Damnation Valley

by William W. Johnstone

  Breckinridge drew his knife and held the blade in front of the man’s eyes.

  “If you can’t answer my questions, mister, you ain’t a bit of good to me and I might as well cut your throat now and get it over with. You understand that?”

  That got the wounded outlaw’s attention, but he wasn’t in the mood to cooperate. His lips drew back from his teeth in a snarl and he cursed bitterly at Breckinridge, concluding by saying, “You can just go to hell!”

  “You’ll get there before me,” Breckinridge said. “But not too soon.”

  He lowered the knife, rested the flat of the blade on the grisly wound in the man’s thigh, and pressed hard. The man’s head jerked back against the wagon wheel as he screamed.

  “I can make it hurt mighty bad,” Breckinridge went on. “Bad enough you’ll wish those shots had killed you right then and there. You can make it a lot easier on yourself just by tellin’ me a few things.”

  The man just glared at him, so Breckinridge bore down on the knife again, this time angling the blade enough so the edge cut into raw flesh.

  The scream that came from the man’s throat was pretty raw, too.

  Behind Breckinridge, Otis Shaftel cleared his throat. Breck looked back at him. Shaftel said, “I was going to ask if this is, ah, absolutely necessary, but I suppose it is or you wouldn’t be doing it. You’ve earned the benefit of the doubt from all of us, Breckinridge. Carry on.”

  Breckinridge nodded and said, “I figure to.” He looked at the wounded outlaw again. “Were you and the fellas with you the same bunch that wiped out some teamsters back along the trail and stole their wagons?”

  The man gasped, “You can . . . go to—” He caught his breath as Breckinridge started to press on the knife again. “All right, all right! I’ll tell you! Yes, it was us. We ambushed those freight wagons, damn you!”

  “There were two people travelin’ with them. A short, broad fella with a long beard and a good-lookin’ young blond woman—”

  “C-Carnahan . . . and his whore.”

  Breckinridge leaned forward with an intent frown on his face.

  “Carnahan,” he repeated. “You know his name?”

  “I . . . ought to. I was there . . . when our boss made the deal with him . . . at Bent’s Fort.”

  “The boss of your gang, you mean?”

  The man nodded weakly and said, “Yeah. We were there . . . scoutin’ around for some job we could pull . . . and Carnahan said he could help us . . . grab those freight wagons. He said he’d give us a signal . . . when he was on guard duty . . . and we could jump the teamsters . . . without any warnin’. It worked . . .”

  The man’s head drooped again, then snapped up when Breckinridge put more pressure on the knife.

  “So the attack was Carnahan’s idea?” That wouldn’t surprise Breckinridge in the least, but he wanted to be sure.

  “Y-yeah . . . he got a good cut . . . of the loot. I reckon we might have . . . tried to double-cross him . . . but he was too damn . . . crazy. We didn’t want to . . . take a chance . . .”

  “He wasn’t killed, then.”

  “No. He took his share . . . and the girl . . . and left . . . Said they were still going on . . . to Santa Fe—”

  This time when the wounded bandit abruptly stopped talking, it wasn’t just his head that sagged. His whole body went limp. Breckinridge took hold of his chin and yanked his head up again. The man’s still-open eyes stared sightlessly at him.

  Breckinridge grunted and said, “Reckon he must’ve been hit worse than anybody figured. Probably bleedin’ inside somewhere. One way or another, it was enough.”

  “He’s dead?” Shaftel asked.

  “Yep,” Breckinridge said as he came to his feet. “And no great loss, either. I found out what I needed to know.”

  * * *

  Charlie Moss was still pale and not completely up to snuff the next morning, so he rode on the wagon seat with Georgina instead of riding with Breckinridge and Captain Shaftel. His saddle mount was tied on to the back of the wagon. Breck had a hunch that was the way Moss would travel the rest of the way to Santa Fe.

