“Hang on back there!” he shouted to the women. He hoped the wagon would settle back down, but it leaned even more and he knew it wasn’t going to recover. He let go of the brake, twisted around, and scrambled for the other side of the floorboard. Maybe his weight would make a difference, he hoped.
It didn’t. The wagon was going over and there wasn’t a blasted thing he could do about it.
He jumped clear.
Breckinridge seemed to sail through the air for a long time before he crashed back to the earth. At least he hadn’t slammed into a tree or a rock. He rolled over and over and finally came to a stop on his belly. The impact had knocked the air out of his lungs, so for a long moment all he could do was lie there and gasp for breath.
When he was able to raise his head and push himself up on his hands, he saw the wagon lying on its side about ten yards away. It didn’t appear to have busted apart, although it had gouged a short path in the dirt before coming to a stop. He heard frightened shouts from inside it.
More yelling came from up the slope. Breckinridge looked and saw Morgan, Tom Mahone, and the other men hurrying down the trail. On his spindly legs and using the walking stick, Mahone was having a hard time of it.
“Breck, you crazy fool!” Morgan shouted as he reached Breckinridge’s side. “What did you think you were doing? Are you all right?”
“I . . . I think so,” Breckinridge said, still a little breathless. “You better check on . . . the gals in that wagon.”
“Gals?” Morgan repeated as his eyebrows went up in surprise. “There are women—”
The other men were already at the overturned wagon. Mahone brought up the rear, limping along and yelling, “Dulcy! Emma! Sally! Poppy !”
One of the men pulled the canvas at the rear of the wagon aside and leaned down to ask, “Are you girls all right?”
“Give us a hand, Danny,” a female voice said from inside the vehicle.
The man reached into the wagon and helped one of the women climb out. She was the one who had reached down to grab his wrist, Breckinridge realized. He was relieved when he saw that she appeared to be all right. A little unsteady when she got to her feet, maybe, but she had a right to be shaken up.
The next woman to crawl out of the wagon seemed to be unhurt, too. She had long blond hair and wasn’t as pretty as the brunette, but she still had an earthy attractiveness about her.
Breckinridge had already figured out that these women were probably some of the soiled doves who worked for Mahone. He was bringing in whores for the rendezvous just like Finch.
Breckinridge heard whimpering from inside the wagon and knew that at least one of the other women hadn’t been as lucky as the first two. The brunette said, “I think Poppy’s arm is broken.”
“I’ll go in and get her,” the man called Danny said.
“Be careful,” the brunette told him. “If you jostle her around, you might make it worse.”
“I’m not gonna jostle her,” Danny snapped. “I’ll take it easy.”
He disappeared inside the wagon, and a minute later he crawled out with a sobbing figure cradled against his broad chest. This young woman had light brown, almost blond, hair falling in wings around her tear-streaked face. Her right arm lay at a funny angle across her body. It was likely broken all right, Breckinridge thought.
“Gimme a hand,” he told Morgan. The smaller man clasped Breckinridge’s wrist and helped him to his feet.
The fourth woman clambered out of the wagon. She appeared to be all right, too. She was petite, with very short black hair. In a shirt and trousers, she might have passed for a boy.
Puffing and blowing, Mahone leaned on his cane and tried to recover from his exertion. The brunette who had helped Breckinridge into the wagon walked over to him with her face set in angry lines.
“Damn it, Tom!” she said. “You almost got us killed!”
Her hand flashed up and cracked across Mahone’s face.
Chapter Thirteen
Breckinridge was shocked by the unexpected blow. From the look on Mahone’s face, so was he.
Mahone got over his surprise quickly, though. One hand shot out and grabbed the brunette’s wrist, twisting it sharply. She grimaced in pain.
“Damn your hide, Dulcy!” he yelled. “You ever lay a hand on me again and I’ll make you sorry you were ever born!”
“Too late,” she told him through clenched teeth.
“I’ve felt that way ever since I met you.”
