“I think Nicodemus and Mahone are going to stand there threatening and yelling at each other across the creek for a while, and then they’ll go on about their business,” Annie said with a smile. “They’re both too greedy to do anything else.”
“I hope you’re right. I’m counting on making some money at this rendezvous.”
That was her mistake, thought Annie. None of the girls would make much money from their efforts, not as long as Finch collected it and kept the lion’s share for himself.
Finch and Moffit stopped at the very tip of the point, not much more than a stone’s throw from the wagons parked on the other side of the creek. Annie had seen Black Tom Mahone a few times and would recognize him if she saw him again, but so far he wasn’t in sight. On the seat of the lead wagon were a fox-faced, middle-aged man who had hold of the reins and beside him a dark-haired woman who was probably one of Mahone’s doves. She regarded Annie with a cool stare, and Annie returned the look.
That one was trouble, Annie thought.
Before she could ponder any more, Mahone came limping into sight from one of the other wagons, leaning on the heavy walking stick he used.
As soon as Finch laid eyes on his old enemy, he threw back his head, howled like a wolf, and bellowed, “I’m gonna choke the life outta him with my bare hands!”
He lunged toward the creek, clearly bent on crossing it and attacking Mahone.
Chapter Twenty-three
Dulcy had seen Nicodemus Finch enough times to recognize him easily. It would have been hard to mistake that bedraggled little banty rooster of a man.
She didn’t know the name of the big, dark-haired man who grabbed Finch just as he was about to plunge into the creek. The man held on to Finch and kept him from trying to attack Mahone. That didn’t stop Finch from flailing around in front of him with his fists.
“Lemme go!” Finch howled. “I’ll murder the swamp-guzzled hoptoad!”
“Take it easy, boss,” the dark-haired man advised. “You’re not gonna make things any better by actin’ this way.”
Mahone rested both hands on the head of his walking stick and leaned forward. He called, “Finch! Nicodemus Finch! You’re squattin’ in my rightful place! You’re gonna have to move that ragtag camp of yours!”
Finch stopped waving his arms around and stared at Mahone in apparent astonishment.
“Your place?” he repeated. “This here is Finch’s Point! It says so right on the map!”
“The hell you say!” Mahone responded. “If it really does say that on a map, it’s because you wrote it on there, you boat-burnin’ old scalawag!”
Dulcy didn’t see how Mahone could justify claiming that the point was his by right. None of this land out here belonged to anybody, except in the most general sense that it was part of the Louisiana Territory and as such part of the United States.
That behavior was typical, though. Anything Finch had, Mahone wanted, and vice versa.
Finch shook his finger at Mahone and said, “You better just turn around and go back where you come from, Black Tom! You ain’t welcome here!”
“It’s a free country,” Mahone responded. “We’re here for the rendezvous, and we intend to stay.” He swept his right hand toward the wagons. “I’ve got the finest whiskey and women west of the Mississippi!”
“You got alligator piss and disease-ridden harridans! Any man who drinks your whiskey will get the blind staggers, and any man who consorts with your females will be scratchin’ hisself for the rest of his borned days!”
Dulcy frowned. Finch could insult Mahone all day as far as she was concerned, but she didn’t care for the accusation the man had just made. She and Sally, Emma, and Poppy were all in good health, other than Poppy’s broken arm.
“You’re wrong, Mr. Finch!” she called in a clear, ringing voice. “No man has to fear our company.”
One of Finch’s girls sauntered forward. Her long hair was so pale it was almost white. Dulcy had seen the sun shining on it a few minutes earlier. Tresses that fair were quite visible.
The girl was lovely, too, in a low-cut woolen dress that hugged her curves. With a smirk on her face, she said, “No man would want your company, I’m thinking.”
Dulcy’s eyes narrowed as she felt an instinctive dislike for this young woman. She snapped, “You’d be wrong about that. Very wrong.”
“We’ll see, I suppose,” the blonde said with that self-satisfied smile still on her face. Dulcy felt an undeniable urge to go over there and slap it off of her.