  And although he would be sad to lose such a staunch ally, he thought it would be a good idea if Moss stayed with the Shaftels to recuperate from his injury. If he did, there was a good chance he would wind up marrying Georgina and being the new pa to those kids, and Breckinridge thought that would be a fine thing. Moss wasn’t young anymore, and it didn’t make sense for him to keep tramping around the wilderness in search of beaver pelts when he could have a lot of good years with a pretty wife and a couple of fine young ’uns. Not that Breck would be interested in such a thing himself, but then, he was still young, despite the past troubles that sometimes made him feel a hundred years old.

  If Breckinridge’s hunch came true, he would have to go after Jud Carnahan alone once he reached Santa Fe, assuming Carnahan was still there. That was all right. Enough people had been hurt already because of this war between Breck and Carnahan. He wanted to get Carnahan away from everybody else so they finally could have it out between them, alone, with no one else at risk.

  Moss’s shoulder was heavily bandaged and he had his left arm in a sling as he rode on the wagon seat next to Georgina. Breckinridge ambled alongside on his horse.

  “Ought to be easy travelin’ the rest of the way into Santa Fe,” he commented. “All them bandits are dead, and I don’t think we’re gonna run into any Indian trouble all the way down here.”

  “Mr. Kanigher told my father we might still encounter some Navajo,” Georgina said.

  “Could be. I don’t know near as much about the tribes down this way. But I know most Indians will steer clear of a large, well-armed bunch like this one, and if it comes to a fight, well, you folks have been blooded. You’ll put up a good battle. I’m bettin’ the Navajo will know that and decide it’s too much trouble to bother you.”

  “I hope so,” Moss said. “I need to heal up a mite more before I’ll be ready for any Indian-fightin’.”

  “I don’t want any fighting,” Georgina said. “We’ve had enough of that. I just want to settle down and have a little farm where I can raise my children.”

  “That sounds mighty nice,” Moss said.

  She smiled over at him.

  “It does, doesn’t it? Have you ever thought any about farming, Charles?”

  And that’s how it gets started, Breckinridge thought with a grin as he heeled his horse into a faster pace and left his friend sitting there on the wagon, looking tongue-tied and uncomfortable but also very interested in whatever Georgina had to say.

  * * *

  St. Louis was the biggest city Breckinridge had ever seen, but Santa Fe was probably the second biggest. It was for sure the oldest, having been founded by the Spanish almost two centuries earlier, according to what Otis Shaftel told Breck. He liked the looks of the place, with its Spanish architecture featuring thick adobe walls and red tile roofs, its narrow, twisting streets, its sprawling array of colors spread across the valley with the majestic Sangre de Cristos rising to the west. Santa Fe had an air of sheer foreignness to it that greatly appealed to Breck, who had always liked seeing and experiencing new things. He doubted if anybody had ever referred to this picturesque place by a name like Damnation Valley.

  Although damnation could be found anywhere, he supposed . . .

  Otis Shaftel led the wagon train to the big plaza in the middle of town where the governor’s palace and all the territorial offices were located. He would have to notify the authorities that the wagons had arrived. They would remain in Santa Fe for a few days and replenish their supplies before beginning the last short leg of the trip, which would take them to the farmland along the Rio Grande where the immigrants would establish their new homes.

  While Shaftel was doing that, Breckinridge tied his horse at one of the hitch racks and walked over to the wagon where Charlie Moss stood with Georgina. Moss looked like he wanted to put his arm around her shoulders but coul
dn’t quite bring himself to do that out here in broad daylight.

  “I’ll get my gear together, Breck,” Moss said. “I was just fixin’ to tell Georgina and the young ’uns so long—”

  “What in blazes are you talkin’ about?” Breckinridge broke in. “Where do you think you’re goin’, Charlie?”

  Moss frowned and said, “Why, with you, of course.”

  Breckinridge shook his head. “No, you ain’t. After we went to as much trouble as we did makin’ sure these pilgrims got where they were goin’, you think I’d let you run off and leave ’em high and dry when they’re this close? Not hardly. You’re gonna stay with ’em until they get to those farms they’ve been talkin’ about.”

  “Now, that just ain’t necessary,” Moss argued stubbornly. “It’ll only take ’em another day or two—”

  “A day or two where anything could happen! No, I just wouldn’t feel right about it if they didn’t have you along to look out for ’em, Charlie. I’m sure the cap’n and Miss Georgina and all the other folks feel the same way.”

