River of Blood

by William W. Johnstone

  “No, she’s alive, or at least she was when I left Knoxville. Aylesworth didn’t tell me all that much about what happened, but I asked around before I set out on your trail. Wasn’t hard to find out that you accidentally shot the man’s wife while you were tryin’ to murder him.”

  “Yes,” Ducharme agreed solemnly. “This man is a murderer and deserves to die.”

  “The child Missus Aylesworth was carryin’ didn’t make it, even though she did,” Sykes went on. “So you can see why he was willin’ to go to any lengths to settle the score with you, Wallace.”

  “Only problem with that,” Breckinridge said, “is that the whole thing is a pack o’ lies! Aylesworth’s the one who fired that shot, tryin’ to kill me. He’s responsible for what happened to Maureen and the baby, not me.”

  For a second, Sykes frowned as if he was surprised, but then his expression cleared. He shook his head and said, “You know what, Wallace? It doesn’t matter if I believe you or not. I was hired for a job, and I intend to do it.” He shrugged. “Anyway, it ain’t me what’s gonna kill you. That’s up to Mr. Ducharme. I just wanted you to know why I done what I did.”

  “Betrayed a friendship, you mean.”

  “We were never friends.”

  Breckinridge could see now that was right.

  Sykes turned and walked back over to Powell and the other men. Ducharme moved in again. He took a razor from his pocket and opened it.

  “I am going to see how much of you I can carve away before I finally take pity on you and blow your head off.”

  Breckinridge tried to summon up his courage. He glared at Ducharme and said, “Do your worst.”

  “Oh, I intend to, Herr Wallace. I intend to.”

  Ducharme lifted the razor and stepped closer, and Breckinridge kicked him in the groin.

  They had made a mistake by not tying his legs. He couldn’t get away, but he could inflict some damage on anybody who came too close, as he had just done to Ducharme. The German screamed and dropped the razor as he doubled over. He fell to his knees and then toppled to the side.

  Sykes, Powell, and the other men lifted their rifles and pistols. Breckinridge steeled himself for the volley that was about to roar as they blasted him to pieces. That was better than letting Ducharme torture him to death.

  A shot rang out, but it didn’t come from any of those men. In fact, Sykes rocked back on his heels and stared down in shock to the hole in his shirt that welled crimson. That stunned reaction lasted only a heartbeat before his eyes rolled up in their sockets and he collapsed.

  That first shot came from a rifle. The dull boom of a pistol followed it only instants later. A second man was blown off his feet. As Powell and the others started to scatter instinctively, another pistol shot erupted from the trees somewhere behind Breckinridge. A third man stumbled and then pitched forward as blood gushed from his torn throat.

  Powell and the other men scrambled for cover along the creek. They had forgotten at least momentarily about Breckinridge. As another pistol shot blasted, Powell yelled, “It’s a damn ambush!”

  It seemed to be, although Breckinridge had absolutely no idea who might have come to his rescue.

  As that thought went through his head, a tall, lithe figure in buckskins drifted past him, almost like a ghost. The stranger scooped Ducharme’s fallen razor off the ground with his left hand. His right thrust out a pistol and pulled the trigger at the same time as his left wielded the razor and slashed through the ropes holding Breckinridge to the tree. He didn’t really seem to pay that much attention to either of the things he was doing, but the ropes fell free and one of Ducharme’s men trying to get behind a log spun around instead with blood spouting from his chest.

  “Come on,” the stranger said to Breckinridge. “Back this way.”

  They retreated into the ravine. Breckinridge wanted to tell the man that it was a dead end, that they would be trapped in there, but rifle and pistol balls had started to whip through the trees and brush around them and they had to go somewhere.

  As they moved, the stranger darted from side to side and grabbed pistols that were wedged into the crooks of branches. From the sound of the shots a few moments earlier, Breckinridge had thought that several men were attacking Ducharme’s party. Obviously, Powell and the others had believed that to be the case, too.

  Now it appeared that it had been just this lone man, making it seem like there was more than one of him by setting up cocked and loaded pistols in different places and then dashing from one to the next to fire them.