Mahone said, “Are you gonna get off that land, Finch?”
“Hell, no!” Finch shouted back. “And you can’t make me, you dingle-plated foofaraw!”
“You’re as big a lunatic as you ever were,” Mahone muttered under his breath. Then he raised his voice again and said, “We’ll just set up over there on this side of the creek, then.”
“You do that! See if it means a diddle-butted damn to me!”
“What you’ll see is all the trappers at the rendezvous comin’ over here to visit my tents,” Mahone said with a sneer.
“That’ll be the day,” Finch snorted.
Mahone ignored that and turned to face his people. Leaning on the cane with one hand, he waved the other in the air and called, “Unhitch those teams! Get to work settin’ up the tents! This’ll be our spot, right here.”
To tell the truth, it didn’t appear to Dulcy to be a bad place to set up. Just like the land on the other side of the creek, there was plenty of graze for the animals and water for all their needs and level ground on which to set up the tents. Anything Finch’s company could do over there, Mahone’s group could do just as well over here. It was just the sheer stubborn hatred the two men felt for each other that made the location an issue.
Dulcy climbed down from the wagon and went back along the line of vehicles to check on Poppy. The injured girl was riding in the third wagon with Sally to look after her. Dulcy lowered the tailgate and asked, “How are you doing in there?”
“Have we gotten where we’re going?” Poppy asked.
Dulcy had rigged a sling to support the broken limb. Poppy was propped up with pillows all around her to cushion her splinted and bandaged arm from the jolts of the trail. Her face was pale and drawn anyway from the discomfort.
“Yes, we’re here,” Dulcy told her. “We won’t be going anywhere else for a while.”
“Good. Maybe my arm will be better by the time we move on.”
“I hope so.”
Dulcy started to turn away, but Poppy stopped her by saying, “You girls are going to need my help. You can’t handle all the business you’ll have, just the three of you.”
Sally said, “We’ll be fine. Tom always says it’s more important to sell whiskey, anyway.”
“Well, if there’s anything I can do . . .”
“For now, just rest and try to get better,” Dulcy said. “We’ll worry about everything else later.”
Danny, Humphries, and the other men were unhitching the teams of mules from the wagons. When that chore was finished, they would set up the big tent first, the one that would serve as a tavern. Some of the whiskey barrels would have to be trundled into it. The bar would be planks placed across the tops of those barrels. It was a crude but effective operation. The trappers who would show up for the rendezvous would only care about the whiskey, not the surroundings in which they drank it.
The soiled doves would live and work in smaller tents near the big one. Those quarters would be spartan in their simplicity. A candle, a small table, a cot . . . that was all they needed.
And all they deserved, Dulcy sometimes thought. At other times, she wished there could be something more, some small touches of home . . .
None of them had homes anymore, though. She knew the other girls’ sad stories, although she had never shared hers with them. Since she was somewhat older than them, she supposed they saw her as a mother figure.
That was as close as she would ever come to being
a mother again, so she supposed it was better than nothing.
She walked toward the creek again, and on the other side she saw the blonde with whom she had traded words earlier. The young woman stood there regarding her coolly for a moment, then turned and walked away with her back stiff and hostile.
Dulcy wasn’t sure why the blonde had taken an immediate dislike to her . . . but whatever the reason, the feeling was mutual.
“Careful, there! Careful!”
Mahone’s shout drew her attention. She turned and saw that several of the men had laid wide planks from the ground to the lowered tailgate of one of the wagons. Now they were trundling out a small cannon, one of Mahone’s proudest possessions. They rolled it down the planks onto the ground.
“Load her up,” Mahone ordered.
The cannon was capable of firing a three-pound ball, but Danny loaded it only with a charge of powder and some wadding. He primed the artillery piece, then looked to Mahone.
“This’ll let everybody in the valley know that the rendezvous is on,” Mahone said with a satisfied nod. “Fire away!”