  “We do,” Georgina said as she looked up at Moss. “I know you’d be making a sacrifice . . . I mean, another day on this jolting wagon instead of spending the night in an actual bed and sitting in comfortable chairs . . . but if you could see your way clear to do it, Charles . . .”

  “Blast it! You know I can’t say no to you, Georgina,” Moss muttered, chewed his grayish-blond mustache for a second, and then said to Breckinridge, “If you’re sure it’s all right with you—”

  “I’m the one who suggested it, ain’t I?” Breckinridge clapped a hand on Moss’s uninjured shoulder. “Lookin’ out for these folks is your business now, Charlie. You tend to that, and I’ll tend to mine.”

  “Findin’ Jud Carnahan,” Moss said grimly.

  “That’s why I came all this way.”

  “How are you gonna do that?”

  “I figure to start askin’ around in all the taverns and saloons,” Breckinridge said. He would have added something about the whorehouses, since it was likely Carnahan might want to put Ophelia Garwood to work again, but Georgina was standing right there and the two Shaftel youngsters were in the back of the wagon, hanging over the seat and listening.

  “Well . . . good luck to you,” Moss said, extending his hand. “And if you wind up needin’ help, you come find me, hear?”

  “I sure will,” Breckinridge promised, even though he had no intention of ever doing so.

  This was his fight now, his and his alone, and that was how he intended to finish it.

  Chapter 29

  Santa Fe was a revelation to Breckinridge. He’d heard Spanish being spoken before, but never so much of it, flowing musically around him like a river. It was a lot more soothing than the often guttural languages of the various Indian tribes he’d been around. He didn’t understand much of it, so what the folks in Santa Fe were actually saying was mostly a mystery to him, but it sure sounded nice.

  He hoped that when he walked past, they weren’t saying Look at the big, dumb American.

  He didn’t believe that was what the gals were saying, not with the way they smiled at him but shyly shielded those smiles with the little fans they carried, all the while cutting their eyes around and giggling with their friends. They seemed quite taken with him, enough so that some of their male companions scowled and fingered the handles of the knives thrust behind the fancy sashes they wore around their waists.

  Breckinridge hoped that none of them tried to go to carving on him with those pigstickers. The ensuing fight would draw attention to him, and he didn’t want that while he was still looking for Jud Carnahan. It wouldn’t do for Carnahan to hear gossip about some huge, redheaded gringo getting into a fracas and laying waste to the crowd in the plaza.

  He didn’t want to get in trouble with the authorities, either. The Mexican soldiers in their fancy uniforms already eyed him suspiciously when he walked past them.

  He didn’t know any way to get a clue as to Carnahan’s whereabouts other than asking questions. He started in a saloon that appeared to be patronized mostly by Americans, judging by the men going in and out of it. Breckinridge joined them.

  From the outside, the place looked like a typical cantina, with thick adobe walls and an arched front door. The entrance had batwings across it, though, like an American saloon, and inside the walls were decorated with old wagon wheels and the stuffed heads of bears and deer. The heads were moldering a mite, since whoever stuffed them hadn’t done a very good job. The smell they gave off was masked by the mingled odors of beer, whiskey, piss, vomit, and long-unwashed human flesh. The miasma was pretty potent, but certainly nothing Breckinridge hadn’t encountered many times before.

  Despite the fact that it was the middle of the day, the saloon was pretty busy. Men lined the bar on the left-hand wall and sat at tables scattered across the big room. Card games went on at a couple of the tables, but mostly the men were drinking, talking, laughing, fondling the sultry, brown-skinned serving girls, and watching a girl dance at the back of the room, accompanied by two middle-aged Mexican men with guitars.

  The dancer sported a wild mane of curly, midnight black hair that she tossed back and forth as she whirled and gyrated. Her white blouse was a stark contrast to her brown skin, and it was cut so low it seemed that her exertions were going to make her ample breasts pop out of it at any second. She whipped her multicolored skirt back and forth and lifted it enough to expose bare feet and equally bare, flashing brown legs.