  That was pretty clever, he thought—but they were still about to get boxed up in this ravine that was also the final resting place for those dead Blackfoot warriors.

  As they ran past the rocks toward the spot where the ravine played out, Breckinridge noticed something he couldn’t have seen until now.

  A rope dangled down into the ravine from somewhere up above.

  “Shinny up that as fast as you can,” the stranger told him as they reached the rope. “Those fellas’ll be a mite leery of chargin’ in here, and if they try it I’ll give ’em a warm reception to slow ’em down. Don’t just stand there, big’un. Get movin’.”

  The man began reloading his rifle and pistols. Breckinridge thought he was pretty good at reloading, but this stranger’s hands moved almost too fast for the eyes to follow, as if they were doing something they had done thousands of times before.

  He was almost as tall as Breckinridge but not as massively built. There was an air of strength and power about him, but it was more like a wolf rather than a bear. His face was rugged and weathered and looked like he hadn’t spent much time indoors for years, perhaps decades. Under his broad-brimmed brown felt hat was a shock of graying dark hair that matched his thick mustache and the stubble on his lean cheeks.

  Breckinridge saw all that in a glance as he grasped the rope and lifted a foot to plant it against the wall of the ravine. Before he started to climb, he glanced over his shoulder and asked, “Just who in blazes are you, mister?”

  “They call me Preacher,” the man said as he lifted a pair of pistols, one in each hand ready to deal out death. “Now, move!”

  Chapter Forty-two

  Breckinridge started climbing. The ravine wall was rough enough to provide numerous footholds, so as he leaned back against the rope, hoping it was tied securely at the top and would support his weight, he began “walking” up the wall.

  Rifles cracked from the direction of the creek. A couple of balls smacked into the earth not far from Breckinridge. Below him, Preacher’s pistols roared as the man tried to discourage any more potshots at Breck.

  As he got closer to the top, urgency gripped Breckinridge and made him scramble like an ape. Finally he was able to lunge over the brink and roll away from the edge.

  He came up on his knees and looked around. The rope was tied around the trunk of a nearby pine. As he watched, it grew taut again, and he knew that Preacher was climbing out of the ravine now.

  Breckinridge didn’t have any guns, so he couldn’t cover the other man’s ascent as Preacher had done with his.

  But he had something else to use as a weapon, he realized as his eyes fell on a pile of rocks left from when he and his friends had built the cairn for the fallen Blackfoot warriors. They had judged these rocks too small, but now they would work just fine. He scooped up an armful of them and ran along the ravine.

  When he reached a spot where he could see Powell and some of the other men firing toward Preacher, Breckinridge stopped and dropped all the rocks except one that was about as big around as a man’s head. He lifted it above his own head with both hands and heaved it toward the would-be killers below.

  Breckinridge’s aim was good and his strength was formidable. The rock landed on the head of a man who seemingly never saw doom descending on him from above. Even from where he was, Breck heard the ugly sound as the man’s skull and brain were crushed like a melon.

  That drew excited, angry shouts from the ot
her men, who pointed their weapons at the top of the ravine and opened fire. Breckinridge dropped back rapidly so that they couldn’t hit him from that angle. He knew from his first throw that he had the range, so he scooped up another rock and let fly with it, then another and another.

  The angry shouts turned to frightened ones as those deadly missiles rained down. The guns fell silent, probably because the men were looking for shelter from the falling rocks.

  Breckinridge looked along the ravine and saw Preacher pull himself over the edge. He leaped to his feet and pulled the rope up behind him, then waved for Breck to join him.

  “Come on,” Preacher said as he coiled the rope. “My horses are back yonder in the trees.”

  After a minute they came to the spot where a large, rawboned gray stallion was tied, along with a smaller but still powerful-looking packhorse. Standing in front of the horses was what Breckinridge took at first to be a wolf, all bristling fur and snarling teeth.

  “Dog!” Preacher snapped at the big cur. “This fella’s a friend.” He glanced over at Breckinridge. “I reckon that’s true?”