Breckinridge and Morgan glanced at each other. It wasn’t their place to interfere here, but neither of them liked seeing a woman being manhandled like that. Breck was about to step forward and say something when Mahone snarled and let go of Dulcy’s wrist.
“Just remember what I told you,” Mahone muttered.
“I’m not likely to forget,” Dulcy said. She turned and stalked away, heading for the grassy spot next to the trail where Danny had placed the injured Poppy. Dulcy knelt next to her and started carefully examining her arm.
Mahone limped over to Breckinridge and Morgan, looked up at Breck, and said, “Thank you for trying to help, young fella.”
“I just couldn’t hold the wagon,” Breckinridge said. “It was too much for me.”
Mahone snorted and said, “It would’ve been too much for anybody to hold by themselves. And that was a mighty crazy stunt you pulled, hanging on to the rope like that and pulling yourself into the wagon.”
“Crazy is the word for it, all right,” Morgan agreed. “You could’ve been killed, Breck.”
“Well, that goes for those women who were inside the wagon, too,” Breckinridge said. He frowned at Mahone. “You should’ve made ’em get out before your men started lettin’ the wagon down the trail on that rope.”
“I know, I know. Just didn’t occur to me. I like to keep ’em out of sight as much as I can. Don’t want the sight of such fine specimens of womanhood inflaming the passions of any men around here until the time is right.”
“You mean at the rendezvous,” Breckinridge said.
“What else would I mean?”
Dulcy came over to join them again. She reported, “Poppy’s arm is broken, all right. I’ve got Danny looking for some branches that’ll do to splint it with. She’s going to be in considerable pain, though. I want to fill a jug from one of the whiskey barrels. She’ll need it.”
“That whiskey’s to sell to the trappers,” Mahone objected with a frown. “Is Poppy gonna be able to work?”
“Have you lost your mind?” Dulcy asked him. “I told you, she’s hurting really bad. You can forget about her entertaining any customers for a while. And she needs that whiskey now, Tom.”
Mahone rubbed his chin, scowled, and said, “I dunno. Drinking up the profits while she can’t even earn anything. . .”
Dulcy folded her arms across her chest, gave him a determined glare, and said, “Unless you want all of us to go on strike here and now, Tom, you’d better do whatever is necessary to take care of that girl and make her as comfortable as you can.”
Mahone drew in a sharp breath and demanded, “Are you threatening me?”
“No, I’m just telling you the way things are,” Dulcy replied coolly.
Breckinridge couldn’t help but admire her. He liked the way she stood up to Mahone, and there was no denying how attractive she was.
She was older than he had taken her for at first, probably in her late twenties. Her dark hair was fairly short and pulled back behind her head except for some strands that had escaped and fell around her face. She had a tiny scar just above her upper lip at the right corner of her mouth, but rather than detracting from her looks, it gave her character, Breckinridge thought.
Dulcy and Mahone traded dueling stares for a couple of seconds, then Mahone said with grudging agreement, “All right, you can give her some of the whiskey. But only as much as she needs to dull the pain. I don’t want to catch any of you other gals nipping at the jug, either!”
“If working f
or you hasn’t already driven us all to drink, I doubt if this will,” Dulcy said in a dry tone of voice that made Mahone flush angrily. He didn’t say anything else, though, until she had turned and walked back over to Poppy again.
Then Mahone muttered to Breckinridge and Morgan, “That woman and her stubborn, highfalutin ways are gonna be the death of me yet.” He frowned at them and went on, “Now, what was it you boys wanted?”
“Just to see what was goin’ on up there at the pass,” Breckinridge said. “We heard the hollerin’ and wanted to check on it.”
“Well, now you know, so you can be on your way.”
Breckinridge ignored that and asked, “How are you gonna get the rest of your wagons down? You can’t trust that rope.”
“Speaking of that rope,” Mahone said, “I want to take a look at it.”
Leaning heavily on the walking stick, he went over to the wrecked wagon. The frayed rope was still tied to the back of the vehicle. Mahone bent down awkwardly and picked it up so he could examine the place where it had started to come apart.
