River of Blood

by William W. Johnstone

  “Likewise,” Akins told him.

  As the four trappers walked away, Akins split up the gold and silver pieces among them. With that taken care of, there was nothing left for them to do during the rest of the rendezvous except enjoy themselves.

  “Reckon I’ll go see Annie,” Morgan declared.

  “You owe her some for last night, I expect,” Fulbright said. “These gals ain’t in it for fun, you know.”

  “Annie wouldn’t charge me. Not after the way we hit it off so well.” Morgan shrugged and ignored the grins the other men gave him. “But I’ll pay her some anyway, just so she won’t get in trouble with that crazy old Nicodemus Finch.”

  “And I’d better square things with Dulcy,” Breckinridge said. “Before I do, though . . .”

  He told the other three his brainstorm about making a log bridge across the creek. They agreed it was a good idea.

  “You find a good log,” Akins told Breckinridge. “I’ll go round up enough fellas to lift it.”

  “You come with me, Morgan,” Breckinridge said. “Annie won’t mind waitin’ a while before she sees you again.”

  “I don’t know about that. She seemed mighty taken with me.”

  Breckinridge doubted if Annie was completely sincere about that, but he supposed it was possible. Soiled doves could fall for a fella same as any other gal. Morgan came along with him as he searched for a suitable log, albeit a little grudgingly.

  It didn’t take them long to find a fallen cottonwood with a straight, fairly thick trunk. All its limbs had been chopped off and used for firewood, leaving only the bare trunk. Breckinridge tried to pick up one end by himself. Even his prodigious strength could barely budge it.

  “This one ought to do fine,” he said. “Go find Roscoe.”

  Morgan came back a few minutes later with Akins, Fulbright, and half a dozen other roughly dressed men. With the exception of Fulbright, who couldn’t lift because of his wounded arm, they all spaced themselves at intervals along the trunk and bent to get hold of it.

  “Ready, boys?” Breckinridge said. “Heave!”

  With grunts of effort they lifted the long, heavy tree trunk into the air and started carrying it toward the creek.

  They hadn’t gotten there yet when Nicodemus Finch rushed up to them with an agitated look on his billy-goat face.

  “Here now!” Finch cried. “What’re you moss-brained weehawkers doin’ with that log?”

  “They’re gonna make a bridge out of it,” Fulbright explained. All the men carrying the log were straining too much under its weight to spare the breath for an answer.

  “A bridge to where?” Finch asked. “That pitiful bunch o’ spavined, ragtag varmints on the other side o’ the creek?”

  “That’s the general idea.”

  “No! No, you can’t do that! You fellas don’t need to be goin’ back and forth. You’ll go over there and drink Mahone’s pathetic excuse for likker and associate with his unclean whores, and there ain’t no tellin’ what kind o’ damn pox you’ll bring back over here!”

  Attracted by the yelling, Mahone had appeared on the other side of the stream and came close enough to hear Finch’s ranting. He shouted, “My whiskey’s a lot better and my gals a lot cleaner than anything you’ll find over there in Finch’s camp, boys! Put that log right across the creek there! It’ll make a fine bridge!”

  That was no surprise, thought Breckinridge as he carried the front end of the log toward the creek. If Finch didn’t want something, Mahone was bound to insist vehemently on it. It would have worked the other way around if Finch had been in favor of the makeshift bridge.

  “Damn it, I say don’t do it!” Finch howled.

  Breckinridge and the other men ignored him. Breck waded into the creek at a spot he thought was narrow enough that the log would span it. The water was cold through his boots and buckskins, but he ignored it. The other men splashed into the stream behind him.

  The log was long enough to reach the opposite bank with several feet to spare on each end. Breckinridge turned his head and called to the men Akins had recruited, “All right, fellas, let’s set ’er down nice and easy!”

  They lowered the log into place, then climbed out onto the bank to check out their handiwork. Morgan walked to the center and turned to grin at Breckinridge and the others.

  “Works just fine,” he proclaimed. “I think we ought to name this the Breckinridge Wallace Memorial Bridge, since it was your idea, Breck.”

  “I don’t want any credit,” Breckinridge said. “Just figured it might make things a little easier for everybody, that’s all.”

