. “But it sure sounds like that’s where he’s headed at last.”

  The preacher said, “Do you intend violence toward this man, brothers?”

  “We da—darned sure do,” Moss said.

  “Violence only begets more violence, you know.”

  Breckinridge said, “It’s the only way to help that gal. And he’s got it comin’, no doubt about it.”

  “Well, then, I’ll pray that you stay safe.”

  They parted ways with the old-timer, and now they were ready to ride back down out of the mountains and find Bent’s Fort.

  “You think he’ll still be there?” Moss asked as they nudged their horses into motion and started down from the ridge.

  “Only one way to find out,” Breckinridge said.

  Chapter 24

  Bent’s Fort was laid out much like Fort John, a large, rectangular compound with guard towers at the corners. Instead of logs, though, the walls of this post were made of adobe, fifteen feet high, four feet thick, and impregnable to anything short of a prolonged cannon bombardment.

  The buildings inside backed up to those massive walls and faced inward on a central plaza with a well in the middle of it. At the rear of the compound was a large corral, also surrounded by adobe walls.

  The fort sat by itself in the middle of the prairie with the Arkansas River following its winding course a short distance to the south. During wet weather, the ground around the outside tended to get boggy except in certain areas, which made it even more difficult to attack.

  Now, at the height of summer, the river was fairly low and the hard-packed dirt around the fort had tipis set up on it where friendly Indians had come to trade and scrounge. As Breckinridge and Charlie Moss rode slowly toward the fort, Breck looked at the ruts left by the wagons traveling on the Santa Fe Trail and knew those wagon trains probably stopped here quite often. After the long trek across the middle of the country, this outpost of civilization would be a welcome sight.

  The gates were on the north wall of the compound, so Breckinridge and Moss approached from that direction. At the moment, the gates were open, and several buckskin-clad men lounged around the entrance, smoking pipes and talking. Some of them held rifles, and more of the long-barreled flintlocks were leaning against the wall nearby. The ground in front of the fort was flat and open and the men at the gates could see trouble coming for a long way. Breck knew they were watching him and Moss, but the two of them evidently didn’t represent a threat, because the loungers continued to lounge.

  They did, however, become a little more alert as Breckinridge and Moss reined to a stop in front of the gates. One of the men, a burly fellow with two white streaks extending down from the corners of his mouth through his black beard, said, “Howdy, boys. Welcome to Bent’s Fort. You come to trade?”

  “Nope,” Breckinridge said. “Lookin’ for somebody. Fella name of Jud Carnahan. Sawed-off gent, about as wide as he is tall. Got a beard comes down to the middle of his chest, or at least he did the last time we saw him.”

  “Friend of yours, is he?”

  “Not exactly.” Breckinridge wasn’t sure how much to say. Carnahan could act friendly when he wanted to, so there was no telling who might be sympathetic to him and want to mislead any enemies on his trail. “We’ve got business with him, though. Is he here?”

  “Hell, I don’t know,” the man replied. He looked around at the others, who shrugged. “Ain’t been here all that long myself, so I ain’t sure who’s around. Talk to St. Vrain. He could tell you, I reckon.”

  “Who’s that?” Breckinridge asked. “We’re not from around these parts.”

  “Ceran St. Vrain. Him and William Bent built this place. Their company owns it. Bent’s off down in Santa Fe right now, but I seen St. Vrain just a little while ago, goin’ into the blacksmith shop.”

  “Much obliged to you.”

  Breckinridge and Moss nudged their horses forward. None of the men tried to stop them as they rode through the open gates and the tunnel-like entrance to the fort.

  Inside, it was like being in a miniature town. Various establishments lined the walls, including a store, a saloon, a gunsmith, and the blacksmith shop, which Breckinridge located by following the sound of a hammer ringing against an anvil. Breck and Moss dismounted and led their horses across the plaza, past the well and the hitch rails where other mounts were tied.<
br />
  A sturdy-looking man who had a fringe of brown beard running down his jaw and under his chin but was otherwise clean-shaven stood just inside the blacksmith shop’s entrance. He had been talking to the brawny smith in his thick leather apron, but the man turned to nod to Breckinridge and Moss as they strode up.

  “Gentlemen,” he said. “Welcome to Bent’s Fort. You’re new here, are you not?”

  “Just rode in,” Breckinridge confirmed. “I’m Breckinridge Wallace. This here is Charlie Moss.”

  “Ceran St. Vrain,” the man introduced himself. “A pleasure to meet you. Did you bring furs to trade?”

  St. Vrain could see for himself that there were no pelts on the packhorse tied to Moss’s saddle, but asking the question like that gave newcomers the opportunity to provide as much or as little information as they wanted. People on the frontier quickly learned that it wasn’t polite to be too curious about strangers.

  “No, we’re trappers, sure enough, but right now we’re on other business. Lookin’ for a fella named Jud Carnahan.”

  A frown of what appeared to be disapproval immediately creased St. Vrain’s high forehead.

  “A friend of yours?” he asked, as had the man at the gate.

  Given St. Vrain’s reaction, Breckinridge felt comfortable this time in saying, “Not hardly.”

  “Good, because he seemed like a thoroughly unsavory man.”

  Charlie Moss said, “I’d describe him as more of a no-good son of a—”

  “Is he here?” Breckinridge broke in impatiently.

  St. Vrain shook his head and said, “No. He was, two weeks ago, I would say. Like so many who come here, he was bound for Santa Fe. To that end, he attached himself to a train of freight wagons headed for the same destination. There’s more safety traveling in numbers, you know.”

  “Those freighters agreed to let him go along, just like that?”

  St. Vrain shrugged.

  “Carnahan was one more gun, in case of trouble. The Indians in this region are, by and large, peaceable to white men and Mexicans. My partner, William Bent, is married to a woman of the Southern Cheyenne and is well respected in that tribe and among the Arapaho as well. But between here and Santa Fe, the Navajo are intermittently hostile and have been known to attack wagon trains. Carnahan appeared to be a competent fighter.”