  “After the way you saved my life, Mr. Preacher, it sure is,” Breckinridge declared.

  “Just Preacher. No mister. Get up on Horse there. He’s strong enough to carry double, at least until we put some distance between us and those fellers.”

  “I don’t know,” Breckinridge said dubiously. “I weigh a whole heap.”

  “You don’t know Horse,” Preacher said. “Let’s get movin’. No time to lollygag.”

  The man was right about that. Not only did Breckinridge want to get away from Ducharme, Powell, and the others, but it was urgent that he get back to the rendezvous and warn everyone there about the possible threat from the Blackfeet.

  Preacher swung up into the saddle and Breckinridge climbed on behind him. As Preacher heeled the stallion into motion and brought the pack animal along with a lead rope, the big wolf-like cur loped out well ahead of them.

  “If we’re fixin’ to run into any trouble, Dog’ll let us know,” Preacher said over his shoulder.

  “You call your horse Horse and your dog Dog?” Breckinridge asked.

  “Can you think of any better names for ’em?”

  Preacher had a good point, Breckinridge supposed. He hadn’t told his rescuer his own name yet, so he said, “I’m Breckinridge Wallace.”

  “Yeah, I heard those fellers talking to you and sort of figured out what was goin’ on.”

  “How’d you manage to get so close and set up those guns without anybody noticin’ you?”

  Preacher snorted.

  “I ain’t inclined to brag, but the simple fact o’ the matter is, more than once I’ve slipped into Blackfoot villages at night, cut the throats of half a dozen warriors whilst they was sleepin’, and got back out again without anybody knowin’ I’d been there until the next mornin’. I don’t reckon a bunch of greenhorns like those are likely to see me unless I want ’em to.”

  “Wait a minute,” Breckinridge said. “I think I’ve heard of you. Folks talk about you like they talk about mountain men like John Colter and Jim Bridger.”

  Preacher nodded and said, “Good men, both of ’em.”

  “What are you doin’ here?”

  “You mean besides savin’ your hide?” Preacher chuckled. “I heard tell there was a rendezvous goin’ on and decided to pay it a visit. I heard voices and indulged my natural-born curiosity. Good thing for you I did.”

  “I’ll say,” Breckinridge agreed. “How’d you know those fellas didn’t have a right to do what they were fixin’ to do to me?”

  “I recognize a bunch of no-goods when I see ’em,” Preacher said simply, and Breckinridge thought that unlike himself, the mountain man really was a good judge of character.

  They had been angling away from the creek as Preacher kept both horses moving at a fast pace, but now Breckinridge said, “You need to head back the other way and follow the main branch of the creek. That’ll take us to the place where the rendezvous’s goin’ on.”

  “In a hurry to get there now that you ain’t bein’ tortured to death after all, eh?”

  “It’s not that. I think there’s a Blackfoot war party that might have its sights set on those folks.”

  Preacher turned his head to show Breckinridge a surprised frown. He said, “You’d best explain that.”

  Breckinridge did, as quickly as he could. He concluded by saying, “I saw moccasin tracks down in the ravine, and somebody had been messin’ with the rocks where those warriors were buried, so I got to think there’s a chance some other Blackfeet discovered ’em.”

  “There’s a good chance of it,” Preacher agreed. “A damned good chance. And if they did, they’re gonna be on the lookout for some white folks to kill, just as soon as they can.”

  “So you can see why I want to get back.”

  Preacher was already turning the horses to the west, the direction they needed to go. He said, “Yeah. Hang on. I don’t want to run Horse into the ground, but we need to move as fast as we can.”

  The gray stallion stretched out his legs into a ground-eating lope. The packhorse struggled to keep up. After a while, Preacher let go of the lead rope and told Breckinridge, “He won’t wander far, loaded with supplies and pelts like that. I can come back for him later, once we’ve made sure those folks at the rendezvous ain’t in any trouble.”

  “I’m obliged to you for your help, Preacher—for savin’ my life and for carryin’ the warnin’ about the Injuns this way.”