  Breckinridge wasn’t sure if the short, heavyset, dark-haired man behind the bar was Mexican or gringo. He could have been either. But there was a friendly smile on his round face when Breck made his way up to the bar.

  “What can I do for you, mister?”

  “Beer,” Breckinridge said.

  “Sure you wouldn’t rather have tequila? Or maybe pulque? I’ve got a jug that’s just about down to the worm.”

  Breckinridge didn’t have any idea what the fella was talking about. He said, “Just the beer.”

  “Of course. Every man has a right to name his own poison.”

  While the bartender was getting the beer, Breckinridge turned his head to look at the dancer. He couldn’t help but admire the effort she was making. A fine sheen of sweat covered her face. From time to time, a big enough drop of the moisture collected to fall from her chin into the dark valley of her breasts. Breck had to swallow hard when he noticed that.

  “Lupe is spectacular, isn’t she?” the bartender asked as he placed a wooden bucket of beer in front of Breckinridge.

  “She sure is.” Breckinridge forced himself to turn back to the bar. He lifted the bucket with both hands and took a deep swig from it.

  “She’s not for sale, though. None of the girls who work here are. I don’t mind if the customers’ hands stray. That’s only to be expected. But anybody who wants more than that can go to the Black Bull or one of the other houses.”

  Breckinridge licked warm beer suds off his upper lip and said, “The Black Bull?”

  “El Toro Negro, it used to be called when old Hernandez owned it. On account of the big, black wooden bull he used as a sign. But since that gringo bought it, folks have started using the gringo name.”

  Breckinridge found that interesting, but before he could ask any more questions, an angry voice spat a loud curse that went through the whole room, then the same man said, “Damn it, I’ve told you before, you can’t bring that redskin in here! Greasers are one thing, but a savage is another!”

  Breckinridge turned his head to look toward the entrance. The guitar music had fallen silent. The dancer stood with her braceleted arms hanging at her sides as her impressive chest rose and fell with her breathing. The men at the tables and the bar were looking around as well.

  An Indian stood just inside the batwings. He was tall and broad-shouldered, a very impressive physical specimen despite the fact that he was well into middle age. His hawkish face was completely impassive. Slowly, h
e lifted brawny arms and crossed them over his chest, making the long fringes on the sleeves of his buckskin shirt sway. Breckinridge recognized him as a Crow and figured it was probably unusual to see a member of that tribe this far south.

  As the expectant silence hung in the room, the Indian said in a deep voice, “Umm.”

  “As my friend has just demonstrated with that eloquent comment, he is hardly a savage. Though he lacks a formal education, due to the circumstances of his birth, he is in many ways the most learned man I know.”

  That comment, also in a powerful voice, seemed to come out of nowhere. Breckinridge frowned in confusion, unable to figure out who had spoken.

  A man had risen to his feet at one of the tables. He was an American, wearing rough town clothes, which led Breckinridge to figure he worked somewhere here in Santa Fe. A big nose and a thick, drooping black mustache dominated his craggy face. He took a step forward and pointed a blunt finger.

  “It’s bad enough when a freak like you comes in here. I’m not drinking with a heathen around!”

  “I daresay he’s more spiritual in his own way than you are, so I’d be careful who I was calling a heathen.”

  Those powerful tones once again seemed to come from empty air.

  Then a figure that made Breckinridge’s eyes widen in surprise stepped into view.

  The man wore buckskins and a broad-brimmed felt hat, carried a pistol and knife at his waist, and had a rifle cradled in the crook of his left arm.

  But he was no bigger than a child, and everything from his clothes to his weapons had either been made to fit his size or altered to do so. Like the Crow warrior, he was middle-aged, with a lightly grizzled beard curling on his chin and jaws. He had the arms, shoulders, and torso of a full-grown man, and his legs appeared sturdy, too, just much shorter than normal.

  At the sight of the man, something stirred in Breckinridge’s memory. He knew he had never seen anybody as distinctive as the little man, but he struck Breck as familiar somehow.

  The black-mustached man who was offended by the Indian’s presence said, “You’re the one who’d better be careful, runt. I’ll pick you up and toss you back out in the plaza like a little doll some kid left behind.”