“That’s just what I thought!” he exclaimed. He thrust the rope toward Breckinridge and Morgan. “Look there! Somebody cut that rope part of the way through and weakened it. They were trying to wreck that wagon and kill my girls!”
“Let me see,” Breckinridge said. He took the rope from Mahone and studied it for a long moment. “I don’t know. Looks like it might’ve been sawed on, but the way so many of the strands have come apart, it’s hard to be sure.”
“Well, damn it, I’m sure,” Mahone said. “I’ve got a damn spy working for me! Somebody’s trying to ruin me, and I know who’s responsible for it—that sorry, no-good Nicodemus Finch!”
That theory seemed a mite far-fetched to Breckinridge, but he supposed there could be something to it. He asked, “Do you have any new men along on this trip?”
Mahone frowned and shook his head.
“No, they’ve all been with me for a while. Couple of years, at the least. But every man’s got his price, and there ain’t any other explanation!”
“Unless the rope just wore out,” Morgan said.
“Well, I’ve got another rope,” Mahone said, getting back to Breckinridge’s original question, “and you can damn well bet that I’ll take a good look at it before we use it to let any of the other wagons down the slope!”
“How many wagons do you have?” Breckinridge asked.
“Five more, filled mostly with whiskey barrels, but I’ve got some trade goods, too. Sometimes Injuns show up at a rendezvous, and if they’re friendly, I’ll trade with ’em. A pelt brought in by a redskin is worth just as much as one I get from a white man.”
“Wait a minute,” Morgan said. “You only brought four women with you?”
“Four’s enough. I need the wagon space for whiskey. I make more money off of it.” Mahone scowled. “But damn it, with Poppy laid up because of that busted arm, now I only got three whores to keep all you trappers happy. That’s not gonna be easy. Wonder if I could find any squaws around here who might want to earn some beads or cloth?”
“The only Indians we’ve seen in this valley were Blackfeet,” Breckinridge told the man. “And I’d advise against tryin’ to get any of their women to work for you, Mr. Mahone. I don’t think they’d take kindly to that.”
Mahone blew out a disgusted-sounding breath.
“I’m not afraid of any damn Blackfeet. They’re an ornery bunch, no doubt about that, but I’ve got plenty of rifles, powder, and shot and good men to use ’em.” He paused, then added, “Except for the blasted traitor who sawed through that rope, whichever one he is.”
Breckinridge still wasn’t convinced that Mahone’s suspicions were correct, but that was really none of his or Morgan’s business. As long as the rivalry between Mahone and Finch didn’t spill over into open warfare, they could hate each other all they wanted.
Mahone suddenly frowned at them and said, “What are you two still doin’ here? I told you, you can be on your way.”
“When’s the rendezvous start?” Breckinridge asked.
“Let me think . . . It’ll take the rest of the day to get those other wagons down, maybe even part of the day tomorrow . . . then part of a day to set up . . . Ought to be ready to go day after tomorrow. The day after that at the latest. We’ve been spreading the word along the way, and the men we talked to will spread it more, so there ought to be a couple hundred trappers headed this way already.”
“That many?” Breckinridge exclaimed. The valley was going to get crowded, he thought. It was good that he and his friends had already taken as many pelts as they had.
“That’s right. Now skedaddle. Come back when you’re ready to do business.”
Mahone turned away dismissively and hobbled over to the wrecked wagon. He shook his head as he looked at it, probably wondering if they could get it upright again and continue to use it.
Breckinridge and Morgan had turned to leave when a voice said from behind them, “Wait a minute, please.”
Breckinridge looked over his shoulder and saw Dulcy standing there. He stopped and swung around, as did Morgan.
“What can we do for you, ma’am?” Breckinridge asked.
“You’ve already done it,” Dulcy said. “You slowed down that wagon as much as you could, and you risked your life doing it, too. If it had been going full speed when it crashed, there’s a good chance more of us would have been hurt. Maybe even killed.”
“Yeah, you could break your neck in a mishap like that,” Breckinridge agreed. “I was glad to do what I could.”
“Well, we appreciate it.” She held out a hand. “I’m Dulcy Harris.”