  “I been gettin’ along out here in the mountains for more’n twenty years, son. Folks got to help each other out ever’ now and then.” Preacher paused. “Were you tellin’ the truth back there? You didn’t shoot that gal back wherever it is you come from?”

  “The Great Smoky Mountains of Tennessee,” Breckinridge said. “And no, sir, I never did shoot her. I wouldn’t hurt that little gal for anything in the world.”

  “Sweet on her, are you?”

  “I was,” Breckinridge answered honestly. He thought about Dulcy. “I reckon I’m not anymore, but I still wouldn’t want to see any harm come to her. Maybe I shouldn’t care. It was her decision to go and marry a fella who’s lower than a snake’s belly. But I wish her well anyway.”

  “Sign of a good man,” Preacher said. “It was her husband who shot her, you said?”

  “Yeah. He was aimin’ at me.”

  “Sounds like somethin’ outta one o’ them old Greek tragedies my friend Audie’s always talkin’ about. He used to be a professor ’fore he gave it up to be a mountain man, if you can picture that. Knows all sorts of things from books.”

  “I’d like to meet him someday.”

  “You stay around out here long enough, chances are you will. If you live long enough. I can tell you ain’t exactly a greenhorn, but you ain’t got all the moss knocked off yet, neither.”

  “I’m learnin’,” Breckinridge said grimly.

  “The frontier’s a hard teacher.”

  Breckinridge couldn’t argue with that.

  He waited for Horse to start faltering under the great weight of him and Preacher, but the stallion’s stride never broke. The muscles that moved smoothly under the rough gray hide might as well have been made of steel cable.

  They had reached the creek now and were following it toward the rendezvous site. Breckinridge recognized plenty of landmarks and knew they were getting close, probably no more than half a mile away.

  Preacher suddenly hauled back on Horse’s reins and brought the big stallion to a halt.

  “Why are we stoppin’?” Breckinridge asked anxiously.

  “Listen,” Preacher said.

  Breckinridge listened and heard the same thing his newfound friend had. Somewhere not far away, round after round of gunfire shattered what should have been a peaceful late morning.

  The rendezvous was already under attack.

  Chapter Forty-three

  Preacher heeled Horse into motion
again, urging the stallion into a gallop this time. Breckinridge could sense that Horse was finally beginning to tire, but they didn’t have far to go and the big gray poured what was left of his strength into this last run.

  Breckinridge spotted smoke billowing into the sky up ahead. Preacher had seen it, too, and called, “Somethin’s on fire up yonder!”

  It had to be one or both of the big tents, Breckinridge thought. Nothing else would produce that much smoke. Setting the tents ablaze would provide a mighty good distraction for the Indians, too, as they launched their attack.

  A boom sounded, and suddenly the clouds of smoke became thicker and darker. Breckinridge knew the flames must have reached some barrels of whiskey.

  They rounded a bend in the creek and came in sight of Finch’s Point. As Breckinridge expected, both of the big tents were burning. So were some of the wagons. Breck saw muzzle flashes coming from behind the wagons that weren’t on fire. Some of the defenders had taken cover there, he realized.

  Confusion reigned in both camps. Painted and feathered warriors dashed here and there, some armed with rifles, others with bows and arrows or tomahawks. Every trapper they caught in the open was either gunned down, skewered with arrows, or had his brains dashed out by a ’hawk.

  White men weren’t the only ones dying, though. Quite a few warriors’ bodies were scattered around, too. The Blackfoot war party was a large one, though. It must have numbered at least a hundred, Breckinridge estimated. There were only fifty or sixty trappers at the rendezvous.

  Breckinridge took in all that at a glance as Horse thundered toward the battle. He saw a gray, furry streak up ahead and realized it was Dog. The big cur flew through the air in a leap that ended with his razor-sharp teeth sunk in the throat of a Blackfoot warrior. The man went down under the impact and shuddered in his death throes as Dog tore out his throat.

  Fear for Dulcy was uppermost in Breckinridge’s mind, but he was also worried about Morgan, Akins, and Fulbright. He didn’t see any of them and hoped that his friends were among the men behind the wagons, trying to fight off the attackers.