  “And it was a fine idea, too,” said one of the men who had helped carry the log. He stuck out his hand and went on in a voice that held a trace of a British accent, “It’s good to meet you, Wallace. My name’s Harry Sykes.”

  Chapter Thirty-four

  With the log bridge in place, Morgan set off to find Annie, as he had mentioned before. Akins returned to the side of the creek unofficially dubbed Finch’s Point, too, since he was smitten with the strawberry-blond Siobhan. Fulbright went with them. Freed of his duty watching over the pelts, he could find one of the doves who suited his fancy now.

  “Careful of that ventilated wing o’ yours, Amos,” Breckinridge called after the big, bushy-bearded man.

  Fulbright just grinned back at him confidently and said, “I reckon I can manage.”

  Breckinridge headed for Dulcy’s tent. As he approached, the man called Danny got in front of him, blocking his path.

  “Hold on there, Wallace,” he said. “If you’re lookin’ for Dulcy, she’s sort of busy at the moment.”

  Breckinridge frowned, discovering to his surprise that the idea of Dulcy carrying on with her job bothered him more than he’d thought it would. He didn’t want to cause a scene and embarrass her or make her mad, though, so he said, “Reckon you could do somethin’ for me?”

  “What’s that?” Danny asked.

  Breckinridge took out one of the coins Akins had given him as his share of the money from the pelts. He said, “Here,” and slapped it into Danny’s outstretched palm. “Give that to her, will you?”

  “Sure.”

  Breckinridge’s scowl darkened as he added, “Don’t go puttin’ it in your pocket and forgettin’ about it, you hear? I’m gonna ask her about it later.”

  “I like Dulcy,” Danny protested. “I’m not gonna try to cheat her. And I’m sure as hell not gonna try to cheat Mahone. That wouldn’t be a safe thing to do.”

  Breckinridge nodded and said, “Just don’t forget.”

  He turned away, at a loss as to what to do now. He wasn’t really interested in any of the other women anymore, even the gorgeous Annie. Morgan had staked his claim on her, and Breckinridge wasn’t going to interfere with his friend.

  It was a little early in the day to be getting drunk, too, so he steered clear of the big tent taverns as he wandered around both camps.

  Some of the trappers appeared to be playing a game of some sort. They ran around carrying sticks, swatting at a rolled-up leather ball, and whooping in excitement. Breckinridge watched for a while with a puzzled frown on his face, then asked a man who was also watching, “What in the blue blazes are they doin’?”

  “It’s a game the Injuns play,” the man explained. “Some of the fellas picked it up whilst they was win-terin’ with friendly redskins.”

  “What’s it called?”

  “Blamed if I know.”

  “I’ve been tryin’ to figure it out but can’t make head nor tails of it,” Breckinridge said. “Does it have any rules?”

  “I reckon it must, but I sure don’t know ’em.”

  One of the players walloped the ball with his stick and sent it flying across the open area where the game was going on. Some of the other men yelled and shook their sticks in the air. Breckinridge couldn’t tell if they were excited or mad. He didn’t really care which it was, either. He watched the nonsense for a few more minutes and
then moved on.

  He came across a card game taking place on a spread-out blanket with half a dozen men grouped around it, and that was more to his interest. One of the men was Harry Sykes, the fella with the English accent who had helped put the log bridge in place over the creek.

  Sykes looked up from his cards, grinned, and asked, “You want to sit in on the game, Wallace?”

  Breckinridge started to say yes, then hesitated. He was a pretty good poker player, or at least he liked to think he was, but he could just see himself joining this game and then losing all the money he had earned from the past weeks of trapping. That would be a plumb waste.

  And if he was broke, he couldn’t very well ask Dulcy to spend much time with him, either. That realization made up his mind for him.

  “Reckon I’d better not,” he said.

  “I’ve lost just about enough money, too,” Sykes said with a chuckle, “and my old mum taught me never to throw good money after bad.” He tossed his cards onto the blanket. “I’m out, boys.”

  Sykes stood up, dusted off his hands, and nodded toward the tent serving as the tavern on Finch’s side of the creek.