Breckinridge wasn’t accustomed to having women offer to shake hands with him, but he didn’t hesitate. He gripped Dulcy’s hand in his, liking the smooth, warm, strong feel of it.
“Breckinridge Wallace,” he told her. “My friend here is Morgan Baxter.”
“Breckinridge,” she said after she’d shaken hands with Morgan, too. “That’s a distinguished name.”
“I don’t know where my ma and pa came up with it, but they always said it seemed to suit me,” he said with a smile.
“I think it does, too.” She reached out and rested her hand lightly on his arm. “Once the rendezvous is set up, you’ll come by and see us, won’t you, Breckinridge?”
“Yes, ma’am. I reckon you can count on that.”
“Good. I’ll be looking forward to it.”
As Dulcy walked away, Morgan nudged Breckinridge with an elbow and said, “I think she’s a mite taken with you, Breck.”
“Naw, that’s just the way gals like her are. They’re in the habit of makin’ a fella feel good about himself.”
“Whores, you mean.”
“Sure.”
But actually, Breckinridge wasn’t sure. Dulcy’s gratitude and friendliness had seemed genuine. And she was mighty pretty, too. Maybe not as breathtakingly lovely as Annie Belle, but as he pictured both of them in his mind, he realized that if a man had to choose between them, it would be quite a dilemma.
This might make that rendezvous a little more interesting than it already promised to be . . .
Chapter Fourteen
Because of the encounter with Black Tom Mahone’s group, it took Breckinridge and Morgan longer to check the traplines than it normally would have. It was late in the afternoon before they started back to camp with four beaver carcasses. The animals were yoked together so that Breck could drag them behind him.
It was going to be dark before they reached camp. Along the way, they debated what to tell Akins and Fulbright about what had happened.
“They’re our partners,” Breckinridge said. “I don’t much like the idea of keepin’ secrets from ’em. Anyway, they’re bound to hear about that rendezvous in the next couple of days, if Mahone was right about a lot of other men headin’ for this valley.”
“I’m sure he was,” Morgan said. “News spreads surprisingly fast out here, co
nsidering how isolated and sparsely populated this part of the country is. But what harm will it do to keep the news to ourselves, just for the time being?”
“Are you thinkin’ about slippin’ off to the rendezvous first, so that you can get first choice on those gals?”
“Well, what would be the harm in that?” Morgan asked.
“It ain’t like any of ’em are what you’d call innocent,” Breckinridge pointed out.
“I suppose you’re right.” Morgan sighed. “And we’re already running the risk of Roscoe and Amos being offended because we didn’t say anything to them about Finch and his bunch. If we do that again, they’re liable to be really insulted.”
“So we go ahead and tell ’em about it?”
“I guess that would be the best thing to do.”
The whole thing turned out to be moot, however. As the two of them approached the camp a half hour or so after nightfall, they heard horses stamping and blowing and saw several figures moving against the glow of the flames from the fire pit.
“Somebody’s here,” Breckinridge said as his right hand tightened on the rifle he carried.
“Can’t be Blackfeet,” Morgan said worriedly. “We’d have heard shooting.”
“Unless they caught the fellas by surprise and took ’em prisoner . . . or already killed them.” Breckinridge’s voice was grim as he spoke.
“Maybe we’d better be careful and not walk right in,” Morgan suggested.
“Yeah, I was thinkin’ the same thing. Let’s circle around and come in from the other side.”
If they were going to be faced with a fight, Breckinridge didn’t want to be burdened with those beaver carcasses. He took the rope he had been using to pull them, tossed it over a tree branch, and hoisted them up high enough to be out of the reach of most predators. He could come back and get the beaver later if everything turned out all right.
With that done, he and Morgan slipped through the shadows as they skirted around the bluff where the camp was located.
Even though they weren’t experienced frontiersmen yet, they had been out here long enough to pick up the knack of moving through the brush without making much noise. Breckinridge was already pretty good at that from his time spent in the woods back home in Tennessee. He led the way with Morgan following close behind him, emulating his every move.
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