Danny gave the lanyard attached to the cannon a sharp jerk. Flint and steel struck sparks and set off the priming charge, which was followed instantly by a huge boom as the main charge went off. The sound rolled across the valley and echoed back from the hills and mountains, loud enough to be heard for several miles. The trappers might not know for sure what the signal meant, but they could make a pretty good guess.
Now it was just a matter of time before they began to show up.
Chapter Twenty-four
Breckinridge and Morgan were checking traps when they heard the loud boom in the distance. Both young men lifted their heads at the sound.
“What in the world?” Morgan exclaimed.
“That sounded like a cannon,” Breckinridge said.
“But who in blazes would be settin’ off a cannon out here?”
“You know what I bet it was?” Morgan asked with a grin. “I’ll bet that was a signal letting everybody in the valley know that the rendezvous has started.”
Breckinridge thought about it and nodded. “You’re probably right,” he told his friend. “I sure can’t figure out what else it could have been.”
“Well, are we going to finish checking these traps, or are we going to the festivities?”
“We’re gonna finish checkin’ the trapline,” Breckinridge answered without hesitation. “There’ll be time enough to go to the rendezvous tomorrow.”
“Or tonight,” Morgan suggested. “I’ll bet everything goes on around the clock.”
He was probably right about that, thought Breckinridge. Morgan was anxious to see those gals again, as soon as possible, and Breck couldn’t really blame him for feeling that way.
It might be interesting, too, to see what went on between Nicodemus Finch and Black Tom Mahone.
“Let’s get movin’,” Breckinridge said. “The sooner we finish checkin’ these traps, the sooner we can go see what’s happenin’ down at Finch’s Point.”
It was an abbreviated day’s work anyway because of the ambush and the battle that morning, so Breckinridge decided not to worry too much about how diligent he and Morgan were. They checked several more traps, found only one beaver, and Breck announced, “Hell, let’s head back to camp.”
Morgan didn’t argue.
Since Fulbright had the wound in his arm, Akins had decided that the two of them would remain in camp and work on getting the pelts they had already taken baled up and ready to transport. By the time Breckinridge and Morgan got there, the two older men had the bundles of pelts loaded in the canoes. The creek that ran beside the camp was the same one on which Finch’s Point was located, so it wouldn’t be difficult to paddle down to the rendezvous site.
“I reckon you fellas heard that cannon go off,” Fulbright greeted them. “Either the rendezvous’s fixin’to start, or else we’re goin’ to war.”
“That fellow Powell said this morning sounded like the War of 1812 all over again,” Morgan said with a smile. “But I sure hope it’s the rendezvous.”
“Ready to see those gals you didn’t want to tell us about, are you?” Akins asked.
“I won’t lie to you, Roscoe . . . they’ve been on my mind, sure enough.”
Breckinridge said, “Let me get this carcass skinned and the pelt staked out, and then we can head on.”
That didn’t take long. By now Breckinridge was an old hand at removing the pelt from a dead beaver. The sun was still up when the four men climbed into the canoes and pushed off from the bank. The current caught the lightweight craft and carried them downstream, aided by the paddles the men wielded.
When they came in sight of the point, they saw wagons parked on both sides of the creek. Tents had been erected, and lanterns hung from poles, giving the place a festive look. Breckinridge and his friends had the closest camp, so Breck wasn’t surprised to see that they appeared to be the first ones to arrive.
“Is that all the same bunch?” Akins called over from the other canoe. “Or are there different outfits on different sides of the creek?”
“Let’s find out,” Morgan said, although he and Breckinridge already knew the answer to that, having encountered Nicodemus Finch and his party first.
Morgan was sitting in the front of the canoe with Breckinridge, and he angled the craft to the left, toward the point where Finch was set up. If it had been up to Breck, he might have gone to Mahone’s group first. He wanted to see Dulcy again.
On the other hand, that fair-haired Annie Belle worked for Finch, and she was certainly worth a man’s attention, too.