  “How about a drink?” he asked Breckinridge. “I’m buyin’.”

  Maybe it wasn’t too early after all, Breckinridge decided. Anyway, Sykes would buy him a drink, then Breck would buy one for the Englishman, and that would be it.

  “Sure,” he said. “I’m obliged.”

  As they started toward the tent, Sykes asked, “Where are you from, Wallace?”

  “Place back in Tennessee called Knoxville,” Breckinridge replied. “Well, not from the town itself, mind you. My pa has a farm not far from there, in the foothills of the Smoky Mountains. How about you?”

  “I was born in London,” Sykes said.

  “I could tell that from the way you talk. You’ve been over here for a while, though, haven’t you?”

  “That’s right. My mum came over to the colonies and brought me with her when I was just a wee tyke. Well, they weren’t still colonies then, of course. In fact the war had been over for quite a while. But that’s what she always called ’em, so I reckon I picked it up from her. We landed in New York, stayed there for a while, and then started movin’ around a lot.”

  “What about your pa?”

  “Never even knew the bastard. I ain’t sure my mum knew who he was, to tell you the truth.”

  “Sorry,” Breckinridge muttered.

  Sykes waved a hand, grinned, and said, “Oh hell, I don’t care. I don’t have any illusions to shatter or naught like that. She traded me to a fella who owned a tavern when I was twelve. Worked me like a dog around the place, the bastard did. I never saw my mum again.” He pulled aside the canvas flap that served as a door into the big tent. “Here we go.”

  Breckinridge couldn’t help but feel a mite sorry for his companion. He had clashed with his father and brothers on numerous occasions, and his mother had always been a little cool toward him because he wasn’t the daughter she’d been hoping for, but he’d never had the least bit of doubt that his family loved him. He couldn’t imagine growing up in the sort of hard, grim existence that Sykes had just described.

  Since trappers were still arriving at the rendezvous, the makeshift tavern wasn’t very busy at the moment. Half a dozen men clad in buckskins or rough homespun or linsey-woolsey were scattered around the place. Nicodemus Finch stood behind the crude bar, along with his man Moffit.

  Finch glared at Breckinridge as he said, “There he is, the fella that’s tryin’ to ruin my business.”

  “Not hardly, Mr. Finch,” Breckinridge said. “I wish you well, I really do.”

  The old-timer ignored what Breckinridge had said and went on, “I should’ve shot you and that no-good friend o’ yours the first time I had you in my sights. I knowed you was workin’ for Mahone just by lookin’ at you. You ain’t done nothin’ but try to sabotage me ever since.”

  “By puttin’ a log across the creek? Is that what you’re goin’ on about?”

  “Aidin’ and abettin’ the enemy, that’s what they call it. Treason, pure and simple.”

  Under his breath, Sykes said, “Somebody’s simple around here, I’m thinkin’.”

  “I heard that!” Finch yelped. “Who in the doodle-buggin’ hell are you, mister?”

  Sykes took a coin out of his pocket, tapped it on the plank bar, and said, “I’m the man who’s about to buy a drink for me and my friend here.”

  “Well, why didn’t you say so!” Finch exclaimed. “Moffit, get the jug and pour these fine gents a drink!”

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Breckinridge and Sykes took the tin cups Moffit filled for them and carried the drinks over to one of the tables, where they sat down on benches on opposite sides.

  The whiskey was raw stuff that burned all the way down Breckinridge’s gullet. He coughed a little, even though he tried not to.

  Sykes grinned across at him and said, “Aye, it’ll open your eyes for you, won’t it?”

  “And burn a hole in your belly,” Breckinridge said hoarsely. “I’ve had some pretty potent whiskey in my time, but this stuff may be the worst.”

  “Don’t let our host hear you say that. He’s liable to start with that crazy jibber-jabber again.”

  Breckinridge knew what Sykes meant. Nicodemus Finch had calmed down a little, and Breck would just as soon he stayed that way while they were here.

  Sykes went on, “You make it sound like you’ve had an adventurous life, Wallace. Why don’t you tell me about it?”

  “There ain’t that much to tell,” Breckinridge said as his broad shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. “I grew up on a farm, like I told you. It was really a normal life until about a year ago.”

  “What happened then?”

  “I ran into some Chickasaw renegades while I was out in the woods, huntin’.”

  “Huntin’ for redskins?”

  “No, I was after deer. I’d always gotten along pretty well with the Injuns around home until then.” Breckinridge’s face took on a grim cast. “But these fellas jumped me, and I didn’t have any choice but to kill a couple of’em.”

  Sykes leaned forward slightly and asked, “You never killed anybody before that?”

  “Nope,” Breckinridge replied with a shake of his head.

  “How about since then?”

  That seemed like sort of an odd question for his new friend to ask, but Breckinridge always tried to be honest, so he said, “I’ve had to kill a few, red and white. I tangled with river pirates on the Mississippi and the Missouri both, and I’ve been in a few Injun fights. Had fellas get crosswise with me and try to shoot me, and I had to shoot back at ’em. I don’t like it, though. I’m a peaceable man.”

  “Yes, I can see that. So am I. Circumstances have a way of forcin’ us into violence, though.”

  “They sure do,” Breckinridge agreed solemnly. He took another sip of the whiskey, which was starting to seem not quite as raw as it had earlier.

  Sykes said, “Listen, I thought I’d enjoy this rendezvous, but I guess I’m a bit of a solitary man, too. Havin’ this many people around sort of gives me the fantods. Think I might have myself a tramp in the woods once we’ve finished these drinks. Care to come along?”

  “Thought you just said you was a solitary man.”

  “Yes, but a walk with one friend is hardly the same as bein’ in a crowd.”

  Given the life Sykes had described, he was probably a pretty lonely gent, thought Breckinridge. And he didn’t really have anything else to do until he could see Dulcy again.

  “All right,” he said. “I’ll have to stop by my camp and get my rifle. I never go off into the woods without it.”

  “That’s fine. Maybe you can teach me a little about fur trapping.”

  “You’re not a trapper?” Breckinridge asked in surprise.

  “Well, that’s what I came out here for, but I arrived just in time to come to this rendezvous. Thought maybe I could partne
r up with some experienced fellas and learn the ropes from them.”

  “It’s a mite late in the season to be startin’ . . .” Sykes spread his hands and said, “Yes, but we can only do what we can do, eh?”

  Breckinridge chuckled.

  “That’s the truth, I reckon.” He tossed back the rest of the whiskey in his cup. “Now I got to buy you one, and then we can go.”

  “Why don’t you just owe me the drink until later?” Sykes suggested. “I feel the need to stretch my legs.”

  Breckinridge considered the idea and then nodded. “All right, I reckon we can do that. It’s a mite early in the day to be drinkin’ too much, anyway.”

  They left the empty cups on the table and got to their feet. Breckinridge turned and led the way to the entrance. As he pushed through the canvas flap and stepped outside, he saw a wagon and a large number of riders approaching Finch’s Point. The man on horseback leading the group had white hair under his pushed-back hat.

  “Hold on a minute,” Breckinridge said to Sykes. “That looks like another friend of mine. Now that I think about it, I haven’t seen him around all day. Reckon he must’ve gone to lead the rest of his bunch to the rendezvous.”

  “You can see them later, surely,” Sykes said with a frown.

  “Won’t take but a minute to say hello,” Breckinridge promised.

  He started toward the newcomers with his long-legged strides. Sykes lagged behind him.

  Powell reined in as Breckinridge met the group at the edge of Finch’s camp. Breck lifted a hand in greeting, smiled, and said, “Howdy.”

  “Hello, Wallace,” Powell said in his gravelly tones. “Anything happen while I was gone?”

  “Hard to say. I don’t know when you left.”

  “Pulled out early this morning to go meet the Colonel.”

  Powell inclined his head toward the wagon that had come up behind him. Breckinridge glanced in that direction and saw a short, broad, rusty-haired man with a beefy face. He was well-dressed, and Breck figured he had to be the Colonel.

  “Well, then, no, it’s been pretty quiet around here, except for the games and the get-together,” he said. “Oh, there’s a log bridge over the creek now, so fellas can go back and forth from Finch’s to Mahone’s easier.”