When you looked at it like that, thought Breckinridge, he couldn’t lose either way.
Nicodemus Finch was waiting on the creek bank in the gathering dusk. He waved his arms in the air and called, “Welcome, boys, welcome! Come right on in for the biggest, dang-tootin’est rendezvous there e’re was!”
The men got out and splashed ashore, dragging the canoes and their loads of pelts onto the bank with them.
“Any fur traders here yet?” Breckinridge asked.
“Naw, but I reckon they’re bound to show up tomorrow. You boys are the first ones here, so you get the best deal! Trade your furs to me and you’ll have all the whiskey and women you want for the next three or four days, you can bet your hide on that!”
Finch seemed to be a little more coherent than usual this evening. That didn’t last long, however, because Black Tom Mahone came up to the edge of the creek on the other side, cupped a hand around his mouth, and called, “Over here, boys! Better whiskey, better women, better deals for your furs!”
“You hush your tarnal mouth, Tom Mahone!” Finch screeched at him. “These fellas are doin’ business with me, and you ain’t gonna steal ’em away!”
“Man’s got a right to trade with whoever he wants to!” Mahone shouted back.
Akins looked back and forth between the two men and muttered, “These varmints don’t like each other very much, do they?”
Morgan asked Breckinridge, “What are we going to do? Should we go ahead and trade our furs with Mr. Finch?”
Quietly, Breckinridge replied, “I think I’d rather wait until the fur company men get here. They’re liable to give us a better price than either of these bunches.”
Akins said, “You’re right. We ought to at least wait and find out what they’re offerin’.”
“Somebody’s gonna have to stand guard over the pelts,” Fulbright rumbled. “Why don’t I do that, whilst you boys go on and have you some fun?”
“That don’t hardly seem fair,” Akins objected.
“Yeah, well, with this sore arm of mine, I ain’t sure I’m up to too much sportin’ just yet. Give me a day or two of recuperatin’, and then I’ll be rarin’ to go. If one of you was to offer to bring me a jug of whiskey, though, I wouldn’t argue.”
“We can do that,” Akins said. “Just don’t get so drunk you can’t keep an eye on those furs.”
/>
“You know me, Roscoe. Whiskey don’t muddle me overmuch.”
“Just keep it in mind,” Akins warned. He turned to Breckinridge and Morgan and went on, “I’ll get Amos his jug. You boys go on and suit yourself.”
“You don’t have to tell me twice,” Morgan said with a grin almost big enough to swallow his face. “C’mon, Breck!”
They started toward the tents. Breckinridge cast a glance across the creek, toward the lantern-lit encampment over there, and thought about Dulcy again.
Then he heard a low-voiced exclamation from Morgan, and as he turned his head a sight greeted Breckinridge’s eyes that drove any thoughts of other women out of his mind, at least for the time being.
Blond Annie Belle, standing there with the soft light flowing through the thin shift that clung to her body, was enough to make a man forget that any other woman in the world even existed.
Chapter Twenty-five
Breckinridge couldn’t seem to make his mouth work. He stood there with his jaw hanging open as he looked at Annie. Morgan was equally dumbfounded.
She seemed amused by their stunned reaction. She smiled as she sauntered toward them and said, “Hello, boys. Remember me?”
There was no way in hell any man could ever forget her, Breckinridge thought. Especially considering the way they had first seen her, poised in all her splendor on that rock, about to dive into the pool . . .
Annie hadn’t forgotten that incident, either.
Her smile disappeared as she said, “You know, that time you spied on me.”
“We . . . we didn’t . . .” Morgan stumbled.
“Don’t try to make excuses,” Annie snapped. “You know good and well what you did. You can just find somebody else to cuddle up with. I don’t want anything to do with either of you.”
Morgan looked a little like he was about to cry.
Tall, lanky Francesca came out of one of the tents in time to hear Annie’s sharp voice. She was in the same half-dressed state as the blonde. She moved around Annie and linked her right arm with Morgan’s left.
River of Blood Page 12